Have you ever lived a day that stretched on past the usual twenty-four hours? I'm not talking about one of those days at work that seem to last forever. No. I'm talking about a day that goes on for weeks, months, and even a full rotation around the sun. Oh, it's impossible? Obviously you must not remember June 20th. At least, not the June 20th that I just lived through. It began innocently enough. It was a Sunday this year, and also fell on Father's Day... not that that detail matters too terribly for the sake of this story, just a pointless fact. Typically the summer solstice has little say so in my daily life. I never would have thought about it if it hadn't been mentioned on the morning news that we may just get a little extra sunlight today. Whatever. I planned on spending the majority of my Sunday inside, anyway. Truth be told, I had no use with interaction today. Mornings were the hardest, usually the first hour or two until I was fully awake. I had another dream of him again. It happens every single night... and I am just exhausted. I suppose my subconscious enjoys torturing me with hypotheticals and sweet nonsense. No matter what I do, no matter what I think before finally allowing myself to drift off, I am once again transported into that world where even the worst of days are made lighter because I have him there, by my side. It has happened nightly for nearly a month and a half, seemingly out of nowhere. I will wake up in the dreamworld, finding myself in a long-term relationship with a man that I've fallen head over heels in infatuation with in the real world. Only on this side it all feels... well, so real. We wake up and make coffee to be sipped together in a kitchen with dishes needing washed and a garbage can needing to be emptied. It is raining outside so he offers to give me a ride in his truck, which I jokingly refuse because I'm sure it would probably fall apart before reaching our destination. Apparently in this world we are engaged because once in a while amidst the random chatterings we discuss wedding plans. We talk about making my niece the flower girl and his niece the ring bearer. We argue over the venue and he voices his disgust with wearing a tux. At the end of each day we either sit together on the front porch talking softly while watching the stars, or we dance in the kitchen to anime intros while making cheese omelettes at midnight. Then we fall asleep side by side... and I wake up in the real world alone. They say a dream like this every once in a while is natural. But nightly and with such vivid detail? I knew better. And it was slowly making living in the real world a sad chore. Why on earth would I want to participate in this place when I could be back in the other world with literally the man of my dreams? Friends and family have noticed that I've become reclusive. I leave their texts on read and the calls go unanswered. Is it so bad to want to process things alone? Sometimes I just wish that I could just be forgotten, just for a little while. That way I can process this entire ordeal and make sense of it. And that was exactly my plan for the day - to get to the bottom of these dreams. Except, well, I didn't get the chance. I heard my front door lock click and I nearly jumped out of my skin as my door opened. The only person with a key was my brother, and he always knocked before he would ever use it. I watched from my kitchen, shaking as a tall figure stepped into the living room. The door closed and the intruder dropped the keys on the table. I listened as he took his shoes off. That was a strange thing for an intruder to do. I finally gathered the courage to step into the hall and my stomach rolled into a tight knot when the sunlight streamed through the window illuminated his face. It was him. Standing in my living room, wearing anime-themed socks and holding a box of what looked like donuts. He smiled at me and did a clumsy twirl, as if he were dancing with the box. "Happy Father's Day! They're raspberry filled. Aren't those your dad's favorite?" he asked. I was frozen. This... this can't be real. "W-what are you doing here?" I breathed. I watched his smile fade after a moment, as if he were truly confused. "Well... last time I checked, I live here," he chuckled nervously. "No. No you don't." "Hon, are you okay? Your face... it's really pale." He set the box down on the coffee table and approached me. I backed away. "What's gotten into you? I told you I was going to grab the donuts and be right back," he said softly and didn't move. I could feel my heart thudding, sweat pouring. This was impossible! "I'm not dreaming. What are you doing here?" "Of course you're not dreaming. It's nearly eleven. Is your blood sugar okay? Come on and sit down, you really aren't looking too good," he said and tried moving toward me again. "You - you can't be real! Why are you here?" I could feel the tears, the tightness in my throat, as I let him take my hands and gently pull me into the living room to the couch. I just knew that I was awake! I had to be awake... "I don't know what's going on, but talk to me. Why do you keep saying that? I must have moved in a year and a half ago. You know this... right?" "No! This has to be another weird dream! We aren't together in real life. You're... you are with somebody else." I didn't care anymore. I let the tears fall. Who cared at this point whether I looked crazy? "Really? You think I'm with someone else? Who else would I be with?" I heard him chuckle. "Stop making fun of me. Those were just dreams. You'd never actually date someone like me. You would rather be with that cute blonde..." He chuckled again. "Writers and their wild imaginations. Honey, you know we aren't dating, right?" I fixed my sight on his face, with his stupid, perfect grin. He nodded down and took my hand. Sitting there, on my left ring finger, was the brightest fire opal set in rose gold. I had to force myself to breathe again. "We are engaged. I'd say that's a little more than just dating, right?" he asked. "Did I ever wake up? Or... is this just a dream in a dream?" I asked out loud. He stretched and shrugged. "I don't know, but if this was a dream, wouldn't we just be married by now? Maybe dream that my truck is fixed. That would help me out a little, you know," he laughed and patted my leg before standing. "Now come on - I want to help your dad eat these before they get soggy!" So, the day went on. We went to my parents' house together. My brother and his family were there by the time we arrived. We shared the donuts and they ordered pizza. We played board games and talked about politics and theater going-ons in the community. It was all... normal. It was a perfect mesh of reality and dream. Somehow I had transplanted my dream man into the real world. But, I knew better. This simply had to be a continued dream. He couldn't really be here. But the day continued. After the party we decided to take a walk around the trail at Spring Hill. The weather was glorious: a warm summer breeze with just enough cloud coverage to make it enjoyable. Soon enough, I finally let myself calm down. "Do you promise that you are really here?" I asked. It was a silly request, I admit. But something inside of me just needed to hear his answer. I watched him raise his eyebrow and shake his head. "You have been acting really weird today, you know that?" "Answer me! Are you actually here right now?" I demanded. He rolled his eyes and turned to face me. "I promise you that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. This time next month we will be married and even then I won't be going anywhere. Is that why you've been acting this way? Are you afraid I'm going to run off?" I thought about his words. Could that really be it? What if... what if this entire time I have been mistaken? What if reality was really the time spent with him, and the sad world without him was my dreamland? Perhaps dreams of being alone was my brain's way of attempting to overcome my insecurities of marrying the man of my dreams and somehow... somehow I had allowed myself to confuse reality? Lord knows I will always feel some extent of insecurity by marrying him after my own extensive traumatic past. This just might have been my own way of attempting to protect myself from repressed issues. I took his hand and held it tight. I could feel his callouses and heat. He was real. This was real. "Don't answer that. I know the truth. Sorry... I guess I'm just still struggling a little," I declared. Finally, I felt comfortable again. Just like in every dream before. Well, not a dream. It would be a challenge to remember that life could truly be this perfect. That night, we talked more about the song choices for the wedding. Our friend would play a beloved classic on the violin as I walk down the aisle. My brother would be my Maid of Honor and his brother would be his Best Man. I giggled at what he wanted to include on the menu. It was a relaxing evening and when we finally went to bed, I felt normal once again. Waking up the next morning was slow and expected. I washed my face, combed my hair, swallowed my multi-vitamin with lukewarm water, and turned on my laptop to begin my long day of taking calls for work. Of course he did not wake up next to me. My left ring finger was bare. It was Monday. It was June 21st. The day after the longest day of the year.


The Wyoming Winters When Jeffrey and I watched the television show Longmire , we were immediately inspired to travel to Wyoming. It had quickly become my favorite show, and Jeffrey enjoyed it too. We left on November 29 and knew it would be cold, but we couldn’t begin to fathom how cold it would truly be. We got to the lodge around lunch time, where we were greeted by a very friendly woman who introduced herself as Sarah. She told us this was her father’s lodge, and that he would be back soon, more than eager to meet us. She took us to our room and told us dinner would be served at 5:30. We got settled in and unpacked since we planned on being there for a week. After we unpacked, we decided to go skiing. We went down to the front desk to ask Sarah where we could rent some skis.

“It's about to snow pretty heavily here soon, and I’m sure the roads will be cleared tomorrow so you'll have fresh snow to ski on.” Sarah responded. We decided to sit in the parlor of the lodge, which had a giant fireplace with glass windows beside it. It was lovely to relax in and watch the snow start to fall. We sat there for hours, talking to different guests from all over America. We met another couple, who introduced themselves as Zach and Lacy from West Texas. They said they flew up to Wyoming to see the snow, since they do not get any where they live. We became fine friends in a mere matter of hours. It was soon dinner time and we all decided to sit together. Sarah's father came to introduce himself before dinner and hoped that we would enjoy the food. They served an amazing 3 course meal beginning with an appetizer of spinach dip. For dinner, they presented us with grilled chicken with mashed potatoes and asparagus. For dessert, they served an amazing brownie with vanilla ice cream and caramel drizzle. We ate so much food it felt like we were in a food coma. Afterwards, we decided to go back to our rooms and rest a little. Jeffrey and I got back to the room and started to flip through the TV channels.

“We have incoming news on a very dangerous snowstorm coming into northwest Wyoming. Wind speeds will be up to 120 miles per hour. Residents may lose electricity in their homes, so do not forget to turn on your backup generators.” the weather man said. “That doesn’t seem too good. I hope this place has a generator.” Jeffrey said as he looked out the window. The snow began to come down harder and harder and trees started swaying in the wind. Eventually, we couldn't see anything outside of the window. After a few hours it started to get a little colder. Suddenly, the power went out. Jeffrey and I went downstairs to see what was going on. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, we saw everyone panicked and huddling together to keep warm.

“What happened?” Jeffrey asked. “The power went out and the back up generators haven't kicked in yet.” Sarah explained. Jeffrey and Zach started to think of reasons why the back up generators did not turn on. They mentioned that it could have been from the age of the generator. If the generator was as old as the lodge, it could have faulty wiring and signals for when it needs to come on. They came up with a plan to go to the shed where the generator was and fix it while Lacy and I kept the fireplace going for everyone. After a while without Jeffrey and Zach coming back, Lacy and I started to get worried.

