Lyla Magda and I lay sprawled out on Lyla's turquoise sectional in her spacious entertainment room. There were various modes of entertainment to choose from. A 50-inch flatscreen was mounted on the wall; programmed with any channel or movie you wanted to watch. There was fuse ball, a pool table, a VR station, a scrabble table (my personal favorite), and a recording studio where you could make a video to the song you were singing off karaoke. Lyla was checking her food delivery apps to see who was delivering with a discount. Lyla could eat and was always hungry. High metabolisms ran in her family. So she could shovel it in and not gain one pound. No matter what or how much she ate she stayed a skinny beanpole. Magda was sending audio clips to open voice over positions around the city. Her voice was lovely. People enjoyed talking with and listening to her no matter what the topic was. Magda wanted to host her own holistic radio talk show one day. Me...I was just lying on the sofa agonizing over my Aunt Astra's upcoming visit. Don't get me wrong. I loved my aunt; in fact she was my favorite aunt. She was smart, sophisticated, a stylish dresser, worked out and kept fit, did volunteer charity work, and owned her own advertising agency. So why am I agonizing you ask.....because although my aunt had all those great things going for her; she had two serious flaws. She was honest. Too honest. No I mean like brutally honest and she always repeated her self as if to underline what she said. No one was spared. She didn't discriminate. It didn't matter who you were. My Aunt did not believe in telling even a little white lie....ever. My aunt's attitude was tell and accept the truth and get on with life.

After every declared truth she would say...."If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings shooot if I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" If someone pointed out how her words may have a negative effect.....she always replied..."band-aids are for babies!...shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Take my 5th grade science fair for instance. I was excited and nervous. All my family came to support me. I did my my project on wind energy. I made a wind turbine out of straws, popsicle sticks, and cardboard. The girl to my right did hers on vegetable batteries. The boy to my left did his on the solar system.

It looked like no one helped the boy on my left with his project and he just winged it so he would not get a zero for failure to participate. His planets were balled up socks of various colors and sizes. The sock planets hung on strings that were knotted on several coat hangers tied together with clipped zip-ties to make a mobile.

As for the girl to my right her actual project wasn't bad. It was her backboard that was terrible. It was handwritten with several scratch-outs and the handwriting was crowded and uneven. I guess she ran out of time to get information printed out to use for her blackboard. As people were milling around checking out each project praising, giving hi-fives, fist bumps, and good jobs; my Aunt Astra was videoing. She paused tape and said loudly, "I'm going to have to crop out these two crappy projects on either side of Torianne before I send this out to the family chat group." Even at 10 I was mortified. I wished a giant wormhole would have opened up and swallowed me right there on the spot. There were huffs and angry sucking of teeth along with widened eyes and incredulous raised eyebrows that said....OMG did she just say that?!?! My dad ever the diplomat tried to smooth things over. Aunt Astra was my dads baby sister. "Astra honey I'm sure these young people did their best," said my dad. To which my aunt replied, "If this is their best, she gestured with her hand, then I'd hate to see their worst." The girl started crying. Her mom came to her side to console her and shot my aunt a dirty look. The boy's face flushed red and his fists were balled up at his side. My mom shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "Jeez Astra REALLY?" she said. Aunt Astra said, "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" The boy's father said, "Wow lady don't you see that these are 10 yr old kids?" Aunt Astra shrugged and flung her hair over her right shoulder and said, "Mr. band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Then there was the time I was trying out for my high school varsity softball team. I liked sports and I was pretty good at them. My gym teacher personally recommended me to the coach as a star player. I was pumped. Many other girls were nervous and worried if they would make the team.

My aunt was talking to her friend Pauline on the phone. "If they make it great; if they don't at least they know the truth....that they don't have any skills for softball. Find something else to do. No need to sulk or cry about it. Band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" she remarked into the phone. I blew air into my cheeks, closed my eyes, and shook my head. After try-outs coach read off the names of who made starting roster. I made the team and was happy. Rolanda Spivey was happy too. She'd made the team. Her friends cheered for her and grabbed her in a 'selfie' group pose. Aunt Astra, still talking on the phone with Pauline, says, "What in the heck was the coach thinking. That girl looks like she could play defensive end on the guys varsity football team. I mean unless she's just going to be the catcher." Rolanda was a BIG girl. She was heavy-set and stood 5'11 in her stocking feet. Still. I closed my eyes willing myself to break up into tiny particles and teleport to Starship Enterprise.

"Aunt Astra, I croaked. "Please I have to practice and play with these girls. Don't make enemies for me." "She chucked my chin and said, "Oh baby girl don't worry. Maybe being on the team will do her some good after all. Get her moving; she'll drop some much needed pounds. Provided she leaves those disgusting fast food joints alone. If she does she'll look good and feel good. You mark my words. If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Needless to say Rolanda and her crew hated my guts for the rest of high school right up until we were sophmores in college where she finally let me explain about my aunt and apologize. On many more occasions my aunt kept it real; while the rest of us had to try and smooth over, clean up, appease, hurt feelings and embarrasments. The all time worst situation involved Dexter Campbell. A guy I developed a crush on in college. We both attended the same local community college. I sat across from Dexter in sociology class. He had a handsome face, wavy black hair, and green eyes. He was popular, kind, and friendly.  For an up coming study project; Dexter and I were assigned to work together.

Professor Elbee wrote a long list of options to choose from for our project. We decided to tackle domestic violence and it's consequences in todays society. A weighty topic; Dexter and I spent a lot of time together over the next 4 weeks getting our project ready . Outside of class we would meet at the library, the park, the local coffee shop, and a popular diner downtown.

Even after the assignment was completed and submitted we still hung out sometimes.

Finally I got up the nerve to invite him, to my family BBQ. I can't tell you the relief I felt when Aunt Astra said she didn't think she would make it because she was tied up trying to work out some kinks in a contract for a cat food comercial in Arizona. On the day of the BBQ the weather was nice: clear blue sky with plenty of sunshine without being hot. Magda and Lyla of course were there along with a few other girls I had invited. Dexter came and brought his two roommates. My Uncle Herb the grillmaster was serving up delicious varieties of meats on one grill and non-meat options on another grill. The little kids were having a great time on the slip and slide. Other family members and friends sat in groups of two or more...chatting, playing cards, hang-man, and arguing over who was trying to cheat while playing a board game. Dexter and his roommates decided to toss a frisbee they had brought along. Magda hit me on the shoulder; then pointed to my patio door. "Hey look it's your Aunt Astra." I immediately got a migrane. "Please God do not let her embarrass me today in front of Dexter," I pleaded. Apparently Aunt Astra was able to wrap things up earlier than expected and take a direct flight and make it on time to the family BBQ after all. My aunt was making her rounds greeting family and friends. At the exact time she made it to me and my friends; Dexter threw the frisbee and clipped my Aunt Astra on the side of her head. Dexter came running over to us all apologetic; saying it was an accident was she hurt; could he get her a glass of water? My aunt looked at Dexter and asked him his name. "Hi I'm Dexter sorry again." he said. My aunt smiled and said, "My,my,my, so THIS is the sociology hunk my neice is madly in love with. No wonder you have a crush on him. He's cute, smart, sporty, and a gentleman. What more can you ask for. Torianne you better not let this catch get away." Dexter raised his left eyebrow as a slow grin spread across his face.

I only know that because Magda told me later. I was to busy trying not to pass out. I was tingly and hot; my face red as cranberries. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me making it hard for me to breathe. "OMG Aunt Astra!" I finally gurgled out. "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings....shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Mom came over and gave me a side hug while rubbing my back. "Astra! Jeez! Can you stop embarrasing people?" she said. My Aunt came over to me and hugged me and then cupped my face in her hands and said, "Suck it up buttercup. He's a keeper. Remember band-aids are for babies!....shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?"


