__________________________________________________________________________

I Come With Three Wounds.

Las tres heridas, a poem by Miguel Hernández, sung by Joan Baez

From the album “Gracias a la vida” 1974

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                                        HUBRIS

 

Now, tell me, again, what did our President say

as he ended his review of the war in Afghanistan?

 

Did our President say, “I am going to finish the job.”?

“I am going to finish the job.” just “I” as in “I, the decider”?

just “I,” not “we,” not “our brave soldiers,” not “our allies,”  not “the congress”?

“I am going to finish the job.”  Did our President say that?

 

Tell me, again, what did our President say?

Did he say, “I am going to finish the job.”

“finish” as in “to successfully complete,” “finish” as in “to accomplish”?

“finish,” as in “to win,” not “to re-think,”  not “to change direction,” not “to bring to an end”?

“I am going to finish the job.”  Did our President say that?

 

Tell me, again, what did our President say?

Did he say, “I am going to finish the job“?

“the job” as in “a definite piece of work,” “the job” as in a “certain mission”?

“the job” as in “the bombing, the killing, the dying,”?

“the job” as in “that which we began eight years ago”?

“the job” as in his “war of necessity”?

“I am going to finish the job.”  Did our President say that?

 

Tell me again, what did our President, Barack Obama, say

as he ended his review of the mess in Afghanistan?

 

“I am going to finish the job.”  

 

            hubris, as in “arrogance resulting from excessive pride which goes before the fall”

 

 

Mary O’Leary McGlinn

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Sundance wants to spar with the big boys

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The Tractor Driver or the Pothead?

By RHODA JANZEN, NYT Magazine, September 13, 2009

Article

Cosmic forces have a way of turning up the heat to make us change. Nothing gets your attention, for example, like being ditched by your husband for a guy he met on Gay.com, or having your car totaled by an inebriated youth six days later. Had I done anything to deserve these things? Nothing. I ran six miles a day and made my own yogurt! But when your husband is out canoodling with a dude, the thing to do is pack your bags and head home for a while, even if home is a Mennonite community 3,000 miles away in California and at 43 you’re no longer a practicing Mennonite.

Mennonites, by the way, are not the Amish, although both espouse simplicity, nonviolence and cabbage. And unlike the Amish, most Mennonites drive cars. Which is how my mom and I got to Circuit City one afternoon a few days after my arrival in late 2006.

We were in the customer-service line. Weary consumers clutched their disappointments, but my mother was in her usual cheerful spirits. The presence of strangers eight inches away notwithstanding, she suddenly said, “If there aren’t any single men where you are, I know someone for you.”

“Who?”

“Your cousin Mark — he’s a professor in Nova Scotia,” she said earnestly. “And he has a beach house.”

According to Mom, Mark (his middle name) and I had something in common: I teach college, too. And we had something else in common: grandparents. “Mark is my first cousin,” I said. “That’s both incestuous and weird.”

My Mennonite mother considered this. “Well,” she said, “I think it should be fine if you don’t have kids. You can adopt. Mark would make a terrific father. You should see him with his nephews.”

I had no idea how to reply. Maybe now was a good time to mention that, with my husband gone three months, I had already been out on a couple of dates. This new guy wasn’t the love of my life, but I had lowered the bar, see. He wasn’t Mr. Right, but he was Mr. Straight.

Mom was disappointed, but she took it in stride. “What’s your fellow like?”

I was too emotionally battered to utter polite fibs. “He’s a slacker, really. A relaxed pothead. He wears pajamas to Target.”

“Oh.” She nodded supportively. “A relaxed pothead sounds nice.”

It made sense, I suppose, that a woman who would promote endogamous marriage would not blink at a pothead. “Maybe my cousin smokes a little weed,” I said speculatively (although I’d bet my few remaining assets that he does not).

“No,” Mom said. “Mark would never do weed! He drives a tractor! In his spare time!”

“How does driving a tractor prevent you from smoking weed?”

By now several people in line were eavesdropping.

“If you drive a tractor in your spare time,” my mother said firmly, “it means that you have a strong work ethic, which is probably why Mark has had the gumption to earn himself a nice beach house.”