“Have you tried calling them?” Lacy asked. “I don't have any signal and the wifi isn't working since the power’s off.” I replied. We started to get more and more worried as time passed. Lacy and I started to talk to Sarah and asked here where the generator was.

She said they kept the generator outside in a shed in the back of the lodge. Even though it was not a very long walk, the blizzard made it impossible to get there. With the winds being so strong and the snow coming down like crazy, Jeffrey and Zach could have gotten buried alive.

“What if they need help?” Lacy asked. “I’m sure they found the generator and are just trying to fix it.” I said, still worried about the possibilities. All of a sudden the lights turned back on and the TV’s were working again. A few minutes later, Jeffrey and Zach came back inside. They took their coats off and went to the fireplace. Lacy hugged Zach and told him how worried she was. I gave Jeffrey a big hug and told him how much I appreciated him. We all sat down next to the fireplace and started watching the news. “The snowstorm turned into a blizzard!” the man said. “Make sure you keep your generators on and fireplaces going because it's going to be a cold night. However the snow should die down by the time the sun rises tomorrow.” “Does that mean the slopes will be open in the afternoon tomorrow Sarah?” asked Lacy. “Yeah, the slopes and the roads should be open by at least noon.” Sarah said. We all made plans to go skiing the next day. When we woke up, we saw beautiful white snow outside our windows. We could not believe how much there was. We went down for breakfast before heading to the slopes. We filled up on pancakes, fruits, and coffee. Zach, Lacy, Jeffrey and I all went to the slopes and spent the day together. For the next couple of days we spent most of the time with Zach and Lacy. We went shopping, to dinner, and to see shows. We made lifelong friends we never knew we would have had and after all it turned out to be a great vacation, even though we got trapped in a lodge with no electricity or phone service.


I woke up feeling abnormally heavy, like I had bags of rocks tied to my limbs. Not like I ever wake up feeling light and happy. Waking up for me is just having to deal with the thought that I would have to deal with another day of this pitiful existence. In fake, I often woke up feeling like I was tied down. Like my blankets each weighed 100 pounds and I was imprisoned underneath them. But today was different. Instead of just feeling achy and weak, I literally felt unable to move. maybe y I was sick or something. I tried to roll over, but I found myself unable to move. Ok, this is strange. I thought. Even though I was always reluctant to, moving had never been impossible for me. But right now, it was like some invisible force was holding me to the bed. Kinky. But really, this was starting to freak me out. What if I had been kidnapped or something? Not like there was really any reason someone would want to take me, except for maybe money. Like anyone who knew me wasn;t broke. They might not be looking for money, though, The dark part of my brain said, We could have been taken my some serial killer or cannable or something, who wants to chopp us open and take out our intestines. The fact that that was a possibility was absolutely terrifying. That was the moment I relized how fucking dumb I was. There was a very simple way to figure out what the hell was going on that, for some reason, I hadn't thought of. I opened my eyes. I can see the ceiling above my bed, with the glow in the dark stars I had put up there. What can I say, even though I’m 22, I have the maturity of an autistic fourth grader. Hey, at least now I know I’m still in my own bed, because I really don’t think that a serial killer would put up stars on the ceiling. Thank god.

There's one less thing to worry about. I look over at the clock on my bedside table. 7:30. Ugh. I started freaking out for the second time that morning, thinking I was late for work. Again. I tend to over sleep, as I don’t end up sleeping until three am. And I was on the verge of getting fired, as this happens very often. Like I said, I’m not nearly mature enough to be an adult. I feel like instead of an age where your expected to be able to be an actually citizen there should be some sort of test. Because there's no way I should be allowed to adult. Clearly. I can’t even stay focus on one thing at a time. Great, I thought to myself, There goes another wasted five minutes thing about useless shit. Now I’m definitely going to be late for work. But then I remember that it’s Saturday, and relief washed over me.

Once again, I tried rolling over, only to find that I felt stiff and weirdly… numb.I tried to sit up, and could feel something pulling me down. Like I was stuck on my mattress. Weird. Like, super weird. At least the serial killer theory made some sense. But there was no logical explanation for this, and that was almost scarier than being tied up and carved open like a pug at the slaughterhouse.

I kept pushing myself up until I get a jolt, and I was free from whatever was keeping me stuck on my bed. Ok, so that was easier than I thought, I think. I half expected to be stuck there until I starved to death. But I guess not.

 I just sit for a few minutes, trying to figure out what had just happened. It was the weirdest experience. One minute, I felt like I as a thousand pound, and sitting up seemed impossible. But now here I was, feeling normal. Well, almost normal. Now, instead of feeling heavy, I felt light. Like, abnormally light. Weird. I shake my head, frowning a bit. Life was two confusing to through this whole mess in. I guess i will just half to ignore it and hope for the best, Whitch was basically how I solved all of my problems: Just pretend it didn’t happen. If something weird happens because of it, just play dumb and blame it one someone else. It’s work son far, so I guess that's the best approach to this situation.

I took a deep breath, looking around my room. Jesus christ Im a mess. There were clothes screw around on the hardwood floor . And by clothes I mean everything I own. I had before, but all the drives were open and had clothes hanging out of them. I have no idea why I put all my clothes on the floor. I have no life and definitely got the time to pick up a little. Nah. There was the morning sunlight painting patterns on the floor, in the same shapes as my window pains. My black cat, Shadow, was lying in one of the patches of sunlight. On her back, with her tail swishing behind her and paws swatting at the air, she looked insistent. ‘ As if’ I think, looking at the long scratches she left on my arm.   I felt a lot betting then I had a few moments before. The heavy weight was long gone, replaced with this lightness that didn’t feel normal. I decided to just forget about the whole ordeal and go to the café to get a coffee. Coffee. Yeah, that's what I need. There was nothing that coffee couldn’t fix, and I definitely needed the energy boast this morning. I didn’t bother putting on different clothes, as I had passed out in jeans and a hoodie the night before anyway. I was like 50% sure that I was wearing a bra. If I was, I couldn’t feel it. But at this point I didn’t care.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I got up. I was surprised when the floor didn’t feel cold against my socked feet. Normally it was very cold in the morning, because I was poor and couldn’t afford to turn the thermos up beyond 65 degrees.

But today it felt pleasantly warm. I felt pleasantly warm. And light. Like, how they say you're supposed to feel after eating super healthy for a couple weeks. I felt like I was walking on air. I wonder if this is how vegans feel.

I walked across my bedroom, stepping over all of my laundry. I walk into the living room. Similar to my floor, it was the perfect temperature in here, even though it should have been cold. It is usually quiet drafty, as this is a fairly old building. Plus the whole 60 degree thermostat. But I shrugged it off. I felt strangely happy, and there was no reason to ruin that by worrying over the temperature of my apartment.

I walk straight out the door, not bothering with a jacket, even though it’s december. If my apartment felt this warm, it couldn’t be that cold outside. At least I hoped  it wouldn’t be that cold outside. I hate the cold. I really need to move. But I don’t have the money, so I guess we’re staying in boston.

My thoughts, which were usually quiet jumbled, were actually kinda calm. And yes, I know what your thinking: This is calm? And yes. This is my version of calm. Even though my calm is most people chaos, I felt nice. Calm was good. Usually the calm unversed me for one reason or enougher. But not now. Now the calm felt just that: calm.

Onto the sidewalk I go, out into civilization. There were strangely few people walking around. I guess it was kinda early. I wasn’t staring at my feet for once, which was shocking. I hate people for the most part, so I tend to try my best to avoid eye contact. But I was looking around at my surroundings, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean, winter air. I noticed that the ground was covered in a layer of fresh snow, as was the bare tree branches and hoods of cars. It looked beautiful out. And it smelt good, too. Nothing smells better than fresh snow. I started down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes on the horizon. The sun was out, and the sky was blue. The contrast of the deep blue of the sky and the white of the now was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

But of course this feeling of peace couldn’t last. Of course it couldn't I was a fool to think that it ever could have. My entire life has been a mess, and of course this peacefulness couldn;t last. I put my hand in my pocket, out of habbet. But Then I realized that my walted wasn’t there. “ Shoot” I murmur under my breath, then turn to head back. Not a big deal, right? All I had to do was mgo back home, grab my wallet, and continue on my way. Easy. WRONG! It was never that easy. One thing would lead to another and all of a sudden Im a contortionist in a traveling circus. (Don’t ask.) Anyway, it wasn’t just my wallet was missing. For even though the sidewalk was covered in snow, there were no footprints. I gasp, then stumble backward in the snow.

“How in the world…” I murmur, staring at the ground. Even though I should be able to see the footprints that I would have just left behind, there was nothing. It can’t be, I thought. I started walking backwards, trying to make footprints. It didn’t work. Nevertheless, I continued doing it, staring at my feet, as if that would make a difference. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome. This comes to me, for some reason. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m going insane.

 That’s when I saw that I wasn’t wearing shoes. Even Though my feet were bare, I couldn’t feel the snow. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything. I just felt this pleasant numbness that I decided to overlook earlier.

What the hell is happening? I thought as I continued to walk backwards and continued to fail to make footprint. This was so weird. I was passing by a shop window, and looked up at it, only to be unable to see my reflection.

What? Why? Who? How? I didn’t understand this in the least bit. There was no logical explanation, nothing that I could tell myself to make this make sense. Wait. There was. Oh, god, please tell me this isn’t true. I stop walking backwards and start running forward, as fast as I could. And even though my breath should have grow heavy, my heart should be hammering, it wasn’t. I couldn’t feel the exasperation that I should have. It felt no different from walking. This should feel different from walking. It only provided more evidence behind what I was already thinking. I ran faster.

It only took a minute or two for me to get back to my apartment building. I rushed up the steps, and through the door. Across the living room. Down the hallway. Into my bedroom. I ran into the room, scaring my cat, who had been peacefully sleeping on top of my discarded clothes. On the bed, I saw what I had expected, and dreaded to see.