Betty was the youngest of three children. Her sister Lorraine died as a youngster following a severe illness and her newlywed brother Jerome was killed subsequent to a head injury after having been thrown from a horse. Not only that, but Betty’s mother and father were only children. Without Betty having any aunts, uncles, or siblings, and now with her having been involuntarily sterilized, the Belcher family bloodline would come to a despondent end, or would it? Mother found herself infertile due to a teenage malady that impacted her ovarian complex. Such a misfortune warrants a brief explanation. Young Betty had been misdiagnosed with appendicitis and agreed to surgery for removal of the supposed inflamed small hollow organ. However, a surgical incision under anesthesia revealed the true nature of the problem; the surgeon decided to forthwith completely withdraw the suspect infected ovaries. Keep in mind, this “butchery” occurred without any previous consultation with the patient. Naturally, when the medical doctor in charge met with Betty to coldly inform her that she would never bear children, she was distraught. Nonetheless, fiancé George Adams married Betty in spite of her medical history. Now let us introduce the main character in this story. The daughter in question here was the second addition to the wealthy Adams Family in 1957. The proverbial stork in this case was the Children’s Home Society adoption agency. Lorraine was named after the deceased aunt on mother’s side of the family. Previously in 1955, and after ten years of matrimony, the childless couple had already arranged the adoption of an infant boy whom they named George, after father. The happy pair (George and Betty) were pleased to have begun their dream of raising a pair of beautiful children. Never had there been a discussion of needing or wanting to adopt a third. Akin to an unplanned pregnancy, this is what occurred next. In September of 1958, it was time to celebrate toddler Georgie’s third birthday party. First, let’s take a moment to “rename” the little boy. Understand that Dad had begun to call his son “Dibbons” after a business associate in Great Britain with the same name. Eventually, the nickname was revamped to the simpler form of “Dib” and it stuck. Now back to the story. While the majority of family and friends participated in the celebration of the birthday party, the godfather of the birthday boy, Dr. Garrett, was absent. He had been called to the hospital to deliver a baby. The unwed mother planned on putting the newborn up for adoption. Well, just three short days later, a boy they would name James, became another member of the Adam’s Family! George and Betty had never planned such a move, but the story Dr. Garrett shared with them tugged at their heartstrings. This led them to reach out to make a sacrifice for the sake of the unwanted child. Where beforehand the couple had purposely adopted two children with matching green eyes, James was a brown-eyed boy. As the children matured, naturally their unique personalities came to the forefront. Of course, the two boys having shared the same birthdate, would celebrate the occasion together on the same day every year. Dib revealed an occasional mean streak at home, but was better known for having been an outstanding student. Dad claimed that James would “rather climb a tree and tell a lie, than stand on the ground and tell the truth”. Based on the substance of her fake “crocodile” tears, it was common knowledge that the family characterized our subject Lorraine as a phony. While still in grade school, Mom portrayed her as “boy crazy”, which would foretell things to come. Dad, whose ancestors had once held an interest in cattle ranches in the State of Nevada, had always wanted to be a cowboy. With an inheritance windfall in 1969, he purchased a cattle ranch where the Adam’s family moved the following year. Raymond, the caretaker of the ranch, had been living in a two-bedroom mobile home located just yards away from the family residence. When Ray and family relocated, Lorraine and James (just teenagers) asked permission to move into the vacant mobile home. After some whining, badgering, and pestering (and against his own good judgment) Dad agreed to the proposal. After all, with just a holler, the two kids could be called back home for dinner. If that did not work, they could always be called on the other phone line that Ray had left behind. Now that Dib would no longer need to share his bedroom with James, he had little to do with the his younger siblings living in the space next door. With all the new found freedom for two of the least mature members of the family, what do you suppose could possibly go wrong? Lori (Lorraine), who by this time had established a reputation for being a “sneak”, found herself slipping out at night. Jonathan, her boyfriend, would pick her up some distance away so Mom and Dad were never the wiser to her shenanigans. As a co-conspirator, younger James was sworn to secrecy by way of some kind of blackmail, gifts, or threats on Lori’s part that were never unearthed by the adults next door. Previous to their move from the city, all of the children had attended nearby Catholic schools. This first school year at the ranch, the kids needed to commute about half an hour to the nearest parochial academy. Later, in part to avoid the long daily drive, they began to attend the local public high school. Dib graduated in good standing. On the other hand, James was once busted for stealing audio-visual equipment from a locker. Of course, after Lori stopped seeing Jon (Jonathan) on the sly, at least a couple of other guys would take his place. One day an intimate buddy of Jon’s shared a rumor with Dib that his sister (now fifteen years old) was “expecting”. Dib brushed off the outrageous gossip as a boldfaced lie and thought nothing more of the matter. Oddly about the same time, although the weather had not yet begun to chill, Lori was observed constantly wearing her heavy jacket indoors. Then one evening, Dib overheard a discussion brewing in the other room. Lori was crying and both parents were upset. All the rumors were true after all, Lori was pregnant and an adoption for the coming child had already been secretly arranged. The father was called out to be a classmate from an affluent family. However, other reports spread that the guilty party was someone from “the other side of the tracks”. Purposefully, the adoption put an end to the scandal. With that behind her, after Lori graduated from high school she attended a business school financed by father and lived in the campus dormitory. Dib completed a community college two-year degree program and became a peace officer. James enlisted in the Navy as a submariner. After Lori completed her course of study, she never again returned to live at home. While living in her own apartment, she worked in retail sales and eventually was promoted to manager of a music store. Lori began to date the manager of another affiliate music store in the neighborhood. Michael was quite the gentleman and one who left a good impression on everyone. The couple married during a summertime church ceremony where Dib gave the introductory welcoming remarks. After an expensive country club reception financed by father, Michael and Lori honeymooned for a couple of weeks on a Caribbean cruise. On their return, and very unexpectedly, Michael separated from Lori for a short period. When it was revealed that Lori had conceived a child (girl) on the honeymoon, Michael dutifully returned to her side. Four years later, a second girl was born into the family. Forever evident during family gatherings, and in the back of his mind, Dib wondered why he did not behold more frequent public displays of affection between his sister and brother-in-law. On the other hand, Dib did notice it was awful nice of Michael to help do the dishes while Lori often sat down in the other room to watch television. Well, Lori did have the reputation of being lazy and messy. Dib still remembers having to clean all the trash out of her car the one time he asked to borrow her Chevrolet Camaro for a Friday night date. Mother Betty and father George were lifetime smokers who supposedly quit at the age of 50. However, Betty only pretended to quit. Once she fell asleep while smoking in front of the television and the cushion of the chair she was sitting on caught fire! Later in life, Betty began to have some strange dental problems. For example, one day and for no apparent reason, a tooth fell out. She was very afraid of consulting with medical professionals, preferring for some reason to stick her head in the sand like is said of the proverbial ostrich. With encouragement from a dear family friend, she eventually made an appointment with a dentist. It was too late; even after gruesome treatments and surgeries, she succumbed to mouth cancer in 1988. Returning to the subject of Lorraine again: about the 18 year mark of the marriage, Michael decided he had completed his obligations and departed, never turning back this time. After the divorce, Dib called Michael to thank him for always being kind, considerate, and helpful. A strange thing took place afterward. Namely, Dib’s father (George) specifically referring to the phone call, began to insist that he never speak to Michael again. Being the fact that during this last telephone conversation with Michael, Dib was more than 500 miles away from home, how did Dad even know a phone call had taken place? Something sneaky must be going on here! Since Lori did everything possible to turn her girls against Michael during and after the divorce, she evidently had also turned father against her ex-husband. Dib could only wonder who Lori had employed as her personal spies, her daughters perhaps? For sure someone was surreptitiously keeping a close eye on Dib. Before the aforementioned call came to a close, Michael divulged something that Dib would never, ever have imagined. Michael confessed that previous to the day he exchanged vows with Lori, he was positive he was making a grave mistake! However, with the expensive celebration already planned (country club venue, live music, catered bar/dinner) Michael could not bring himself to back out of the marriage. That disclosure would explain everything Dib witnessed for years. Michael must have forged on with the marriage wholly for the sake of his two children. Now Dib suspected Lori may even have “trapped” Michael on purpose by making sure her honeymoon resulted in the conception of a first child! Or more accurately in her case, a second child. A short time before his demise, father George sold some property for several millions of dollars. As the old man’s health deteriorated, faithful son Dib would drive 400 miles one-way on weekends to visit father to help administer his medication and perform chores around the house and ranch. One evening while Dib and his spouse were visiting Dad, Lori arrived from her own out of town residence and began a private conversation with father in his bedroom. The following morning, Dad was very upset about something and ordered Dib and his wife to leave and never come back! Up until that day, Dib and father had always been “pals”. The only explanation for this extreme and uncalled for change of heart must have been something instigated by Lori herself the night before. In order not to upset father any further, Dib and his wife followed the request to leave. After that day, Lori began to take over all of father’s affairs: intercepting his phone calls, redrafting his health care directive, accompanying him to conferences with his attorney, and driving him to every one of his doctor’s appointments. Rumors began to unfold that the filing of a restraining order was being considered to legally prevent Dib from seeing his father again in the future! After Lori had sequestered father for about a month, Dib decided to stop by unexpected and uninvited to visit Dad. Again, a four hundred mile drive, but he lovingly made the effort. When he walked in the front door, Dib was aghast to find father flat on his back in a hospital bed. His stomach was extended and swollen like Dib had never seen anyone else before. The room smelled like death. Obviously, father had not bathed or been provided proper hygiene for quite some time. Dib was in shock when he understood this surely was going to be the last time he ever saw his father alive. Lori feigned a welcome and patronized Dib by stating that father was pleased to see him. A widower now of 18 years, father died the following day due to an untreated bowel obstruction. According to Lori, corrective action was not taken because the condition was considered inoperable. Because of Lori keeping her dastardly doings with father secret, no member’s of Dib’s side of the family had an opportunity to bid farewell to father, including Dad’s lady friend of almost twenty years (who considered herself his significant other). For the funeral, Dib stayed at a local motel, since Lori had taken over the Adam’s family home when Dib was asked to leave the month before. Two weeks later, Dib received a copy of father’s updated last will and testament. Lori received all of father’s personal property and millions of dollars in cash, except for one million dollars left to a weirdo ranch hand named Tom whom Lori had recently hired to help her and father with chores. Dib, his wife and step-daughter, brother James, and father’s significant other had all been disinherited during Lori’s recent “kidnapping” of father. Neither was even a penny bestowed on any other family member, friend of the family, church, or charity. Dib hired an attorney to sue Lori in Superior Court for fraud and elder abuse. She employed father’s attorney for herself. If you can believe it, the female judge selected in the case just happened to have been previously employed during her youth as a babysitter for father’s attorney (now Lori’s attorney). Dib was made the fool during the course of the trial (kangaroo court) and lost on every charge and motion. We still have not answered the questions: Why did father suddenly turn against his adopted first son George (Dib) just a month before his demise? And why and how did father leave all his earthly possessions to adopted daughter Lorraine and her friend? Well, father’s most terrifying fear would have been to find himself dumped off at a nursing home. Knowing this, Dib would never have considered that course of action under any circumstances. Being so far from reality, neither had the subject ever been approached or discussed between father and son. But not until after the trail decision was finalized in Lori’s favor would the truth be revealed as follows: Not mentioned beforehand, but brother Jim (James) had gotten himself into deep trouble and had been incarcerated for several years already at this point. During a prison visit, Dib’s brother revealed what would have to be the biggest lie ever told in the history of the world. Lori had told her incarcerated sibling that Dib intended on putting their father in a nursing home! Unmistakably, Lori had convinced both her brother and father (during his failing and weakened state of health) that Dib was an imminent threat to Dad’s well being and freedom. Pushing the idea that only she could protect him, Dad believed he had no other option than to surrender his life to his conniving daughter. That would explain the dramatic switch of father’s love and affection for his son to his uncharacteristic state of paranoia. In other words, Dib was eliminated from father’s life and estate plan after Lori convinced him that her older brother was the enemy. Another dishonest practice on Lorraine’s “rap sheet” is what one may consider outright embezzlement. You see, father lent Lori and Michael all the money they needed to purchase a new home for cash. One stipulation mentioned in this interest free loan agreement was that, at such time the house were sold, father would be re-paid the loan amount in full. After settling in to their new place, and without any funds of their own, the couple purchased a second home by placing a mortgage on the house father helped them to purchase for cash. In order to accomplish this, Lori had to trick father into signing a document that stated he had either forgiven the loan or the loan had already been repaid. The poor man must have failed to examine thoroughly what the document he signed actually entailed. So Lori and Michael moved into the second home and rented their first home, now both with monthly mortgage payments due. After having overextended themselves with this imprudent scheme, they secretly declared bankruptcy and lost the first house father had purchased for them. Afterwards, whenever father mentioned that home in conversation, the two continued the ruse by claiming it was rented and provided for them an extra income. Father went to his grave without ever finding out about their crime. If father had known about this felony, would he have favored his daughter so generously in the end? Now we must come to recognize the dire consequences of leading a life of deceit and manipulation. Well, in the case of sweet Lorraine, we find none at all! Looking back on it, feigning sadness or remorse by crying crocodile tears, as performed by the juvenile version of Lorraine, may very well have been early signs and symptoms of a sociopathic personality. What do you think?