“Surely he doesn’t drive his tractor on the beach?”

“No! He drives it at his parents’, of course! He gives the nephews rides.”

“Oh! I thought that he was working on the tractor!”

“Mark works very hard,” Mom said. “You know perfectly well that a tractor can be hard work and fun too. Like marriage.”

One of the best things about Mom is that she will follow you anywhere, conversationally speaking. “Mom,” I said, “would you rather marry a pleasant pothead or your first cousin on a tractor? Both are associate professors.”

“You marry your pothead if you like,” she said, “But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

“Hey!” I said, indignant. “How do you know the pothead doesn’t serve the Lord?”

“I think that the Lord appreciates a man on a tractor more than a man smoking marijuana in his pajamas,” Mom said earnestly. “I know I do.”

“O.K., O.K.,” I said, as we neared the counter. “I give up. I will marry Cousin Mark. Just as soon as he asks me. You’ll be our first guest at the beach house in Nova Scotia. But I’m warning you now, there’s gonna be a little weed on your pillow. Instead of a mint.”

She chuckled comfortably. “That’s O.K. I don’t like mints.”

Rhoda Janzen is the author of the memoir, “Mennonite in a Little Black Dress,” which is being published next month. This essay is adapted from the book.

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MICHIGAN METAMORPHOSIS

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Britain’s Got Talent 2009, The Final

Susan Boyle

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Evasive Action  

by Charlie Smith

…the clipped possessive moment, the barber on his porch
cutting his son’s hair, who looks for a second straight into the sun
and then back at his son’s head now a golden, nodulous remnant,
a flower if he likes or Lenin’s bumpy skull, he puts his scissors down
and goes inside and apologizes to his wife, who doesn’t understand,
but who accepts his words like a private harvest she’s storing up,
and then the son, who’s going into the army, comes in, half cut,
and sees them and thinks he understands years of bickering,
but doesn’t, and goes on to the battlefield where he writes his sister
saying we are not far from the truth of things, watching beyond his hand
two scorpions pick at each other, and thinks of days by the river, of his
father recovering from cancer, singing a song his grandmother memorized in…..Vienna
and his father, who hated his own mother, cursing her, revoking the song,
and the next moment he’s blown apart and then sent home in a metal coffin
and the parents and the sister get up early on the day of his funeral
and eat breakfast silently on the porch, and this is going on barber after barber.

—————————————-

Nature is almost enough

_________________________________________________

Susan Boyle on Britain Got Talent

In her own words:

“I was born with a disability and that made me a target for bullies. I was called names because of my fuzzy hair and because I struggled in class. I told the teachers, but because it was more verbal than physical I could never prove anything. But words often hurt more than cuts and bruises and the scars are still there. I still see the kids I went to school with because we all live in the same area. They’re all grown up with children of their own. But look at me now – I’ve got the last laugh…Mum loved the show and used to tell me I should put my name down and that I’d win it if I did. But I never thought I was good enough. It was only after she died that I plucked up the courage to enter. It was a very dark time and I suffered depression and anxiety. But out of the darkness came light. I realised I wanted to make her proud of me and the only way to do that was to take the risk and enter the show.”

I love to see us common folk seize the moment!

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TORTURE AMERICA

TORTURE AMERICA

It’s not going to go away,
However much you might want it to.

It’s not going to go away,

the acts of sexual humiliation, the “stress positions,” the “walling,”
the months, years of solitary confinement, the “waterboarding,”

the photos of the pyramid of naked bodies, the wired, hooded man on a box,
the man cowering from an attacking dog, the man dragged by a leash,

These are not going to go away.

the attempts to legalize, the Geneva Conventions deemed “quaint,”
“if it does not result in serious physical injury,” “organ failure,” “death,”

the lies of Condoleeza Rice, “the United States does not engage in torture,”
the lies of Donald Rumsfeld, “a few bad apples,”
the lies of George W. Bush,  “We do not torture.”

These are not going to go away.

the torture testimonies of prisoners negating fair trials,
the calls for accountability from institutions and persons of integrity
are not going to go away.