My body, lifeless and limp, on top of bloodstained sheets.


He is African rock royalty. Even after the long absence, his presence lingers in the hearts and minds of his fans. No, not just fans. They are his subjects. His enemies go so far as to call them his minions. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. All he wanted was to live and work and play without the suffocating mask of royalty, to enjoy the priceless peace that he had travelled so far to get. But one of his enemies found him. "What is this place? What are you doing, hiding here in the back of nowhere?" He offered the visitor a mango picked from the mango tree in his garden. "I'm not hiding. I'm finally living. No more schedules, no more commitments, no more being the conscience of an entire nation. How's your wife and kid?" The visitor sprinkled powdered chili on a piece of mango. "Fine. And it's kids now. Didn't you get the 324 baby pics?" "I haven't been online for...a while. 324? Really?" "I may be a bit smitten with my newborn daughter. You don’t miss it?" "You get used to it after a while. After all, there was life on planet earth before the Internet and -." "I'm talking about the music. Don't you miss the music?" "I carry the music with me wherever I go. It's all the other stuff that I don't want." "That other stuff is what gave you fame and fortune and fans." "I never wanted all that. I just wanted to make music. I get to do that here. In peace." "The fans want you back." "No." "You owe it to them." "Like The Beatles, I have given the fans my nervous system. I have nothing left to give." " What about your band?" "They have a new lead singer." "She is not you." "Wasn’t that the point? New blood and gender diversity and all that?" "She is not you." "And I am not the band. I'm not going back to being joined to the hip with that institution." "It's just a band." "It's a Multinational Corporation! I never signed up to be the leader of that monstrosity. When did that band turn from being a beauty into a beast?" His question remained suspended in the space between them, like the sword of Damocles. The visitor evaded the question by busying himself with the messy business of eating a juicy mango. When he was done, he wiped his hands on the serviette then pulled out the “small guns”. "I can make you disappear. For good." "I am well aware of your powers. But even you cannot compete with my reputation." " I know people who can erase your reputation." "At a cost, of course." "Of course. You know how it is. Nothing is for free." "So how much will my freedom cost?" "One final tour." Only three words but they hit him with an avalanche of images and memories and deafening applause and pedestals and shouting matches laced with barbed-wired words. He busied himself with clearing the table then wiping it as he breathed through the onset of a panic attack. "That's a hefty price." "Freedom is expensive." He took a moment to weigh the pros and cons. His decision did not surprise either one of them. "Your offer is tempting. But peace is priceless. So unless you can bottle up what I have found here and bring it with me, my answer remains no." Glaring contest. The visitor blinked first then switched to the big guns. He took out his phone, opened the app that managed all the band's social media pages and typed. "Either you agree or...with this one post, I will reveal your exact location." "You're bluffing." "Last chance." "You wouldn’t dare." "5...4...3..." "Why are you doing this?" "2..." "I just want to be left alone!" "1..." "Please!" "Is that a yes?" "No." "And...sent." "You...Why...I don’t feel so..." He doubled over and vomited. Within an hour, #prodigalrockstar was trending. Exactly one year later, #prodigalrockstarback was trending. The tour was a resounding success, despite him fighting nerves then vomiting his victory over nerves (or was it defeat?) every single time before going on stage. The preparations had been taxing. He was out of practice and out of shape and out of sorts. He was older too, so he had to learn to pace himself. He had to work to reconnect with the other band members after shutting them out for so long. He had to learn how to share the limelight with the new lead singer. He had to fight his demons and a variety of monsters, sometimes during his waking hours, mostly in his nightmares. In one fight, the masked monster was ruthless, throwing him against a wall, over and over again. He finally had enough of being thrown around and fought back, fought dirty, until he managed to remove the monster’s mask. He woke up in a cold sweat because behind that monster’s mask was his own familiar face. He confided in the band’s therapist that he had missed some aspects of the royal life. Making music, arguing music, soaking in music with his comrades in arms. The rapport with his minions. The magic of being on stage, sharing his gift with the world. The satisfaction of a job well done. A lot of it was like before. The energy, the enthusiasm, the controlled chaos, being treated like royalty. Yet, it was also different. Because he was different. Being away had irrevocably changed him. He was going to miss them when he left it all behind. “How did you know?” He asked the visitor a few days before he was to say goodbye to his royal life. It was mango season again. He was going through 324 baby pics. “Know what?” “That I needed this final tour?” “It was just a hunch. Also…” “Also?” “My wife is one of your minions.” They laughed, they cried, they said goodbye, knowing that their friendship would stand the test of time and an abdication.


A discussion at a dinner table ten years ago with my then girlfriend Charlotte and her father Jack changed my life. My ability to think on my feet was being tested that night. Luckily, I had ample support from the Greek philosophers in this contest and passed with flying colors. You need to know that I was an assistant professor of ancient philosophy at that time and teaching a course on this topic for undergraduates. I had met Charlotte when she signed up for my course during her senior year, perhaps on a whim. She seated herself in the front row, directly in front of my lectern, on the first day of class.

When she spoke in class, it was with a soft, rhapsodic, Texas drawl. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, falling in soft curls. Drop dead gorgeous. She approached me after class from time to time with questions and seemed to linger but I was not sure how to interpret this. She was not exactly the type of woman that an academic nerd like myself would ever hope to gain favor with. I longed to get to get to know her better. However, a major bureaucratic hurdle presented itself as I planned my next moves to gain favor with Charlotte. Personal relationships between students and undergraduates were considered to be verboten by the University and grounds for dismissal. I urgently needed to convey to her that I was interested in a relationship with her after the course ended and when she was no longer an undergraduate. Uncharacteristically for me and during one of her after class visits to my office (and with the door open), I told her that I would be delivering a lecture two months hence after she graduated. I suggested that we might meet at a local wine bar afterwards to discuss some of the finer points of my presentation, keeping my intentions on a high academic plane. She accepted my invitation with a broad smile and said that she would put the date in her calendar. I was truly ecstatic and began counting the days until I would be able to see her again. *** When the day of my lecture arrived, we met in the lecture hall following my talk. It turns out that she had a serious, intellectual, and analytical side. Dare I refer to her as the “complete package” although this seems condescending in the light of today’s social conventions. We shared many common interests and began to see each other much more frequently during the ensuing months. Following our whirlwind courtship (this also sounds dated in today’s vocabulary), we moved in together in a small apartment on campus. As to her future academic plans, she was accepted to the business school at my university in the pursuit of an MBA so our relationship was on solid ground, both geographically and emotionally. At least for the short term. I had not yet met her father who lived in Texas. He was a widower, having lost his wife several years earlier. Charlotte told me one day at breakfast that she thought it was now appropriate for me to meet him and, at her invitation, he was flying to town in one week to dine with us. Curiously, we had had almost no conversations about him before that time which I found unusual but decided not to press the issue. I was also pleased at this new and apparent deepening of our relationship. “Tell me something about your Dad,” I asked, seeking to flesh out my impression of him and prepare myself for a good showing at dinner. “I’ll let you make up your own mind after you meet him,” she responded somewhat evasively but playfully. “What does he do for a living?” I asked.

“He owns a large cattle ranch that has been in the family for generations,” she replied. Her response suggested that she did not want to provide more details so I decided not to press the matter farther. I bided my time. ***** The evening of our dinner arrived and we were seated at a table in a restaurant when Jack strode into the room. Some of the diners around us put down their utensils to stare. This was the Midwest after all and he was not dressed like a local. He was sporting pure Texas attire with a cattleman’s hat, tailored deerskin jacket, and tooled leather boots. “Greetings to you, young man, and also to my darlin’ daughter Charlotte,” he said as sat down, beckoning to the waitress. “Bring me a double bourbon with branch. If you deliver it to me in less than five minutes, you will be able to retire on my tip.” He rotated in his seat and gave me the once-over. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man. My daughter seems to have developed special feelings for you despite the fact that you don’t hail from Texas and seem to be eking out only a meager living. However, no one is perfect and I will concede that you may have some redeeming qualities that may become more obvious during the evening.” Charlotte seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly with our little tête-à-tête , sitting back and watching intently. It also occurred to me she may have seen this “show” before but was not sure how it would end. I myself had anticipated some verbal theatrics before the start of the evening but was not exactly sure about the rules of the game. I was reacting viscerally and intellectually and hoping for the best outcome, which was Charlotte. “Well, kids, I think that it’s time perhaps to follow our drinks with some chow,” Jack said as he motioned for the waitress to come over. “Miss, I would like for you to throw onto your grill the largest steak you have in the kitchen. Bring it out to me bloody — I don’t want to see any part of the plate showing through the beef.” “I believe that my daughter and her friend are vegetarians so please collect any random weeds that you may find in the lot behind the restaurant to serve to them. You might also fry up a few slices of tempeh on the side to add some color and excitement to their meal. After the food was brought, the three of us ate leisurely, pushing away from the table after dessert. By this time, we were all relaxed, waiting for the next chapter of the evening to unfold. Was I going home alone or accompanied by Charlotte? I was on edge. *** Jack pushed away from the table and turned to speak to me directly. “I have a business problem that might interest you. I am curious whether the wisdom of your Greek philosophers can provide some deeper insights about a possible solution. Do you want to give it a shot? If you help me solve my problem, I will be eternally grateful.” “Let’s give it a try, Jack. You have my rapt attention.” My voice was beginning to quiver in what I now understood to be a high stakes poker game with Charlotte as the prize instead of a pile of chips. I know this seems crass but that was my reading of the situation. He had my rapt attention. “OK. I have a very large cattle ranch in central Texas. The operation is only marginally profitable but it’s the only business I know. What’s killing me now is my veterinary bills. What with cattle pregnancies, ultrasounds, semen testing, and carcass ultrasound imaging, most of my profits are being eaten up by the vet bills. The vets are good, hard-working people but they spend half their time just driving to my cattle which are scattered to hell and beyond. What would your Greek philosophers say about how to manage the high cost of semen analysis on a cattle ranch in Texas?” I began to speak spontaneously. “What first comes to my mind, Jack, is a saying of Heraclitus that may provide some insights. Whenever possible, take a solution to a problem and not vice versa. “ I would therefore suggest the following. Buy a half-dozen used steel shipping containers. Retrofit them as veterinary labs, imaging centers, and the offices that you will need for your vets to attend to your livestock in-situ . Lease a couple of heavy-duty helicopters and fly these retrofitted containers and your vets to your cattle when they need care. The travel time for your vets will be reduced to near zero.” There was a slight glint of interest in Jack’s eye as he began to ponder my suggestion. He seemed interested in my plan despite the fact that I had no understanding of its feasibility. “Where exactly do I find the vets to staff these containers retrofitted as mobile offices and labs?” “Theocritus has an answer for this one. Milk the cow that is nearby. Why chase the one that runs away? Purchase several of the large animal veterinary practices in your neck of the woods to provide the expertise that you will need. The vets will be your employees.” “Even if I buy these practices, how am I going to keep the vets satisfied with their remote practice locations and accompanying life disruptions?” Jack responded. “They are an independent lot.”