Once upon a time, there was a magician that loved to make magical items.

One day a beautiful fairy came and asked him if if he could take her favorite feather and turn it into a magical quill so she could write out her magical season changing spells. He was so excited and agreed. He took the beautiful purple feather and cast a special spell just for the fairy. It sparkled and turned a brilliant blue light and then went back to it's original state. He took a piece of paper and began to write with the newquilland each line shone that same sparkly blue then faded. It worked! The next day the fairy returned to collect her new quill. The magician explained it was only for her to use and should it fall into the wrong hands it would be very bad. She understood and went home to begin her spell work. When she wasn't using the quill she locked it in a special wooden box she had crafted for her.

Months and seasons passed and the quill served the fairy very well. All the fairies loved her spells and they all were very helpful to them.

One day in late summer the fairy had finished her newest spell and forgot to put the quill away when she was done. She left and even forgot to lock her door! A sneaky spider snuck into the fairy's home and saw the purple feather. She loved purple things and just had to have the feather, so she took it and left. When the fairy arrived home she was so tired she went to bed. The spider simply loved her new purple feather she spent hours playing and admiring it. She then, sitting high on her web, dropped the feather and it splashed a small spot of ink onto the floor. It shimmered blue and sparkled. The now intrigued spider tried to write something with it "purple door" she wrote, and her door turned purple! Woah! She wrote something else "purple house" and her little stump house turned purple too! The spider went out and was so excited she started turning everything she came across purple! Trees, plants, even a passing innocent squirrel was now turned purple to the spider's delight.

The next day the fairy went to go write a new fall spell to turn all the leaves beautiful fall colors but when she opened her quill box the quill was gone! She began frantically looking for it but with no luck. She started asking the other fairies if they had seen it but they were too busy trying to figure out why everything in the forrest was turning purple.

She went to ask the magician for help. He too was very busy trying to figure out the purple problem and how to help fix it. The spider had turned everything in her house purple and all her neighborhood. She looked around and wondered what else she could do with this lovely quill. The fairies were asking everyone if they knew anything.

The poor purple squirrel came forward and told them he had been just working in his garden when Mrs. Spider came by and said hi and suddenly he was purple! He was so confused and could not wash it out. The fairies told him to go to the magician for help and they would go and see Mrs. Spider. The closer the fairies got to Mr. Spider's house they noticed there was more and more purple. They looked at each other, growing increasingly more confused. Maybe Mr. Squirrel wasn't the only creature purple? Was there something in the water? Did one of the Fairy's spells not work properly? What was going on?

The Fairy was on her own quest to find her quill. She travelled and looked every place she had been. She had gone through every book and cranny in her home and had noticed a small web in the corner. She knew she was very tidy so where did this come from? Maybe Mr. Spider had snuck into her home? She decided to go ask her and see if she had been there.

It seemed everyone was looking for Mr. Spider now. Where was she? What was she doing? The hunt was on.

The sneaky Mr. Spider was off still turning all things around her purple as fast as her little legs would carry her. Purple rocks, purple trees, purple water in the stream! How fun this was! So much beautiful purple things everywhere! More! More! The world must be purple! All shades of this amazing color! The Fairy met up with the others and they all discussed what they were thinking. They asked the Fairy if she started this. Or if one of her spells backfired. She told them no she had been very specific and very careful when writing them that nothing could go wrong. They asked if maybe there was something infecting the land and creatures through the rain or water. She said no. The purple is something unique and she wasn't aware of anything in the world that could turn things purple the way this was. They told her Mr. Squirrel had mentioned seeing Mr. Spider go by and then he was suddenly purple and he couldn't wash it off.

The Fairy mentioned finding a small web in her house and her magical quill she used to write her spells was missing and she was coming to ask Mrs. Spider if she had come to her house. They all decided to split up and look for Mrs. Spider and all meet at the at the great tree in about an hour or so to see if they had found her and they could all talk to her together.

Mrs. Spider was tired. She had made it from her little stump house all the way to the middle of the forrest and now needed a nap. She made herself a giant purple web and curled up with the magical quill and fell asleep.

The Fairy and a few others decided to follow the trail of purple. It wound around mountains and over hills, up through trees, and through stumps and around mushrooms and then deep into the forrest. Such an interesting route.