“Simple! Offer them salaries 30% over what they are now earning. Schedule them for four 12-hour shifts per week in the containerized office and labs and fly them back home with your helicopters when their work week is over. They will have much higher salaries and three days off per week which hopefully will be appealing. You are going to get about a 40% increase in productivity from them because there will be nothing else for them to do when they are working remotely.

“But will they tolerate this new work lifestyle?” “I think that the higher salary will win them over . I forgot to mention that you will offer all of them equity in the new company that you will be creating.” “What new company?” Jack asked. “The new company that you will be launching that could be called FlyingVets . You are going to need at least $20 million up front to launch it. Venture capital firms in Austin will be lining up at your door waving money as soon as you pitch to them what you are planning. Tell them that your new business will revolutionize, consolidate, and simplify large animal veterinary practice in the state. They will quickly respond to this idea because you will be providing a better and more efficient way to provide such services.” Jack looked somewhat dazed but definitely seemed interested in the plan that I had proposed, inspired by the Greek philosophers. He dropped us off at our apartment and bid us good night. As we were chatting before bedtime that night, Charlotte said to me: “Wow! I think you got his attention. But where did all of this ‘flying vets’ shit come from?” “I have no idea,” I said, “but I think that Jack may now want to throw my idea against the barn door when he gets home to see if it sticks. Oh, do they have barns in Texas? At the very least, the idea may distract him and perhaps he won’t be bothering us for a while. As always, Charlotte, you were my inspiration.” ***** Time marched on. About two uneventful years later, we received an urgent call from Jack. He had big news. He had started a new company called FlyingVets funded by venture capital money from Austin. It was an almost instant success and he now employed about 50 vets. As predicted, his vet bills had been reduced substantially but his cattle business was only breaking even. However, he didn’t care because of the impending IPO for his new company. He was poised to make a lot of money based on the anticipated rising stock price.

He said the following: “I have decided to offer you the position of CEO of FlyingVets,” he said. “I know you have never run a company in your whole life but this deal was launched by your suggestions so I would like for you to give the top position a shot.” I considered his proposal for a few seconds and then said: “Sure. I will give it a try.” I had come to understand that I was getting a little bored by the languid pace of my academic life and was willing to try something different and more exciting.

That same night, I asked Charlotte to be my wife. As a prelude to my proposal. I quoted Socrates: By all means, get married: if you find a good wife, you'll be happy; if not, you'll become a philosopher. It had then become clear that teaching philosophy would no longer be my main line of work and I had found a good life partner as well as a new job. She replied, “Well, that was dramatic — a marriage proposal but one that seemed to be somewhat lacking in romantic notes. However, I do accept you as my husband. But, going forward, let’s also try to avoid your shtick of using the aphorisms of philosophers as a cover for your own ideas. This approach has taken us to where we want to be but has also become irritating. Besides, it’s all been Greek to me.”


Of All the Places I have been very aware that I was adopted since I was ten. The meanest boy on the school bus loved to torture me just because I was the bus driver's daughter. The following day, after being assigned to the front seat across from mine, Andrew boarded with a huge grudge and the boasting of his nastier mother. As the door closed, his mother screamed, "You know what you must do." When the bus pulled from the stop, he shouted, "She's not your mother. You're adopted. Your real mother didn't want you." My mother tried to defuse the laughter by saying, "Don't pay attention to them; you're so special and loved that you have two sets of parents." The laughter may have died down, but the words still rattled around in my head and heart for years because children don't forget the things that will cut you the deepest. I didn't let my mother know that I wanted to find out about my birth family until I was a teenager. I always wanted another sister; after Gloria died, Mom wouldn't take the chance of losing me, or maybe she thought there would be too many questions. One year, she asked what I wanted for my birthday, and I requested my birth certificate, file, and adoption folder. When I said that, the look on her face was hurt. Slowly, a tear dripped from one eye and rolled down her cheek, and she turned to go into the house. Later that night, after I was in bed, I heard my father telling Mom, "We knew the day would come when she would want to know why and if she could meet her. That doesn't mean she is unhappy; she is just curious. We must be ready for whatever questions she has for both sides." Mom stated she didn't want to see me hurt. I was the one who had not thought about it until I was smacked in the face with the idea of having more parents out there somewhere. Years passed, and then I was alone after she put me out for getting pregnant. It was when I wished for either mom to be there, but it wasn't until my second pregnancy that I was challenged with the questions. My big sister from the program surprised me for my birthday. I thought we were going out to lunch until we hit the highway; I just sat back and enjoyed the ride and the conversation. Tilly B. was the only person in my immediate circle who didn't scold, judge, or offer her opinion about what I should do about my situation. She only said that she thought I could use a day to escape; she was right. We ended up in Doswell, Virginia, at Kings Dominion for the day. Knowing how expensive food was inside the park, we first went to the McDonald's across the street. We arrived just as the change from breakfast to lunch happened around 10:45. We were the only customers in the store trying to decide what to order when the cashier said, "I'll be with you in a minute." We responded without looking at her, saying, "Take your time; we don't even know what we want yet." When she turned around, everyone's mouths dropped open; it was as if I was looking at my twin, doppelganger, or in a mirror. To be face-to-face with someone who looked like me was eerie but exciting. Was she my long-lost sister? Was she adopted also? Did mom keep her? I didn't ask any of those questions. Her name was Pam, according to her name tag. My sister found out that she was sixteen and moved to Richmond with her family a year earlier when the military transferred their father. That encounter left me wondering for the first time if I had sisters or brothers somewhere. Did they know about me? Did they want to meet me? I called my mom the next day and told her about Pam, and that allowed us to talk about the conversation we should have had eight years back. She admitted that she feared I would want to meet my birth parents and want to go back to them. Again, afraid of the answers, I dismissed the thoughts. My mother passed away in 1995, and at the funeral home, some distant cousin reminded me that I wasn't family, that I was adopted. Before my accident in 1998, I had just heard about DNA testing, but I didn't want anyone to think I looked them up because I needed their help. So, again, I dismissed any notion of searching for family. 2016, my caregiver and my family members got tired of repeating this phrase: "We don't know, she was adopted." When I finally woke up from a month-long coma, they gave me the Ancestry DNA test kit for Christmas. Fifty-something and still afraid of the answers, the kit sat on my dresser until the end of January. On her way home one Friday evening, Miss Peaches handed the test to my oldest son and said, "Make sure you two get this done today." A month later, the results were available, and thirty-four days later, I received a message and the gift I had wanted all my life. I think you're my sister because of the number of matching alleles. We met within two weeks, and I found out that I have a little sister, eight years younger. She answered every question that I had wondered about over the years. I learned that I had so many things in common with our mother. I was also told that she wanted to keep me, but we had no help from the sperm donor, and my great-grandmother wasn't going to have another mouth to feed. I met our mother's best friend and my sister's godmother, who told me that my mother regretted having to put me up for adoption. Unfortunately, our mother passed away in 1982, the same year my first son was born.


She is enthroned on my desk in a photograph where she stands, enthusiastically pointing at a large baobab tree. The center of the tree is hollow, the size of a small bedroom, and the branches spread, short and thin, above the swollen base. If I look closely, I can see the shadow I cast on the ground while I took the picture with a pink disposable camera. *** Neither of us were from Ethiopia, but that is where we met. Our fathers were childhood friends who had not seen one another in longer than either of us had been alive. I remember being unsure about what to expect, thinking naively that it would be hot and dusty, like the Sahara looks in movies. In reality, Lalibela reminded me a lot of home. It was beautiful. The reddish stone and soil of the mountains was spotted with guava and olive trees. I have never been anywhere so inherently joyful and vibrant; every moment, every detail felt consequential and imbued with life. Beth and her father had lived in Ethiopia for several years when we came to visit. They picked us up from the airport; her father greeted me warmly and introduced us. Our parents caught up on nearly fourteen years of history while we sat, silent strangers, in the backseat of the truck. She was thirteen then and I was only eleven. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a loose braid. Her sky-blue skirt brushed her ankles, embroidered at the hem with little pink flowers. A set of bracelets with rainbow-colored plastic beads adorned her wrist and clicked lightly every time she moved her arm. “Look at this,” she said, breaking the silence. She dug something round and reflective from her purse. I thought it was a mirror at first, but she opened it up to reveal a magnetic compass with a bright red needle. “That’s cool,” I said. “Dad gave it to me for my birthday. It always points north.” I nodded. “I have a little one at home for hiking.” She snapped the compass shut and returned it to her bag. We settled back into the safety of silence, a bit more comfortably than before. “This afternoon we can go see the churches,” her father said, smiling at me in the mirror. “They’re incredible, I can’t wait for you to see them.” *** We arrived at her house, which was small and hemmed in by avocado trees and a stone wall. Beth barely gave me time to grab my duffel bag from the bed of the truck before she dragged me inside to show me around. The main room was full of books and trinkets from around the world. “We move a lot,” Beth said. “I’ve been to tons of different countries.” “Cool,” I replied. She was growing more mythical in my mind, this girl who had lived in more places than I’d ever dreamed of visiting. She showed me some of her favorite artifacts: an eight-inch replica of a suit of armor that her father used as a bookend, an antique globe which she said was her grandfather’s, and a small, hand-painted jade egg from Thailand. After the tour, she took me to the room which my father and I were going to share for the duration of our stay. There was a small window, a twin sized bed, and a cot. My father’s suitcase already lay at the foot of the bed, so I dropped my bag onto the cot. Beth stood in the doorway, watching me. “So, Peter, what do you like to do?” I shrugged. “Nothing much. I like video games, hanging out with friends. I like to read sometimes, too.” “Cool,” she replied. “Wanna see my room?” “Sure,” I said, and followed her down the hall. Her room was painted lavender, her favorite color. She had some posters on the walls and an overflowing bookshelf beside her bed. There was a trombone on the dresser beside a small bottle of Victoria’s Secret perfume, which she said her grandmother sent her as a birthday gift. “Dad wants me to play the trombone like he did when he was my age. He’s trying to teach me, but he says my arms might not be long enough,” she explained. She stretched her arms out in front of her to demonstrate. I stared at them silently. They looked long enough to me. “My dad told me what happened with your parents,” Beth said. “Oh,” I replied. “Is it going to be weird, to have two houses and two Christmases and all that?” she asked. “I guess.” I didn’t really want to talk about it. As suddenly as she brought it up, she moved on to a new topic. “Do you want to see our garden?” *** That afternoon, we all piled into the truck to go see the churches. Beth’s mother decided to join us and sat between us in the backseat, smelling of berbere spice and jasmine perfume. She talked loudly over the radio, asking me about life back in the States. I answered her questions politely, wishing that I was sitting beside Beth instead. We arrived at the site of the churches and my father whistled appreciatively, drawing looks from the people nearby. My face flushed with embarrassment and I glanced at Beth, who luckily didn’t seem bothered by him. The scene was breathtaking. Before us, the earth fell away into a large pit. In the center of the hole, which was several stories deep, stood a cross-shaped piece of stone. As we got closer, I could make out windows and doors carved into the reddish monolith, which I realized was the church. I was so engrossed at the sight I didn’t notice Beth come up behind me. “They used hammers and chisels to carve down into the mountain,” she murmured. “And there are tunnels and trenches that connect the some of the churches.” I was shocked. “It must have taken like, a hundred years.” She giggled. “Yeah, something like that.” We traveled down into the trenches and tunnels, led by a guide. Beth and her mother covered their heads with scarves out of respect. The tunnels were short, and my father had to crouch down to fit. As we descended, the air grew cold and I found myself thinking about the weight of the rock that surrounded us. My heart began to pound and my breath came fast, but I did not want to seem afraid. Beth slowed to walk right in front of me. She whispered over her shoulder. “Do you wanna hear a joke?” “Sure,” I replied. “What does a nosy pepper do?” “I dunno, what?” “Gets jalapeño business.” I snorted. “That’s stupid.” “Yeah, but it’s funny,” Beth smirked. We got to the bottom of the tunnel and exited into the sunlight. The stone walls of the church rose up before us, towering towards the sunlight. Everything about the place felt weighted with a sanctity that I couldn’t fully understand. The guide led us inside, through the cold rooms of the church itself. The walls were painted with elaborate designs which were hard to make out in the light coming from the small keyhole-shaped windows. I was overwhelmed by the ancient beauty of it all. Beth walked beside me, pointing out little details in hushed tones. “The first time we came here, I was afraid that there was a trap door under the rugs on the floor. I thought I was going to fall through,” Beth whispered. I smiled at her strange imagination. We exited the church, squinting in the sunlight, and the spell of the building seemed to fade. Beth and I fell into step with one another as we finished the tour. “Have you ever tried injera?” she asked. ***  The rest of the trip passed in a blur, and Beth and I quickly became inseparable. She showed me the marketplace and took me to see the baobab trees. She and her mother taught me how to make beef tibs and fatira and homemade croissants, a favorite from their time in France. When it was time for me to leave, Beth made me promise to talk to her every day. I sometimes like to read through our old emails. We talked about everything: politics, movies, school, music. She sent me pictures of her sons when they were born and helped me decide which dog to adopt. I told her about my fiancé and suggested that she paint her home office lavender. We don’t talk every day anymore, but we still try to check in at least once a month. She lives in Spain now, by the beach. In her last email, she made me promise to visit so her sons can meet their Uncle Peter, and to bring my fiancé along so she can approve of him. I bought our tickets yesterday. Beth and I haven’t seen each other in nearly thirty years, but I am confident I’ll recognize the girl under the baobab tree anywhere.


MY SQUIRREL IS FLYING “ You will see how many friendships you’ll make there in the city, of course even ( with) girls” His mother kept repeating him for days. “Oh, think, you will go to a very prestigious school ,the renowned international high school Albert Einstein “                                                                          “You will be able to play football on regular playground, oh, but even play ( take part in) a championship for bys of your age” His father said him. “ You can go to the pool, to the gym, you can do all the sports you want, when we will be there” Peter was fourteen years old and had always lived in the small mountain town , where his was born, when his parents had said him that they had decided to move to the provincial capital city, which was not even a big city, but, compared with his small town( village) , it even could seem like a metropolis. He, Peter, hadn’t taken his parents decision well. Ah, his parents had taken that important, crucial decision without thinking at all  how he would have considered it. They hadn’t taken him into accout, yes, they had decided for him, and this embittered him. For some weeks now, every day, his parents did nothing but praise the wonders of the NEW LIFE that awaited him, there down, in the great city! Seeing him not at all happy, but rather sulky and almost sad, every day they went out to talk, to praise too, some new wonder of his new life there, in the city. He, Peter, was more and more sulk. It was evident that the idea of moving to the city did not thrill him at all. Then his mother had started asking him if he was sorry to have to leave his friends, perhaps his girl, if he had a girlfriend. Peter didn’t answer, he just shook his head , and went to lock himself in his room. “Do you mind maybe leaving the mountain? Do you regret not being able to take walks in the woods anymore? Look, as much as you like the mountain, life in the plain is more comfortable “ His father said him, looking at Peter with an ironic smile, which perhaps was indeed sly and mocking, as he meant : but you look at this poor fool , who does not understand the benefits of city life. No, Peter had neither a girlfriend , nor friends that he particularly regretted leaving.  The girls, oh, he found them unbearable, so much gruff they were….They were also great gossipers and often laughed at him. They, the girl, were always ready to made fun of him. His friends considered Peter a bit dumb, a bit retarded yes, and this was since he had a mild and almost thoughtful temperament. He didn’t like  to fight as they often did. He didn’t even like smoking cigarettes and joints too, as they did in secret. Peter didn’t even like the beer which they drank in abundance. The boys of his age, his friends, if he could call them that, considered him , as to say, a bit behind them and not in step with the times. They were crazy about video games which he, instead, hated. Peter preferred to read or to take a walk alone in the woods. And it was precisely in the woods that he had met Pippi. For sure no one could imagine that it was precisely that delightful, lovely , little four legged creature which he didn’t have the heart to leave. Oh, in the woods there was not difficult to be able to see squirrels. But Pippi, he wasn’t a squirrel like everyone else. Pippi was his squirrel.   The first time the little animal had appeared to Peter, or he had noticed him ( it) , indeed what had leapt to his eye, framed together the pointed snout and the dark eye of the little animal, had been THE BIG WALNUT, which the squirrel held between his slender and short front legs, stretched out as if they were arms to embrace that walnut which seemed very big, too big for such a small animal.  He, Pippi, leaning ( sitting) on his hind legs, stood , with his body erect ( upright) on the branch of a cedar, near the trunk of the tree. With his tail which looked like a soft mop to remove the dust, raised as a victorious banner. Just before looking up and finding the squirrel, but indeed the walnut at first, in front of him, Peter had hear a rustle, like of leaves, and also a sound, a kind of FRIN-FRIN , that had made him think of the sounds or noise he happened sometimes to hear, walking in the woods, without being able to realize who was making  those sounds. He, Peter called them the voices of the wind. As a child his grandmother had told him that, oh, those sounds were instead ( indeed) the voices of the gnomes and the fairies who lived in the wood, but who were invisible to almost all human beings. “ Ah, I can’t see them, but do they, the gnomes and the fairies, see me?” Peter had asked. “ Of course, they see you and sometimes it can happen that these invisible creatures , seeing you, say some words too, some comments on you….oh, but you cannot understand what they are saying” His grandmother had nodded energetically when she answered him. She had added that sometimes these ( those) creatures of the woods, invisible to humans, they could take the appearance of an animal, like a owl, like a hare, like a squirrel…. Not  that Peter still believed what his grandmother had told him when he was a small child. But it happened that sometimes, when he met Pippi, he remembered it.  That small little animal was  a very marvelous wonder. When Peter saw him, the squirrel was  almost always in movement, often climbing up the trunks of trees with an ease that left astonished. For that squirrel, which was his squirrel, it seemed to be the same  ( as) moving on a ground floor or climbing up a tree. Indeed when his squirrel Pippi climbed a tree, he went faster than when he moved on the ground.  Not that Pippi, for his appearance  (aspect) was different from the other squirrels which Peter happened to see, walking in the woods. He, Pippi, had, like these other squirrels, a reddish fur that, in winter become rather burnt brown. He had the same large , long, soft tail , a tail which even seemed disproportionate, too voluminous, too wide, too long as it was, compared to the smallness of the (his) body. Still, he had the same dark eyes of the other squirrels, which, although smaller, had the same cut of the fawns eyes, the same cut and, it seemed to Peter, the same look ( glance). Yes, that looking with one eye, as if in passing, and even in fear, which yet every time said you: “It’s you, you are there….I saw you” Even thought it had not been  any characteristic ( peculiarity) of his aspect that had made Peter decide , soon after seeing him ( the squirrel) for the first time: here , this squirrel is my squirrel,nevertheless Pippi had just a detail which distinguished him from the squirrels of the same size and color. A LITTLE RED STAR stood out on Pippi white belly ( chest). Not that it was really a star, it was rather a little red stain ( patch) with the shape of an irregular quadrilateral, but for ( to) Peter it was a star. The name PIPPI had come spontaneously to him the second or third time he had seen the squirrel. “ PIPPI” seemed to fict perfectly with the small body and with the agile, very fast movements of the little animal, as with his protruding eyes, as with his very fast hopping and climbing. Peter couldn’t help but be stunned, enchanted ( entraptured), as well as delighted, by Pippi (looking at Pippi) holding a walnut on the palm of his forelegs which, with their long forefingers, looked like hands to Peter. The squirrel, holding the walnut on the palm of his “ hands”, made it roll and , at the same time, he put his snout close the walnut, which he tested with his teeth to find where he could open it more easily. As it was very enchanting to see the little animal which, after having stuck his snout into the bark of a tree, began chewing thickly, fast fast, with  clenched jaws . It was a really sight to see Pippi scratching and digging , whith his long-fingered paws under the snow, or under a carpet of leaves, in search of food. Even if Peter had never been able to approach him, to touch him, he was sure not only to be recognized by Pippi, but also to be expected by him.  If every time he came in the woods, he couldn’t wait to see his squirrel, Peter was sure that Pippi was waiting for him too. Sometimes he had happened to see his squirrel jump  from a branch to branch of a tree, that seemed to fly.  He had seen flying squirrels on television, which launced into flight with their body deployed. They looked a little like a parachute, a little like a boat, and the air around them trembled, as they broke away from a tree to launch themselves into the void.  He, Peter knew that Pippi was not a flying squirrel , but he would have liked so much to see him fly, as the ones he had seen on tv. The day of the move to the city was approaching . Peter could not bear the thought he would leave his squirrel.  The day before departure he went for a walk  in the woods, anxious to meet, to see Pippi once again. He, walking, was agitated by whirling , disconnected  thoughts. He would take Pippi with him, he couldn’t leave him, he couldn’t separate from him, he thought. Oh, but how would he do it? He wondered immediately after. But…where was Pippi? Was it possible that he didn’t show up that very day?  Peter remained in the woods for a long time, hoping at every step to be able to see Pippi, but in vain.  He called him, he even shouted his name : PIPPI! PIPPI! But  Pippi did not appear. After hours in the woods, Peter saw…something, indeed someone flying up from a big oak, some distance away from him. But, of course, it was a flying squirrel, which was unfolding his body, just like a flying squirrel.  Oh, but it couldn’t be Pippi……a moment, it perhaps was instead Pippi! Yes, Pippi, which had become a flying squirrel . Ah, but to be sure it was  Pippi. he  had to see the squirrel more closely.  While the squirrel, which had taken flight, was moving away fast, a little prancing, Peter started running.  He had to reach that flying squirrel.  Who knows if Peter was able to catch up with that squirrel, and who knows if that squirrel was Pippi. Peter did not come home from his walk in the woods.  It was as if he wanted to stay with Pippi forever.