They turned the corner and were met with a giant purple web! Mrs. Spider was happily nestled in the centre fast asleep. The Fairy walked up and gently woke her up. Mrs. Spider stretched and saw the fairies she got worried and tried to get away but the fairies in the group surrounded her. The Fairy gently spoke to Mrs. Spider and said she wasnt mad she just wanted her to come with her and the fairies just wanted to speak to her at the great tree. Mrs. Spider agreed to go with them. In a different part of the grove some of the fairies decided to go get the magician and Mr. Squirrel and bring the to the great tree as well. Once everyone had got to the great tree the Fairy walked up with Mrs. Spider not in accusing way but to support her. She asked her if she had been to the Fairy's home. Mrs. Spider lowered her head ashamed and nodded and produced the magical quill in front of her to the Fairy telling her yes she had been there and saw this amazing purple feather and she loved purple so much she took it without asking.

The Fairy took it gently and told Mrs. Spider she totally understood why she felt the want to take it and that it was her favorite purple feather as well. She explained it was a gift from a magical bird she had met many moons ago for helping him.

Mrs. Spider felt so bad for taking it without permission after hearing it was a gift. She would hate it if someone took one of her favorite gifts. She apologized to the Fairy and explained she felt so bad. She promised to ask before taking things from now on and not go into people's places without asking first. The Fairy accepted her apology and agreed those were very good steps to take in the future.

Next Mr. Squirrel came up and spoke to Mrs. Spider, he explained how her excitement and not paying attention caused him to turn purple and that he couldn't wash it out of his poor fur! Mrs. Spider felt so guilty and apologized to him. Just then the magician came forward and told them both it was luckily able to be reversed and not to feel too bad. Mrs. Spider told them it was a terrible accident. She had been so excited that everything was turning purple she didnt know poor Mr. Squirrel got caught in the mix.

Mr. Squirrel understood and seeing how sorry Mrs. Spider was gave her a hug and told her not to worry everything would be ok just to make sure in the future maybe to be aware of her surroundings. She agreed she would try to.

The magician stepped forward next. He explained to Mrs. Spider stealing was wrong and to make sure to ask from now on because that was a very powerful spell and the magic was specifically tailored to the Fairy to do her specialty spells. She hung her head sadly and nodded understanding he was right. He told her he could fix it but he would need a lot of help from the fairies.

Feeling sorry and hoping she could change her ways, she asked everyone in the room if she would be allowed to help fix the damage she caused. She promised to work on herself and do better from now on. Everyone agreed to accept Mrs. Spider's help and offered to help her if she needed help to change. She thanked them so very much. From that day forward Mrs. Spider was a huge help to the fairies. Mr. Squirrel and Mrs. Spider decided on weekly dinners together and are now the best friends. Mr. Squirrel even decided to keep some of the purple on the tip of his tail and thinks it looks pretty neat. He says the color just grew on him. The Fairy has asked the magical bird for another purple feather and gifted it to Mrs. Spider and she was so grateful. The Fairy makes sure she is never rushed to do her spells anymore and makes sure her quill is always put away properly.

The End.


“Si ti vu ma mere?”, she said in perfect French. “You know that one?”, I asked “Yes. I find on Youtube. I am playing so much. I love. It’s so beautiful”, she replied. “Do you know what it means? In English”, I asked. “Uhhh,,,” she pondered, “something about a mother?” “If you see my mother”, I translated for her. “Oh, that is nice. A song about mother”. “It’s one of my absolute favourites. Sidney Bechet”, I said. “I will learn to play it”. “When you learn it, will you play it for me?”, I asked her. “Yes. I play it for you”, she promised, with a beaming smile. Her name was Kiko. She was from Japan, and she was my favourite student. She came along when I was three months into my second career as an online teacher of English. I started late in life and it’s not something that I ever envisaged myself doing. In my mind, the word “teacher” always conjured up visions of a shabby and perennially frustrated manic depressives who really wanted to do something else with their lives but ended up as teachers because Plan “A” didn’t pan out. At an intellectual level, I know that that is a lazy and inaccurate characterisation, though. Besides, who am I to gloat? My Plan “A” didn’t pan out either. In fact, I never really put it into effect. See, I grew up with music. My father was a jazz fan and he bequeathed that appreciation onto me. I learned to play the trumpet and the guitar and played regularly in my school band. When I was 15, I started building my record collection which included all the jazz greats and even some of the jazz-not-so-greats. At university, I formed a jazz trio called ‘The Know-Notes’ and we played student gigs regularly. I was elected as President of the University Jazz Club three years in a row. Mind you, there were only four members of said club, our trio and the girlfriend of the saxophonist, so I suppose you could say that I was a shoo-in for the post. After leaving university, I got a temporary job working as a sales assistant in a department store; something to tide me over while I plotted The Know-Notes route to glittering jazz stardom. But then I met my wife. She was an archaeology student working a summer job. For the second time in my life, I fell in love. By the end of that summer, we moved in together and, on Christmas Even no less, she informed me that she was carrying our first child. “I think we should get married”, she said. We had a Spring wedding and our daughter was born the following August. We were still living in my crummy, one-bedroom apartment and we had to find something bigger and better in a hurry. Meanwhile, the progress of The Know-Notes was, shall we say, less than stellar. We had only managed to secure one paid gig and that was at a nursing home facility as entertainment for the residents, most of whom fell asleep during our set. This was hardly the adulation we were seeking. Shortly after that, our saxophonist, a geologist by training, was offered a job in the oil industry in Saudi Arabia with a salary that he simply could not refuse. Well, that was that. My ‘temporary’ job at the department store turned into a full-time job and, from there, into a career in retail management. By the time our second child was born, I was a departmental assistant manager. The trumpet that my father bought for me on my 16 th birthday was consigned to the attic to gather dust while I climbed the corporate ladder all the way up to Head Manager of the second largest shopping mall in the country. After 27 years of ploughing away in the soil of the commercial eco-system, my dear wife was diagnosed with heart disease, more specifically coronary artery disease. I decided to take early retirement to stay at home and look after her. About a month after I retired, I returned home from a shopping trip to find her corpse on the floor of our bathroom. Myocardial infarction. I have never come to terms with losing her and I never will. So, then I was all alone in the home that we built together, our children having long since flown the nest and with no job to occupy my time. I had to take stock. I needed to re-discover a sense of purpose; I needed something to do, to occupy both my mind and my time. I had no idea where to start. Returning to the retail world was, I suppose, one option but I just didn’t have the strength for it anymore. I even retrieved my trumpet from the attic, dusted it off, played a few notes and briefly allowed myself to entertain the fantasy of finally becoming a professional jazz player. But that’s all it was – a fantasy. The naked truth is that while my enthusiasm for music was boundless, my talent was merely modest. My ambition had always far exceeded my grasp How on earth could I expect to make a living from this old trumpet now when I failed to do it as a young man? But what else could I do? I browsed the web for ideas and inspiration. ‘Teach English Online’ said the advert in big, bold type. Is that something I could do, I asked myself. Was I the right person to teach anybody anything? The advert was for an online software platform that brings English teachers together with non-native speakers who want to learn English and provides a video and audio interface for real-time lessons. I spent a long time perusing the site and then slept on it. I continued to sleep on it, chew on it, ruminate on it, walk on it and eat on it for a further month before deciding to take the plunge and sign up. At about the same time, I took an online teaching course to get myself up-to-speed and certified. I discovered that it works very much like a taxi rank or, perhaps less salubriously, an escort service. You put up a profile with a biography and a picture and you wait for a student to choose you. I waited a week for my maiden lesson with a medical student from Qatar. I felt as if I stuttered, stumbled and fluffed my way through the entire 60-minutes but I must have done or said something that chimed with her because she booked me again the following week. It turned out that the Qatari woman, this brave pioneer, whose time and money I earnestly believed that I had wasted, gave me a glowing review. So other students followed: a publisher from Italy, a tax consultant from Poland, a lawyer from Brazil and a banker from South Korea. By the second month in, I had myself a whole cadre of regular students who provided me with a much-missed sense of purpose and a renewed self-respect. Furthermore, I was actually beginning to enjoy it now, in stark contrast to my first few lessons which were characterised by my sweaty palms, lack of confidence and a sense of relief when the lesson ended without a major flub. I found that this new career suited me in many ways. First of all, the extra money augmented my pension income, though not, it has to be said, by lavish amounts. Teaching English is not something you do if you plan to get rich. Still, it helped keep the lights on. Secondly, it dispelled the loneliness that may have overwhelmed me had I not found that life-changing online advert. Every day, I connect with and converse with people from all four corners of the world, learn about them hear their stories and teach them as much as I can. It’s like having a busy social calendar and how many old widowers can say that? Pretty much all of my students wanted to learn, or improve, their English skills for career advancement. At least, that was their stated reason and that was fine with me. I knew enough professional and business English to help them draft those important emails, write reports and follow the news broadcasts from the BBC or CNN. It wasn’t long before I had amassed an impressive stock of business English materials and lesson plans. And then came Kiko. Kiko was from Japan and she told right off that she chose me because I had mentioned in my profile that I was a jazz fan. See, Kiko wanted to improve her English but, just as much, she wanted to learn and talk about jazz. As far as I could tell, she had some rather humdrum job in a bank, but her hobby was jazz music and learning to play the clarinet. She wanted to turn professional someday. I told her in unequivocal terms that I was her man. I was captivated. She reminded me of me, only female. And a lot younger. And Japanese. As well as listening to jazz, I love talking jazz but my late wife, bless her memory, had little interest in music and my daughters would dutifully listen to waxing lyrical for about ten minutes before zoning out. But now I had Kiko and Kiko had me. She booked a regular lesson once a week, always on a Friday and we spent the whole time talking about jazz. Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong, Ornette Coleman, Chet Baker, Charlie Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Art Tatum and, of course, Sidney Bechet. Sometimes we would even search You Tube together for great jazz classics and listen to them during the lesson. For me, it couldn’t get better than that. After a few weeks of teaching Kiko, I was transforming. I actually started singing in the shower and, sometimes, dancing in the shower too. My old vinyl record collection, by far my most cherished physical possession, was getting run out again, almost on a daily basis. For the first time in decades, I had begun to feel a little of that incommunicable magic that I felt when I was a teenager listening to records in my bedroom and dreaming of being a Blue Note signee. My lesson with Kiko had become the highlight of my week and I couldn’t help noticing that her English was improving as well. Of course, in between the jazz appreciation, I was slipping in some actual teaching too; a bit of grammar, some vocabulary, a few phrasal verbs and a collocation or two. But the jazz talk was the main feature. One evening, while listening to Oscar Peterson’s ‘Night Train’ album, I found myself picturing Kiko here with me, revelling the music, basking in the evening and, perhaps, practising scales on her clarinet while I pour us each a glass of aromatic, fruity red whine and……and then I slapped myself. Literally. That’s ridiculous, ludicrous and off-the-scale inappropriate. This is a professional relationship. I am her teacher and she is my student. Ethics, dammit. Standards, for heaven’s sake. Besides, I am old enough to be her father and, besides again, she lives on the other side of the world and besides and besides and besides and besides. I banished all such notions from my mind. But they kept creeping back towards me like a stealthy, prowling cat. It was soon Friday again. “Hi teacher. I learned that song”. “Hi, Kiko. Which song is that?” “Si ti…..umm….Sidney Bechet song.” “Well done”. “Shall I play for you?” “Oh, I would love that. Yes, please Kiko.” She giggled a little nervously before unsheathing her clarinet. She licked her lips and I saw the focus in her eyes and in the way she held herself. She started playing and it sounded so bloody good and then the video froze and went silent. This was not an uncommon problem which sometimes resolves itself if you just wait. But not this time. I checked my internet connection and it was working well, in full flow. So, I concluded that it must be her connection. What lousy timing! I logged out and in again in the hope that it might help but no luck. The video was still frozen and, a moment later, it went dark altogether. I sent Kiko a message through the chat system. “Try to log-in again”. I waited for a response but none came. I thought that maybe her computer had crashed or her internet had gone down. I expected that she would send me a message. I made myself a coffee and waited. Nothing from Kiko and there was nothing more I could do except wait for her to get back on line. I had two more lessons that day. That evening, I sent her another message. “Kiko, you must have connection problems. We can resume lesson tomorrow if you like. Let me know.” I made a light supper and retired to bed early to nurse my disappointment. The next morning, I got back online and as is my habit, opened my newsfeed. It was then that my guts dropped. ‘Japan earthquake: hundreds killed, thousands homeless’. I pored over every word of the news reports. It occurred, I calculated, at exactly the time of our lesson last evening. No, it can’t be. Could it be? A wave of revulsion and horror welled up in my chest like an acid reflux. I logged onto the platform to if she had replied to my messages but she had not. I sent another message. “Kiko, are you okay? Please send me a message and let know”. I waited for a response from her but, again, nothing. And hour went by, two hours, three hours. Still nothing. I told myself that it was merely a coincidence. Maybe her internet connection got cut off for some other reason. Yes, that was entirely plausible. The weekend went by with no response from Kiko. I had other lessons and I took them with the most professional demeanour I could muster and, as I always endeavour to do, gave of my best. But, inside, I was crumbling. I had no way to contact her except via the platform. I didn’t know her surname or even where she lived. She did mention the name of the place once but I couldn’t remember it for the life of me. I toyed with the idea of calling the Japanese embassy but what on earth would I ask them? I am seeking a woman called Kiko but I don’t know her surname or where she lives? But then it occurred to me that the company that runs the platform might help. They will never give me any student contact details, I know that, but I sent them an email anyway telling them what happened and asking them if they can contact her just to see if she is okay. I got an automated response but nothing more. The week rolled by without a word from Kiko until the following Friday. At the allotted time for her lesson, I opened the platform and waited for her to appear. Nothing. I try to stay positive. I imagine her in some temporary shelter without internet access and longing to return home, to any home, where she can resume her lessons with me and her proper life. I mean, it could be true, couldn’t it? Or perhaps the earthquake didn’t affect her at all and there’s some other reason why she can’t connect? Maybe. You never know. Nothing is proven. So I wait and while I wait the old emptiness returns and still there’s no Kiko to banish it away. But, worse than the emptiness is the helplessness and not knowing. Come back, Kiko, come back. It’s been three weeks now and still no reply from her. However, my heart did leap momentarily when an e-mail arrived from the platform company only to sink again when I realised it was another automated mail requesting user feedback. I gave them 5 stars and, in the comment box, I added the words: “If you see Kiko, tell her I miss her”. By David J.K. Carr


(Content warnings: Swearing/Mental health issues) It was dark by the time she had regained consciousness. She pried her forehead from the steering wheel and wiped the coagulated substance off with the back of her hand. She cried out in agony as muscles spasmed in her neck. The only source of light was the faint glow from the full moon hovering over the car. She had no recollection of where she was, where she had been, where she was going, or even who she was. All she could tell was that she’d somehow collided with a tree and the older model, two-door vehicle was unequipped with an airbag.      She surveyed her dark surroundings. Although the driver’s door was badly dented, but the passenger’s door had been slammed against a protruding mountain rock . She managed to get her car door open enough to activate the interior dome light; unfortunately, the bulb had burned out, and darkness prevailed with the exception of the full moon above.       She searched the passenger side in hopes of finding identification and a cell phone to call for help. She found a handbag in the floorboard and dumped its contents onto the passenger seat. Even though dimly lit, she could tell what the items were by touch; lipstick, hairbrush, pack of gum, big wad of cash secured with a rubber band, and a flip-type burner cell phone. She opened it, revealing the date and time: Wednesday, October 31, 2020, 12:22 AM. Also illuminated by the cell light was a damaged triangular street sign that read , Curved Mountain Road.       “Just great; stuck on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere, in a wrecked car, on Halloween night with only a burner phone and a wad of cash,” she said, rubbing her temples.        She turned her attention back to the handbag and gave it another shake-down, searching for any form of I.D. What the hell, no driver’s license? she wondered, throwing the empty purse back into the floorboard. A burner has emergency capability; I can still call 911. She flipped the phone open to lighten her dark surroundings; hopefully, she’d find something that might lead the authorities to her whereabouts. I can’t tell them where I am if I don’t know, myself; hell, I don’t even know who I am.        Using the light from the phone, she looked in the glove compartment for identification. Registration papers indicated the 1977 El Camino belonged to Joann Blankenship of Casper Wyoming. Is that me? she wondered. “I can’t just sit here and wait for another car to come speeding around that bend and crush me like an accordion,” she said, looking in the rearview mirror and picturing the worst-case scenario in her mind. “I must have hit my head really hard, cause I’m talking to myself. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, slamming her shoulder against the door. On the fourth and final thrust, she was able to squeeze her slender frame out , landing on the cold, damp cement. Using the door handle, she pulled herself up to a standing position which made her head spin. She stood still until her equilibrium returned. She shined the cell light on the wreckage revealing extensive damage to the front-end; especially, the fender, which was partially embedded in the tree.       “Blood!” she yelled, staring at the dark red substance splattered on the hood and grill. “I probably hit a deer, then swerved into this damn thing,” she said, kicking the base of the tree. The cell light inadvertently illuminated what appeared to be a body lying about fifty feet down the road. "Oh my God! Are you okay?”       She grabbed a hold of a broken but still adhered limb for support, and made her way down the hill, toward the lifeless man in running attire; his body, appearing bloody and contorted. “I’m so sorry; It was an accident,” she said . At least I think it was an accident. Yes, I’m sure it was. After all, I’m not a bad person, am I? she wondered, searching her amnesic brain for a sign that she did indeed have a conscience.