“If I may say, these chains are a tad too tight.” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “Would any of you be so kind as to loosen them for me a bit?” As he expected no one moved, their glares piercing through him. So, there he was, Loki the god of mischief (though some disrespectfully add mayhem), before his fellow Norse gods and goddesses in the halls of Valhalla. More specifically, he was here for trial, bound by similar chains to what restrained his child Fernir, before the All-Father himself Odin. Odin’s stare was bored, tired, irritated, his head resting on his hand propped on the arm of the throne. Loki glanced around at the other gods present. Freya and her Freyr. The war god Tyr, Frigg’s favorite and most beautiful child Baldur, and Asgard’s mightiest and most popular Thor. Though in Loki’s opinion he deserved the title of Asgard’s most popular. He was Loki, the god of mischief, wedded to the beautiful goddess Sigyn, father of the goddess of death Hel, the wolf Fenrir and the world snake Jӧrungandr and the one who birthed the eight-legged steed of Odin, Sleipnir (though he was partially embarrassed by that last one). And yet his name was remembered with detest and wariness. It was not his fault that he was always up to some fun or that half his offsprings were destined to oppose Asgard on Ragnarök.

Loki turned to his brother Thor. “Brother dearest, would you do me the utmost favor of lending me a hand here? I may not look it but I am in a great deal of discomfort.” Thor grumbled angrily; his fist clenched tightly around his war hammer Mjolnir. Loki noticed a slight bruising along Thor’s hand, an unhealthy purple hue scaling up his arm. Loki smirked. “Dear me brother Thor,” he quipped nodding at Thor’s bruised arm, “do get that checked. Asgard would be in a great deal of peril if something bad were to happen to your battle prowess.” “You bastard!” Thor cursed, stepping forward towards Loki, most likely to pound at the mischief god’s head with his hammer. Then someone behind him grabbed at his hand, tugging him back with a soft plea spoken more from the heart than it was by action. Thor turned to face this person, and his face softened. Then he stepped back reluctantly. Curious, Loki peaked behind him to see who it was.

“Ah Lady Sif I must say you look ravishing today,” then with a grimace, added, “though without the headdress your appearance leaves something to be desired.” Sif blushed shamefully, sulking behind Thor to conceal her bald head, covered only by small tufts of golden hair.

Thor on the other hand exploded, lightning sparks flying everywhere. Yanking his arm away from his wife Sif he stormed toward Loki swinging his war hammer. “You villainous fiend, you dare say that to my wife!”

He towered over Loki, his war hammer raised high above the god of mischief’s head, a whirlwind of lightning and storm clouds spiraling from the sky down around the weapon. It was then that Odin’s voice boomed through the roofless hall, shaking everyone present to the core. “Quiet!” Thor froze where his stood, the thunder storm around Mjolnir fading away. He glanced from Odin to Loki, unsure as whether to continue his punishment or listen to his father. Then Odin added, “Back away from him, son.” Thor grumbled, then lowered his arm and backed away to his wife’s side.

Loki smirked. “Thanks father.” “Don’t ‘father’ me, Loki,” Odin leaned forward in his throne. “You know damn well why you’re here, don’t you?” “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Odin scowled, leaning back in his throne. “You’re been charged with trickery and thievery from both the Aesir and Vanir, specifically the ones present here.” Loki glanced around again, taking in the unsmiling faces of the gods glaring at him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about father.” “The hell you don’t!” Tyr roared. “You drew us away from our homes to steal from us.” “Tyr buddy!” Loki cheered, “How’s the hand? You know, the one my son bit off.” “Son of a –” Tyr cursed as he reached for his sword. “Both of you be quiet!” Odin bellowed once more. “Especially you Loki; another provocative word from you and I will banish you to Niflheim for centuries.” Loki sighed. “Yes father. But I truly know nothing of this theft against my fellow gods. I was too busy preparing a celebration of sorts just for them.” “‘Of sorts’,” Freya snorted, her brother scowling beside her. Loki rolled his eyes. Odin sighed wistfully. “Okay then, tell us of this celebration you were planning for your ‘fellow’ gods.” Loki smirked. “Well, it started like this…” *********************************************************** “Thirty minutes, Loki; nothing more. And any hint of your two-faced trickery and I will blast you to Niflheim.” “Dear brother, do you really think so little of me?” Thor snorted and went back to scrubbing the dirty fur of his goat in the pen in the back of his home. “What do you want, brother?” “I’m holding a celebration on Midgard, and I’d love for you to attend with me.” “Meddling with mortals now? Father will be furious if any harm comes to them.” “And no harm will come to them.” Loki assured. “Sure, they would be present to serve and stuff but this is mainly for the gods.” Thor dropped the scrubbing brush and stood up, towering over Loki. “If this is another trick I swear -”

“I promise it is not. If it is, you have my permission to do to me as I did to your lovely wife.” Loki never saw it coming; one minute he was standing under Thor’s thundery gaze, the next second he was in excruciating pain, flying across the room with a fiery ache in his chest. He let out a cry as his back crashed against the log wall of the pen. Thunder clouds rolled in as Thor stormed to where Loki laid in a fit of anger, the house itself rumbling lightly yet terrifyingly as Mjolnir trembled, desperate to be summoned. “You bastard!” Thor roared. “Utter those words again and I shall rip out your tongue and feed them to the worms.” It was then the door to the main household swung open, and a very worried Sif stepped out in a rush. “Thor!” she cried. “What’s wrong? What is the meaning of this?” Then turning to the wall she saw Loki, wincing in pain, smiling through a grimace as if nothing was wrong, and her worried look twisted to one of detest. “You,” she spat. “Good to see you too sister-in-law,” “Go back inside, love.” Thor insisted of his wife. “I’ll throw this fiend out myself,”

“Please do.” Sif replied, giving Loki the coldest look before returning indoors.

“Lovely,” Loki mused. Then to his brother, “You didn’t really mean that, did you?” Thor smirked. The very next moment Loki was pulling himself out from a rose bush on the front lawn of Thor’s home, wincing as he carefully plucked the harsh prickles from all over his body and clothes.

Thor let out a hearty laugh, one that boomed through Loki’s ears like a thunderclap. “I actually enjoyed doing that!” the god of thunder roared. “I’m sure you did.” Loki yelped as he pulled a persistent thorn from his cheek, and another from his behind. “I take it you would attend?” “Most certainly not you fiend! I will not become another victim of your hellish schemes and games.” “I promise you, no tricks. And there would be great deal of mead available.” Loki watched his brother’s face twist from determination to indecision. Thor’s drinking habit was one infamously know across the realms, and Loki knew how well a good dozen mugs of mead could sway the warrior god from almost anything. Except his wife that is. “Where exactly is this celebration being held?” Thor asked, suddenly intrigued by the idea of good mead.

“In Cambridge, in the Midgardian kingdom they call the United Kingdom. Specifically, England. I’ve seen the place for myself and I must say it is lovely. I reckon Sif would enjoy the place as well.” Thor thought for a moment, then said, “I will think about it, but I make no promise that I would be there.”

“Fair enough.” “And hurry up and leave already, before Sif gives you a beating for messing up her rose garden.” And with that he returned indoors, slamming the door behind before he could hear Loki remind him of who threw him into the garden in the first place. Loki plucked the last thorn from his body and let out a sigh of content. “One down, four to go.” ************************************************************ “…and then I went on to the other gods and gave them my invitations.” Loki finished his account. “And what happened to this celebration you were holding for them?” Odin inquired. “Well,” Loki fidgeted uncomfortably in his constraints. “Some complications came up and it was terribly delayed. To top it up I was not informed of them in time and soon after I was, I was taken forcibly from my home by your Valkyries, tied up in this surprisingly effective rip-off of Gleipnir, and presented before you as I am now with the false charges of theft and trickery.” Odin stared long and hard at the god of mischief before him, then at the gods present. His daughter-in-law Sif still cowered behind her husband, who stood remained tense and enraged. Tyr stood in a similar position to Thor, with his only hand resting warily on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Baldur stood beside Tyr, quiet but clearly disturbed. The sibling Freya and Freyr wore irritated looks on their faces, a rare sight as they were usually the brightest of the gods of both Asgard and Vanaheim.

Returning his gaze back to Loki, Odin began to speak, this time in out of annoyance rather than boredom. “Are you familiar with the Hildskjalf, Loki?” He watched as Loki paled considerably in silence, then continued, “Just in case you don’t remember, it is a tool that enables me to see into all the realms, to know what goes on where and when. And almost nothing escapes it.” He let the words sink in before resuming his speech.

“Through the Hildskjalf I saw you use the Midgardian custom of naming different cities and towns across the world identical to the original to your advantage, scattering the gods across Midgard under the ruse of a non-existent celebration.” “What?” Baldur interrupted rudely. “But how is that possible?” “Simple. He told Thor to go to the city Cambridge in the country of England, then told Tyr to go to Cambridge of Massachusetts in the Americas for the same celebration. He told you to go to Naples in Italy, while Freya and Freyr were sent to a place called Florida. And while you sent Freyr to Memphis in Egypt, risking the wrath of the gods of those lands! All of this giving you as much time as you needed to rob the gods of their possessions” Loki stared at the All-Father in disbelief, as if the very idea of such an accusation struck him dumb. “Dear father, I promise you I did no such thing. If this is as true as you believe it be, then where are these possessions? Surely you searched my home, and I am sure you found nothing, which only proves my inncocence!” Loki was smiling manically, glancing round at every god present. He was right, even though they exposed his prank of scattering them across Midgard, they had no proof he was responsible for the theft of their possessions. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the gates of Valhalla swung open. Everyone stared at the beautiful goddess who made her way to where Loki knelt chained up, passing respectful nods to each god she passed, an honorary nod to the All-Father while keeping the scariest glare for Loki. Swung across her back was a huge heavy sack. “I apologize for my intrusion,” she apologized. “I have some urgent to discuss with my husband.” Loki stared nervously as the newcomer. “Sigyn, darling,” he attempted to sooth. “You didn’t need to come down her; it’s all just a simple misunderstanding.” “The hell it is!” Sigyn lifted the sack off her shoulder and over Loki’s head and proceeded to dump over his head. And everyone gasps as the contents of the bag crashed down on the mischief god’s head.

Golden framed mirrors belonging to Baldur, the falcon plumes of Freya and Freyr, Tyr’s special blade Tyrfing. The iron gauntlets Jarngreipr for safely wielding Mjolnir, of course belonging to Thor and the golden headdress of Sif. All were there, around a now unconscious Loki who’d been knocked out when the gauntlets struck his head.

Odin smirked at the sight of all this. “Well, I guess that’s all the proof we need.” The other gods nodded in agreement. Baldur however spoke up against Sigyn.

“Where did you find them?” he asked suspiciously. “In my home, buried in the back.” “But how did you find them? We searched everywhere for them.” “It is my home. No one, not even Loki knows there better than the one who makes it.” “True.” Sif nodded in agreement. Then returning his attention to the unconscious god, Baldur asked, “So, what would we do with him?” “If I may,” Sigyn proposed, bowing courteously to the All-Father. “I’d like to issue out the first part of his punishment myself, and leave the second part to you.” “First part?” Odin stared at Sigyn with astonishment, then broke into an amused laugh. “I didn’t even consider punishing him in parts!” “Why not? He certainly deserves it; hopefully it’d deter him from future mischief.” “I strongly doubt it,” Thor interjected. “But it would be satisfying all the same.”

“Are there any objections to this?” Odin asked the other gods, who shook their heads in response. “Then it is settles then. Just be sure to return him as soon as you are finished with him.” “Of course, Lord Odin.” Then Sigyn grabbed her husband by his long red hair and dragged him out of Valhalla, a sight that amused all the gods present as much as it amused him.

Once she was gone, Tyr turned to the All-Father. “How did he manage to steal from us without being seen through the Hildskjalf? Or even get into our homes without seeming suspicious?” Odin thought for a while before answering. “Loki is quite skilled in shapeshifting magic; he could have changed his shape to resemble all of you to slip into your homes like he owned the place.” Upon hearing this Thor erupted once more, thunder clouds gathering in the sky as lightning sparked all around him. Behind him Sif paled at the realization of something horrifying. “So that bastard disguised himself as me, went into my home and….” He trailed off, fuming in outrage. Then, in the blink of an eye he stormed out of Valhalla after Sigyn and Loki.

Odin watched all this with a great deal of worry, wondering what Thor would do to Loki as retribution or even worse, just how far Loki would go in his next ‘little’ prank. Because Thor was right; no punishment they could possibly give him would ever deter him, not even if they punished his children for his sins.


Monday, Labor Day, September 7th, 2020. As we prepared to get a good nights’ sleep before a three hour drive in the morning, the wind started. We had been warned beforehand that it would. However, it was coming from the east which was unusual. The term “historic” was bandied about. Three wildfires were burning north and east of the area we locals call "the canyon" which includes sister cities of Gates, Mill City, Lyons and Detroit. Certainly concerning but nothing to worry over. Little did I know. The later the hour, the fiercer the wind blew. Growing and howling down our cul-de-sac cracking small tree limbs and shoving debris as it roared. Our bedroom window faces the street and shortly after midnight I noticed car lights coming into the neighborhood. I got up and stood looking out the back door window at our neighbor’s house across the street. “I wonder what’s going on at Rick’s house.” We knew Rick had health problems and lived alone. We feared a medical emergency but something felt different. Both Rick’s adult daughters were running between house and cars, arms loaded down with things from the house. Then we saw Rick also shoving things into a vehicle. He looked fine. What was going on? That’s when my cell phone began to vibrate, our house phone rang and the power went out. A level three evacuation alert had been sent. With only the light from my cell phone we were able to locate flashlights, overnight bags and Copper. We dressed quickly and I called our daughter-in-law, waking her up to tell her we were coming to their house. She and my son live sixteen miles west. We didn’t know what else to do. I was not worried. We’d spend one night out of this raging wind, drop Copper at the kennel in the morning and still be off on our mini-vacation. Steve and I had been homebound for six months like everyone else. We were determined to take a little time away from home. Our goal was to visit Astoria, a coastal town we had not been to in over thirty years but we remembered it fondly. So along with Copper’s dog food and treats, two packed overnight bags waited beside the back door. Those packed bags turned out to be a time saving blessing. As we stepped out the back door we were battered by hot, threatening wind.  It felt oddly surreal and other-worldly. I couldn't wrap my head around what I was seeing. The neighborhood was a flurry of night-time activity, car lights cutting through black created frantic patterns, hot wind swirled, scattering tree limbs and pummeling us with what I thought was debris. Some of it looked like the fireflies I’d played with as a kid during Pennsylvania summer evenings but I knew there were no fireflies in the Pacific Northwest. We were being pelted by burning embers and ash. Rushing to get the car out of the garage we both stopped. A pulsating red glow in the eastern sky gave us the first clue of what was coming. I began to worry. Steve said, “I think we should take the camper.”

There are times when words aren’t necessary between two people. This was one of those times. I knew what he was thinking…..we might not have a home to come back to.  Whenever I think of our home town, I always see the movie title, “A River Runs through It.” Indeed one does, the North Santiam River. The north side of town runs alongside that river while access to the higher south side of town is across a bridge over the river. This is where we and most of the town population lives. That bridge crossing the North Santiam River, linking Linn County side of town to the main highway had closed for repair work in July and was not scheduled to reopen until the end of October. We were forced to escape down a back road. We weren’t alone. I don’t drive well at night anymore what with age and poor eyesight so most of my concentration was on the road and other cars. This might have helped me not be so aware of the flames around us. But there is one picture glued firmly in my brain. I will never forget seeing the violent beauty of one completely engulfed fir tree. Rising perfectly Christmas tree formed into the night sky, each black branch clearly silhouetted inside an engulfing red-orange inferno. A picture at once visually stunning while at the same time fearfully heart breaking. Fire was everywhere, scorching and burning on the north-side of the road, jumping uncontrolled from tree to home to underbrush pushed along by still howling, still hot winds. Dried brush on the south side ignited and began running beside the road. The fire had not yet become the tunnel of flames later evacuees would race through. It was only a matter of time before both sides of the road would create that tunnel. The nine mile drive into Lyons, our link to Hwy 22 and safety beyond, was dreamlike. Heavy traffic in those midnight hours weaved calmly and orderly through blazing timbers and brush. There was no panic. I never once feared for my life. Tuesday, September 8 th, 2020. Sometime during the night Stayton was put on a Level 2 alert: Be ready to evacuate so things were chaotic inside our son’s house that morning, everyone gathering precious items, pets and clothes. Neither Steve nor I had thought about grabbing albums, birth certificates, insurance papers, heirloom rifles or all the precious pictures and writings my computer holds. I now realized what we’d left behind. Irreplaceable things a fire can eat up in seconds.