She kneeled by the victim to check for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Was it because her fingers were too cold or because he didn’t have one? She searched his pockets and found a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to Dale Blankenship, of Casper, Wyoming. She glanced back at the car. Blankenship was the last name on the car registration. Inside the victim’s wallet, was thirty-seven dollars, a photo of two children, and a picture of a woman with long red hair. She swung her ponytail forward and shined the cell light on it. With pictures in hand, she stumbled back up the hill and back to the car, squeezing herself into the passenger seat. She pulled the visor mirror down and shined the cell light on her face and gasped. Just as she suspected; the woman in the picture and the reflection in the mirror were one in the same.       “Oh my God; if that poor man is, was my husband or ex, these are probably my children,” she said, shining the light on the children’s photo, hoping to generate a memory or at least an emotion, but it didn’t do either. “I’ve got to call 911 and at least report this to the police. I’ll just explain my situation; that I don’t know where I am and that I’ve been in an accident and have amnesia; surely, they’ll understand,” she said, rubbing her forehead.       Just as she started to push the last ‘1’ on the cell, she snapped the phone closed and picked up the large stack of cash that was still in the passenger seat. She thumbed the bills under her nose and inhaled. None of this look’s good. I can’t explain the money or the body. What if I was running from the law and someone has my license plate number? The cops won’t believe that it was an accident and I’ll probably do time for vehicular homicide. Besides, it’s too late to call for help for him because; he’s already dead ,” she said, looking down the hill at the victim lying in the road. And, as for the children, his life insurance will provide for them. Besides, it’s not like I’d be a good mother if I don’t know who they are or who I am, she rationalized, managing to squeeze out a couple of crocodile tears. I know what I must do…        She kissed the pictures goodbye and laid them in the passenger seat. She picked up the wad of cash and stuffed it in her pocket and squeezed back out of the car. She paced along the mountain road, searching for anything or anybody that could implicate her in this being anything more than a tragic accident.        Tiny orange rectangles staggered throughout the mountains represented the windows of the nearby cabins. She prayed that no residents or bystanders would be witness to what was about to transpired. In a fugue state of mind, she meditated. …        I’ll create another identity. It won’t be difficult since I don’t know who I am, anyway. I’ll stage my death. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. No more Joann Blankenship, or whatever the hell, the papers say I am…or was. No one will ever need to know. Hopefully, along with Dale’s life insurance, Joann’s will also care for her surviving children. My surviving children.        She squeezed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. She didn’t know why she hadn’t tried to start it before. Nevertheless, she was surprised when the old jalopy started on the third try. She put the gear in reverse and gunned the engine. The embedded fender made a grinding sound, finally releasing itself from the tree’s hold. She put the gear in park and got out, leaving the driver’s door open. She leaned over the seat, shifted the gear into drive, and backed away from the moving vehicle. It was as if she wasn’t responsible for what the old El Camino did. The car picked up speed as it rolled downhill toward the lifeless man lying in the middle of the road. “Stop! This is not part of the plan, you idiot!” she yelled, while charging downhill toward the runaway vehicle. Was it fate or luck that the car veered slightly to the right, avoiding the victim’s corpse? She sighed with relief. “That was close. Two impacts with the victim would rule out an accident for sure and really fuck-up my plan.”        Using the cell to illuminate her path, she made her way to the edge of the cliff just in time to see the El Camino somersault over the flimsy metal guardrail and disappear into the depths below. She could hear the shattering of glass and the crushing of metal. She shined the cell light down the cliff just in time to hear a loud ‘boom’ and see a plume of smoke, confirming its final impact on solid ground. She smiled. Unfortunately, her celebration was short-lived by the realization of another flaw in her scheme. Her disappointment echoed throughout the mountains. “Dammit, there won’t be a body to recover!”        A sudden splashing sound was music to her ears for it was the welcome confirmation that both, the El Camino and its owner, had made it to their final resting place –the flowing river below. She shined the cell light down into the abyss, illuminating the tangled remains, drifting downstream. She smiled. No worries: the authorities will assume that Joann Blankenship’s body was carried away by the current .       Without warning, a dark shadow ran toward her, finally taking on the shape of a man. She shined her cell light on the image standing in her presence, then on the road where the victim had met his demise. The body was gone. “No, it can’t be, you’re dead!” she cried, covering her eyes with her hands.       “Melanie, it’s me, Johnathon,” the man said in a calming voice.        “Dale, you know I’m Joann, but the fact that I’m still alive is a secret,” she whispered, making a shush gesture. “What is this, a Halloween prank? she asked, wiping some of the gooey substance off his face.        “You’re scaring me, Mel. Your blood sugar must be getting low, let me get you something to eat.”        “Stop calling me that. What is it you want?” she asked sternly.        “I just want you and I want you to be okay, that’s all,” he said, his voice cracking. A paranoid expression flashed across her face.       “I know what you’re after,” she said, pausing to reach in her jacket pocket. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked, waving the wad of money under his nose. “Well, you’re not getting any of it; it’s mine, every fucking penny!” she yelled, backing away until her rubber sole shoes teetered on the edge of the cliff.        “Mel, stop!” the man yelled, grabbing her jacket, and pulling her into the safety of his arms.        “I don’t want the money, it’s not real, anyway; I just want you,” he said, still holding her tight. He waved his arms to get attention. “Zac, need help over here; there’s something really wrong with Mel.”        A bright light engulfed her in its celestial-like presence as human-shaped silhouettes descended upon her. The muffled sound of their voices harmonized in her ears. She could see the man she called Dale nervously hovering over her, but she was not afraid as a warm and peaceful feeling encompassed her soul. She closed her eyes, smiled, and asked. “Am I in Heaven?”       Although she received no answer from the Divine Creator, a loud human cue came from behind the bright light…        “Alright, that’s a wrap!”


The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was the driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong. I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from blacktop to hard-packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement somewhere up ahead, so I continued. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street. Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk, and froze in mid-stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to explore. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle, and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials, and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion. Hope was originally founded when a vein of silver was discovered in the nearby mountains. The town grew and prospered for sixty years, but then the mine played out. The residents were not ready to give up on their community. They switched from mining to raising cattle and farming. These new ventures extended the towns’ life for another twenty years, but the end was inevitable. Without the daily shipments of silver, the railroad reduced the number of trains that stopped in Hope. Cattle and produce shipments were not enough to justify running trains through the isolated town. The residents slowly left Hope and moved to other parts of the state. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. On July 15, 1910, everyone living in Hope gathered in the town center. They said goodbye to one another and to their beloved town and left for good. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me. Hungry, thirsty, and desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings for something to eat and, more importantly, water. Food was a lost cause, but I located a well. Much to my surprise, the hand pump still worked. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst.  I continued to search for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. First the well and now the bicycle. Maybe it was my lucky day after all. The wheels were steel and although the leather on the seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption.  I’ve watched people in old newsreels ride along on one of these without a care in the world. It took me multiple attempts, countless falls, and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast. I filled a couple of jugs with water and departed at sunrise. Once I got that big front wheel spinning at a steady pace, I made surprisingly good time. When I reached the location where the road split, I took the left fork, which was the right one. Approximately five miles from the highway, I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. You can imagine what he was thinking when he first spotted me cruising down the road on an antique bike. The agent listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished, he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. People organized a search party and spent the next three days looking for them. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely were buried by it. Either way, no trace of the last residents of Hope was ever found.” The agent helped me load the bike into his truck and gave me a ride back to civilization. I bought some large gas cans and got a ride back to Hope to retrieve my car. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this adventure, you should never abandon Hope.”