We gathered our few belongings and left our son’s house into what I can only describe as an apocalyptic scene. Ash piled up on cars an eighth inch thick continued to rain from that still eerily glowing red sky. Sun could not gouge its way through thick smoke but illuminated everything red. Wind had calmed, no longer gusting violently, but even in the early morning hours, the smoky air was hot. I stood awestruck. Nature’s beauty was once again on display while simultaneously displaying evidence of her horrific power. Someone heard that a fire evacuation center was being prepared at the state fairgrounds in Salem. We now had a destination. A blinking light proclaiming FIRE EVAC CENTER welcomed us as volunteers guided us into the Red Gate. The main parking lot directly across from the fair entrance had already filled up with displaced people, we were sent to overflow parking inside the red gate just in front of the Jackman-Long Building. We had no way of knowing it would be home for the next ten days. Before we could even start familiarizing ourselves with new surroundings, volunteers pulling children’s wagons piled high with burritos walked among refugees offering food. And that was only the beginning.

As we settled in Facebook kept us updated as to the course of the fire. Thundering down our much-loved canyon, pushed furiously by sixty mile an hour wind gusts, joining strength in combination with the Riverside and Lionshead wildfires, the Beachie Creek Fire continued to devastate and demolish beloved small towns. Facebook also supplied us with stories of bravery and loss. New pages were added. We could list ourselves as safe on one. We would learn of those who weren’t from another. Five people lost their lives, numerous longtime friends lost their homes and several favorite businesses melted into ruble. Pictures of the aftermath were unbearable and unbelievable to look at yet consumed much of our time those first days. We evacuees may have look like zombies, dazed, muddling in and out of smoke filled daylight darkness, ash still showering into irritated eyes. Group shock quickly grew into a community of displaced souls.  Marion County volunteers set up long tables inside the Jackman-Long Building, against one wall food, canned goods and perishables. Dinners rolled in from different restaurants every night. Stacked along the other wall, hygiene items, bedding, clothing, items were continually resupplied. The list is long. Giving hands continued to fill ours. Most of us had never been in the position of taking. Most of us had done the giving. Wednesday, September 9 th . We were being bombarded with information. Some of which was not true. All of us wanted a definitive answer regarding our homes and we were still trying to adjust to life in a parking lot. We were safe and I tried to focus on that but the later the day, the more I wanted to know about our house. We knew there was no access to the canyon on Hwy 22 and the National Guard set up road blocks on the back road as well. And we still had Copper with us. Copper is a medium sized dog, lean and fast. He loves to run. He joyously bounces ahead of us unleashed on any wooded trail. He’s a good dog and listens. Here, on blacktop grouped tightly together with so many others, he stayed on leash. A grassy stretch provided an area for him to do his business and allow him to chase his ball if he didn’t interfere with others but he wasn’t happy. And he was breathing in more ash than we were. He didn’t wear a mask. Steve says I worry too much about him but there you are. I guess maybe I do. We decided to take Copper to the kennel and while we were out, to try to access our town. I needed to see home…..or, where it had been.

If you've never seen the effects of forest fire, it's hard to describe. The silence is thick. Air, at the hazardous level, a charred taste, smoke thick with the smell of woodland death. We were stopped by the National Guard. They needed proof of who we were and where we lived. We were allowed entry with the warning, “We will not be able help you if something happens. Enter at your own risk.” And we did. God blessed us that day. Our house, though barely visible through the smoke soup, stood untouched. Thursday, September 10 th . Most of the third day was spent discussing our worries and gobbling up bits of information. People carrying large square black boxes and microphones began canvassing the group. The reporters had arrived. Community in a small town nestled in the Oregon foothills, means being able to walk to the local market when you run out of milk at 7:30 Sunday morning, stopping in for the monthly soup luncheon at the senior center or a Friday night dinner at the Eagles Lodge in support of weekly fund-raisers. In short, community means people; just folks, common lives, common needs. Nothing very special about it. Until there is. March 2020 changed our world. Panic arrived alongside a word most of us had not heard in our lifetimes: pandemic. Suddenly we were told to cut community ties, stay at home, close restaurants, hair salons, wear masks, don’t gather in groups of more than ten people and only do essential shopping, staying at least six feet away from other shoppers. What we thought would be a short run new virus, surely gone by summer, turned into an endurance race. Each trip to the grocery store became a challenge, arrows painted on floors directing one-way foot traffic. Shoppers constantly required to deal with new changes. Events defining summer were cancelled. The virus held the country in its grasp but by then we all seemed to be settling in to necessary routines, accepting the fact that summer heat had not driven it away. Instead, for us, summer heat blazed into an inferno.

Those hot gusty September winds rammed flames down an Oregon canyon leveling homes, businesses and towns changing reality once more. So, in the end, this is a story about community and how the meaning of that word can change in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, the transmission of a virus or wherever a burning ember chooses to land. Home for us, between Sept 8th and Sept 18 th, was very different than any kind of community I’d known before. Those ten days will remain the time I saw selfless giving, people doing so much for others, offers from businesses small and large, individuals driving through parked campers and tents offering to do laundry, so much daily kindness in a year of division, a year of keeping distance, a year isolated, a year of fear. A brief ten days of hope and community in a year gone mad.


The Wompup creature was a curious thing. The fact that I'd found it first made me want to sing! A little thing, nestled in a hole in the ground, so quiet and soft, it didn't make a sound. Tiny little wings adorned it's sides, and when it's lids blinked open, I saw bright yellow eyes. I carefully reached into the hole, and brought out my discovery that was as black as coal. The sweet little thing refused to move, but slept in my hand and I had not a clue what to do. Should I give it up? Should I let it go? Or should I keep it as a pet until I grow old? The last question appealed to me, so I kept my new friend. Although I didn't know of the powers it held within. As I brought my new companion inside, my siblings bombarded me; Nancy, Kurt, and Clyde. "Get away!" I yelled, protecting my pet. "We want to see!" They yelled. I replied, "Not yet." I ran to my room as fast as I could, being careful not to drop the little creature as black as soot. Once in my room, I shuffled around. I was looking for a habitat, but none could be found. I softly laid my fuzzy friend on the bed, and wondered what in the world this little guy could be fed. I tried orange slices, hot dogs, kale and penne, but my miniature friend didn't have a liking for any. We tried fruits, liquids, dairy and meat, but I found after while that my friend liked beets! I would chop them up small and serve them on a doll's plate, and my pet would scarf them down as if he needed to leave the house and he was very very late. After he finished I sat next to my window that looked out over the town, and suddenly the creature's eyes blinked open, and were staring me down. I gasped as little black nose twitched, and his small clawed foot reached up to his tiny ears to itch. He made a little yawn and made a squeaky sound, then sat up like a tiny dog, his wings flapping around. He cocked his head and looked at me, straight into the eyes. I daresay if you looked close, his face almost looked wise. "I'll call you Wompup." I told the little guy. The name just came to me and I liked it, don't ask me why. I reached out to pet his head. He jerked away quickly and scooted across my bed. Suddenly he jumped off the bed and scampered to my bedroom door. He scraped on the cherry wood, wanting to be outdoors. I ran to the trapped little guy and slowly I sat down beside. He looked up at me with his yellow eyes, and purred like a cat, to my surprise. With utmost caution I pet his fuzzy coat, hoping he wouldn't bite me with his tiny fangs as white as snow. "Sorry, little guy, I can't let you out. You were sleeping in my yard, and I found you. You're mine now!" He looked at me sadly and laid on the floor. I wondered what else he wanted that was outside my door. I swept my auburn hair out of my eyes and stroked the fluffy creature who had the aroma of cherry pie. Cherry pie? I thought to myself. What could give this weird creature that great smell? I shrugged my shoulders and thought: After everything I've seen, who could ever tell? Maybe I could search the black puff, and see why I could find. I looked over at my computer and I made up my mind. Slowly I picked up the jet black thing that couldn't get any cuter, set him on my bed again, and sat down at my computer. I went to the search bar to find out what he was. But nothing I found looked like my little ball of fuzz! After a while I gave up and sat back down on my bed. I reached out to tap his little nose, but he still would not let me pet his head. Suddenly his wings started flapping, but he did not fly. His miniature wings were the reason why. It squinted it's yellow eyes, and to me it looked like it was trying to disappear. I scoffed at it's sweet attempts until it vanished into thin air. I gasped as my hands became void of my companion. I looked around my room, up, down, underneath, out, and in, I could not see the little creature as small as a rat. Where did he go? Where was he at? All of the sudden, a plop sounded into my laundry basket. I peered inside, and what did I find? My cute little Wompup, trying to climb. I reached in and pulled out my magical pal. He was the most interesting thing I'd had in a while! I marveled at his disappearing act, every day he'd practice disappearing out of my hat. For days I kept him in my room. "Did you know I am super happy to have you?" The little guy never replied, but I could see in his eyes how desperately he wanted to be back outside. "What do you want? Aren't you happy here?" The jet black creature responded with a flick of his little floppy ears. I didn't want to loose my pet, it would be too hard, but I followed my inclinations and took my boy out into the yard. I hoped he wouldn't disappear, finding him would be quiet hard. I watched as his little body made it's way through the tall grass. He found his way back to his hole which I saw was deeper than I had noticed last. Suddenly my little pet squeaked, calling to his own kind. Three little heads peeked out from the hole, each as black as coal from a mine. I gasped in realization that my little Wompup had a family. It was time for him to go. It was time for me to let him free. He looked up at me with a kindly glance, and finally I got my chance. I pet his head and his fuzzy features, knowing this might be the last time I touch this creature. With a flap of his wings and a blink of his yellow eyes, my Wompup scampered back into his own life. The one thing in my mind that will forever ring... The Wompup creature was a curious thing.