Sergeant Jack Washburn was a sergeant in the police department of Tekhood, Minnisota. He was a strict yet kind gentleman, recently married to his wife, Lilliane. Lilliane was exactly like her husband, except on the softer side. She had a soothing, soft voice, a big heart, and was too kind to be a human. She was more like a god. It had been a few days since the return from his honeymoon when Jack Washburn received a call from the Saint Paul Police Department. Saint Paul was about 50 miles away from Tekhood, and Jack saw no reason why they would call the Tekhood Police Department at all, let alone on a night such as this. The moon was bright, the stars were gleaming, and the sky was clear. Jack was out on his wooden porch admiring the view past the wood when his phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and picked up. Lilliane rocked quietly on a rocking chair beside him. "Hello. Sergeant Washburn," Jack said quickly, realizing the caller had dialed his work phone number. Lilliane realized this too, and glanced up at her husband in confusion. Who is it? she mouthed. Jack shook his head. I don't know. "Hello, Mr. Washburn?" "Yes, who is this?" Jack spoke hurriedly, not wanting to talk for too long. "Hello. I'm Detective Florence George from the Saint Paul Police Department." Jack paused. "Uummm... hello. To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Florence?" "Yes, we received a call earlier today that a bank was getting robbed. We arrived at the crime scene too late, and after a few hours of investigation we concluded that the criminal was the same person who robbed the USAB bank last week." "What does that have to do with the Tekhood Police Department?" Jack asked. "You didn't let me finish." Florence said sternly from the receiving end. Jack gulped, and Lilliane frowned, wondering what was going on. "Please continue, Detective." "Very good. As I was saying, we managed to figure out the license plate of the car that the criminal drives. We've been tracking the movement of the car, and it's headed into Tekwood County. It'd be a real help if you helped catch this criminal." Jack was flabbergasted. "Well-" he started, trying to catch his breath. "Yes. Yes, I will definitely help you, Detective Florence!" "That's great. Do you have a pen and paper with you? I'm going to read you the information that we've gathered. We'll fax it over to your headquarters tomorrow morning." "I-" Jack snatched a pen and paper up from the woven, outdoor coffee table and tucked his phone onto his shoulder. "Okay, I'm ready." "Good. License plate number is 0TYS431. Car is 2000 model Honda Accord with blue paint and a red paint streak on the trunk. The criminal who should be driving the car is a female, age 42, by the name of Shirley Bash." Jack dropped his pencil. "Great. I got all that down." He reread his notepad. "Wait a- Shirley Bash?" Jack's knees trembled ever so slightly. "Yes. That's the woman. That'll be all now, Sergeant Washburn. Thanks for your help." Detective Florence hung up. Jack collapsed onto his patio floor, staring off into space, sweating. Lilliane stood up quickly. "Jack!" she said in a hushed tone, her Hungarian accent slipping out. "Jack! My love, are you okay?!" "I-I'm... no." Jack said, stuttering. Lilliane had a fearful expression on her face. "What is wrong? Did they say something bad?" "M-my... Shirley." Jack spat. Lilliane sank to her knees. "My darling, what are you-" "My sister is a criminal, Lilliane." Lilliane turned red. She stood up silently and pursed her lips. Without a word, she turned around and walked into the house. Jack panted. "I'm supposed to catch- catch my- Lilliane....ooohh..." Jack leaned his head back against the rocking chair and closed his eyes tightly. "Say it ain't so.... say it ain't...ssoo..." The next morning, Jack woke up and walked into the kitchen. He found Lilliane already awake and whisking away at a bowl of pancake batter. "Good morning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I got it." "Got vat?" "I figured out that we need to catch Shirley." "And...?" Lilliane poured some batter onto a frying pan. "I have the perfect idea of how to catch her." "Do you, now?" "We invite her over to a party. Here. We also invite some friends, the Jacksons, the Frosts, and a couple of my guys from work. Then, in the middle of the party, we corner her and arrest her." "Zat sounds fine," Lilliane said simply, flipping a pancake. "Except...." "Except what?" Jack asked. "I do not want zat woman in my 'ouse." "Why not? Hon, it's only-" "She is scoundrel, no? I do not want her stealing my vases from Russia, or my money for Africa, or our baby right out of my stomach!" "Honey, that was from a movie- Beastmaster , I think. I doubt Shirley is going to cut you open to get a baby that isn't even half way developed yet." Lilliane frowned. "Still." She held up a small platter of pancakes. "You want one?" "Sure." Jack snatched a pancake and took a bite, before kissing Lilliane on the cheek. "Love you, babe! See you later!" " 'Ave fun at vork!" Lilliane called after Jack as he walked out the door. Jack stepped into his car and turned his keys in the ignition. The engine sprang to life. -------------------------------------------- Jack left work that day satisfied. He had gotten his fellow police colleagues into the scheme, and Lilliane had called him during a meeting to inform him that she already had 20 friends coming to the party tonight, which she'd decided needed a theme. She'd said "Vat's the party for? I came up with a cookie exchange. Everyone brings cookies and ve exchange them and critic the sweets and talk and everyone has a good time." Jack arrived home to find his wife feverishly working inside the kitchen, with 4 platters of different flavored cookies already spread out on the island. The house was sparkling clean (except for the kitchen), and the sweet scent of another batch of cookies could be smelled from all the way upstairs. Jack rushed over to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. She blushed and playfully whacked him with a rolling pin. " 'Ere, try," she said simply, stuffing a cookie into Jack's mouth. He swallowed as he let the savory flavor touch his tongue. "Mmmm...." he managed through chews. "What flavor...?" "Raspberry almond nut with a hint of cranberry juice in the dough! What do you think?!" "I love it!" Jack said, smiling. His wife looked incredibly happy with her creations. "Hon," he said quickly, just remembering something. "We have to invite Shirley to the cookie exchange." " 'Aven't you done that already?" Lilliane asked, opening the over and taking a batch of caramel-mint chocolate chip cookies out. "No..." Jack trailed off. "But I should." "Yes. Now." Jack sighed. "Fine." He walked out to the porch and took out his cell phone. He stared at it for a moment, then regretfully dialed his sisters number. He half heartedly put the phone to his ear, and took a deep breath as he waited for someone to answer. "Yello?" Jack caught his breath. "Yello? Annnnyyyybody there?" "Shirley! Hi, it's Jack!" "Jack? Oooh. Hey, Buddy, what do I owe the pleasure?" "Hey! Look, Lilliane and I are having this huge cookie exchange bash, and I know your job is always taking you places, so I just thought I'd shoot you a call to see if you were in the area." "Well, golly gee, you caught me at the right time. I just happen to be right outside Tekwood. Would ya mind if I dropped by? Fine time since I seen Lilliane and the kid." "We don't have a kid," Jack coughed. There was a pause, before Shirley's country voice came back on. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come fer sure. But do I need to bring anything?" "Nothing. Unless you happen to have a box of cookies in the trunk, then you're off the hook, Shirley." "Well, thanks again, Jack. I'll see you there!" "Bye, Shir! Love ya!" Shirley hung up. Jack trudged back into his house, where he found Lilliane putting in a batch of what appeared to be honey-graham-nut cookies. " 'Ow did eet go?" "Well," Jack shrugged. "She's coming." "Zat is good, no?" "It's swell." Jack managed a weak smile, but it formed into a real one when he saw his wife's glowing face. "Now how about one of them cookies that you promised me?" ---------------------------------- Shirley was caught. Jack got promoted. Lilliane gave birth to a baby boy who Jack named Florence. The End. Authors note- Readers; this was less a story about cookies and criminals but more a story about love and support of the spouses. I find it beautiful how 2 people can love eachother with such a strong passion despite it all. So to anybody out there who is reading this, true love and honesty and trust can conquer all. "Forever is a long time, but I don't mind as long as I spend it by your side."


I, Melquart, god of the unknown, welcome you into my story, my realm, my tangled web of fiction, my sea of interpretations and fantasies. Welcome stranger, welcome friend, welcome victim, welcome misfit, welcome everyone. Before we begin, can I interest you with a glass of wine, straight from our generous vineyard, kissed by the sun, squeezed under the feet of our maidens, can I tempt you with festive alcoholic juices of nature? Drink now, drink till you’re full, till you can’t lift a finger, nor open your beautiful eyes, stories are best heard when asleep. I want to tell you my story, to reveal everything. I figured, it's time to do so. See, I'm going to die. But Gods don't die, you'll say. I can read minds too. I'm planning my own version of death. Don't tell anyone. I'm just tired and I want to rest. Isn’t my right, after all? After all the centuries of trickery, the only one I truly want to deceit is myself. I am the only one worthy of a real prank. It’s time for self-love. Where was I, right, as I was telling you, dear, I want to die a simple death, nothing too fancy, I'm not "Adonis" nor "Ashtarout", those guys are too dramatic for my taste. I will let in a little secret, you know how "Adonis" was supposedly killed by a wild boar, and died. Well, this isn’t what really happened, forget what you read in all those good for nothing history books, the truth resides somewhere else. It resides with me, or in a glass of wine, as our roman brothers say. Sure, sure I’m not the god of truth, there is no such thing, have you ever encountered one, I ask you? Only “Veritas”, that coward, you know she spent her days in the bottom of a well, that sums it up for me. Who would want to listen to god living in well, that moldy water, that smell. She was the one who started using the expression “the ugly truth”, she was describing herself, if you ask me. As I was saying, truth gods are a rarity, practically, such entities don’t exist. No god is that self-righteous. Anyway, I was talking about “Adonis”, that handsome, stupid young one, he was neither killed by Apollo nor by Ares who allegedly metamorphosed into a wild boar out of jealousy.

It was I. I confess. I, Melquart, God of stories and trickery. Trickery for the most part, but there is no trickery without a setting. It was the beginning of spring, the source of Afqua in the mountains of Lebanon, never looked fresher nor greener than this particular moment. Cool water, descended like a long awaited queen, crisp grass and flowers welcomed their visitor with a ray of sunshine on their surfaces. Adonis was hunting. He loved to hunt, a noble sport, he would say, where you are in a competition with nature, a true test of your core. I saw him chasing after a wild boar, and it hit me. Why don’t I make it a bit harder for him? He used to say, that it’s a competition after all. “Bring it on!” I made the boar fly, dance, wriggle his tail, transform into a dragon, a lion, into medusa even. It was hilarious, the poor Adonis was traumatized, that poor lad, rubbing his eyes, pinching himself. I remember his expression of fear and disbelief.  And then I appeared in front of him; - Hello friend. I saluted him. - Who are you? He replied. - I am a shepherd, I lost my sheep, have you see them? - No, I’m afraid not. Adonis, opened his mouth, and sheep began to crawl out of it, like vomit. Twelve sheep in total. I was laughing while trying to maintain my shepherd character, but his sight was a something to remember for centuries. His eyes wide open, his mouth stretched like a volcano, erupting wool instead of lava and his muscular built twerking like a terrible earthquake of the soul. It continued for seconds, then everything stopped. As I stepped closer, I found him dead on the ground. He might have died of surprise, of shock, of heaviness. I really don’t know. But seeing a god die was a real spectacle. Something to think about. Something to recreate. I pulled his body and place it next to an abandoned cave, I covered it with scratches and wild boar imprints. I didn’t mean to kill him. But shit happen and that’s life, I got a laugh and a story out of it though. That’s what really important. The essence of life. I saw his death as an opportunity, I went to “Ashtarout”, his beloved and told her that a wild boar killed him. -        But how? He’s a young strong god. How can a wild animal kill him? She sobbed, hiding her face with her long black hair. -        I don’t know dear; it must have been a special animal. I offered my arms to comfort her, I held her tight, in the sacred temple. -        A special animal? What do you mean? -        Could be an enchanted animal, some spell of some kind. That’s the only explanation. -        Oh, you are right. I have my suspicions. -        You were always beautiful as were clever dear. I left her temple, knowing she would blame Apollo for it. Or Ares. I didn’t mind. It turned out to be an entertaining soap opera that lasted a couple of centuries. The fighting, the bickering, the love hate relationship, the love triangle, the whole drama. I do what I do for fun, for the trill and the adrenaline rush. I do what I do, to feel alive, through stories, to create mayhem and contemplate it consequences, it’s the flow of life. To ask the what if questions. I will tell you now my secret plan, since I’m the last surviving god, having assumed the lives of all the gods before me. I’m the totality of all. And the last piece of the puzzle, there will be no gods after me, there will not be gods anymore. I have decided, drum rolls please, that, I will turn myself into a human.  A simple human whose life is up to change any minute now. Have you drunk your cup? Have you finished your wine? Did you feel it intoxicate you? What about those strange sensations creeping up, the looseness of your body, the translucidity of your soul, the urge for chaos? What about life? Do you feel it? Do you feel alive? Great. Now I will take your place in your body. Now I will become you.


Who’s better than Baskin Robbins? I will let you know the answer to that question in just a few. This story is about a freaking Superhero, with the most murderous positive Superpower ever gifted to man. Dang, do not want to sound negative, but he is killing Superman. Much honor and respect to the man that is super. I viciously connect more to my Superhero and the lasting effects of his Superpower. Do not shoot me yet, check it out. There was this living carcass, a species which all humanity calls them or rather him, a villain. This certain individual name was, um. Dang, do we have to give him a name. Bad News, his name was Bad News. Key word ‘WAS’ laugh out loud. Bad News was a serious patch of sore pimples on your bottom. This guy attitude and character alone was created out of movies and horrific violent music. No seriously, his strongest influencing role models were. Frank White, Nino Brown, Scarface, Denise The Menace and Brother Lynch Hung, to name a few. Bad News being a villain, stole those characters and others, Superpowers. Which was the power of manipulation, complaining, thievery, destruction and acts of self-loveless demonstrations towards others. He hated being born into a world of monstrous behavior and poverty. Instead of fighting against it, it consumed him and made him angry and evil. Bad New always had bad news, his work sometimes made the bad news section in the newspapers. Totally ironic. Bad News was filled with every emotion possible. He was angry one second and then worried. Happy one second then depressed, furious then joyful. Explosive then wonderful to be around. Pissed off then kind, violent then an enormous guilt trip. This guy was all over the place. He would use his Superpowers on everyone including to those who cared about him. The repercussions and tax return on his deceitful acts of deliberate violence caused catastrophic injuries. Mentally, spiritually, sometimes lightly physical damage to his victims. The magical Universe than holds the planets together would use its Superpower, Krama. Bad News would unleash more of his power the more the Universe would release its power. Bad News went deep into his sorcery. His powers became more ultimately destructive and extremely powerful. He loved the fruit those powers produced. Bad News was sitting on top of the world. The Universe powers could not defeat his powers or at least that what Bad news thought. Bad News did not know that the power of Karma was only at DEFCON one. The Universe released Karma at DEFCON four. Bad New powers began to work against him. His emotions hit tremendously hard causing mental breakdown. The long beautiful bridges that lead to amazing cities and to Divine spectacular human beings burnt down. The access to those who gave him love and affection were blocked by titanium walls. The more he used his power the more Bad News suffered. Absolutely nothing suppressed his misery and pain from his cancerous powers. Karma made him see all his tax return in full and more. Bad News could not rest, could not sleep. The agony from his malfunctioned powers and Karma brought him to his knees. No longer could he experience his one minutes of happiness anymore. Death was his final thought when he woke up completely alone. On his last road to his final resting place. He notices a bridge, a skinny narrow bridge. It was a pathway to a secret new world. He smiles from the thought of using his powers once again. So, he scraped his body trying to fit through the painful thin bridge. Bad New entered this humongous beautiful new world. He is met by this tall, deep voice, intimidating Superhuman. Bad News looks at him curiously but not able to see him clearly. This Superhero has an extra electrifying superpower, his smile. This smile alone is divine. He felt something weird about this guy. By the halo alone that follows this Superhero you know he meant business. Bad News stood at attention preparing for battle. The Superhero released his God given Superpowers violently correct. Bad News fought until he was decapitated by those lighting volts of Power. Bad News was defeated by the power of truth and self-love. The high-power words of comprehensible conversation on several topics destroyed Bad News negative pride. The more the Superhero talked, the more his superpower destroyed Bad News fictional character. Viciously the vocal literature spread through the mind of Bad New dropping him to his knees. The knowledge on how to build your real character is revealed. Consumed by positive energy and a different state of mind he begins to transform. He was taught how to love himself. Forgive himself, to forgive others, take responsibility for his actions. How to control himself, discipline his action from disappointments. How to stop giving all emotions negative meanings. The Superhero release more of his power each second. Bad News was taught how to dissect each human emotion. That negative emotions are messages from the Universe to change something to be greater Superhumans. To change his perspective on things and their meaning. Or simply to change his actions, to receive a better emotion. That gives, smiles and hugs rather than violence. The Superhero superpower poured mountains of strength and knowledge in each sentence. Bad News cried as he was taught, he had the choice to be a Superhero or Villain. The truth on who superpower last a lifetime without regrets or guilt after being used. The Superhero powers were a gift from his creator. His superpower is to help others, use and find their superpower to live ‘GREATNESS’. After a day of being beat up by the vocabulary superpower of wisdom and motivation. Bad News took of his mask off. He summitted to the ultimate Superhero, the Universe. And acquired unused Superpowers he already had within. Like the superpower to choose, love, forgiveness, kindness, fairness and understanding. And changed his name to the Great News.

Coaching and understanding human nature to change our direction become our greatest selves was the Superhero superpower. So, to the question. Who’s better than Baskin Robbins?  Simple, my Superhero, The Amazing TONY ROBBINS!!                                                                       The End