Oh, yes, we know, we know,
We face so many problems right now.

Many of those you will address and some will be solved
Through your brilliance and commitment.

But this, this will not be solved, and this will not go away;

This destruction of our reputation as a nation of laws,
These sickening, heinous, inhuman acts done in your name and our names,
This criminal betrayal of America,

This is  not going to go away.

INVESTIGATE, INDICT, IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE, IN THE NAME OF AMERICA

Mary O’Leary McGlinn

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Letter from London

About Simon

Parvati Nair, 13 April 2009

Lately, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about Simon. This is the reason why.

London has grown quiet over this Easter weekend. Traditionally, the Easter break is when Londoners stay home, visit family, plant seedlings in the garden. As is often the case in this global city, though, not everyone has been relaxing. Saturday saw some 100,000 people gather on a protest march in central London in a bid to convince the British government to intervene in the on-going massacre of Tamils in Sri Lanka. On the day, the protest was mentioned briefly in the news, but most Londoners still do not know much about what it was all about. Most of us Londoners do not know that since the start of this year, over 2,000 Tamil civilians have been killed, as Jaffna and other predominantly Tamil-populated parts of Sri Lanka come under relentless bombing by the Sri Lankan army and soldiers plough through these regions, murdering, raping and looting as they go, while the population struggle against shortages of food and medicine. Most of us do not know that as we plant seedlings in our gardens or hope for a sunny afternoon, a steady and very real genocide is taking place on a small island in the Indian Ocean. Closer to home, most of us do not know that outside the Houses of Parliament in central London lies Parameswaran Subramaniam, weak from a hunger strike that he refuses to lift. Subramaniam is one of two Tamil students who have, in Gandhian style, gone on hunger strikes to protest against the massacre of Tamils that is currently underway in northern and eastern Sri Lanka. The other student, 21 year old Sivatharsan Sivakumaraval finally lifted his strike on Saturday, on the understanding that he would be able to travel to the United States to put the Tamil plight to the American authorities. His mother is by his side, concerned about the damage already done to his kidneys from the lack of fluids. Nonetheless, like so many other mothers of children born to oppression -Palestinian, Saharawi, Kashmiri, Kurdish, Tibetan – she understands that, whether he resists or not, her son has no alternative but find his life placed in the line of fire.
The Tamil conflict goes back many years. Since independence from British rule in 1948, Tamils in Sri Lanka have been faced by discrimination, with limited access to jobs and higher education, relegated by the dominant Singhalese to second-rate citizenship. Inevitably, and as is the case with so many communal conflicts that render the Indian sub-continent apart, the British had their part to play in the division of labours and communities in Sri Lanka. It was the British who shipped the Tamils over in large numbers from their native Tamil Nadu, in southern India, to work in tea plantations. It was the British who, until 1948, maintained control over the two communities by demarcating them and assigning them separate identities in their colonial zeal to divide and rule. Small wonder, then, that upon independence, the Singhalese majority should claim the rights to power.
The politicization of Tamil struggle first began in 1972, with the formation of the Tamil Tigers. Viewed as a terrorist group by the Sri Lankan authorities, as well as by governments in several other countries, the Tigers call themselves activists who seek a nation state of their own. Over the last thirty or more years, news of violence in Jaffna and other parts of Sri Lanka have sporadically hit the news. If the Tigers are seen as terrorists, their activities, even now when ‘terror’ has become the buzzword of our times, do not rank high in the media’s agenda. This is because, unlike Islamist action, the struggle of the Tigers is a localized one, confined to a small part of an island far away from the West.
Even near-by India is turning a semi-blind eye. If the Indian government has, in recent months, made rumbling noises of warning to the Sri Lankan authorities and vacuous promises of aid to the Tamils, then this is largely to pacify the unrest that events in Jaffna have unleashed in Tamil Nadu, where the ancestors of Sri Lanka’s Tamils came from. The truth is that strong bonds tie Tamils in India and Sri Lanka. In Hindu mythology, the Lord Rama rescued his wife Sita from Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka figures large in the cultural imagination of Hindus, through its centrality in the epic Mahabharata. The city of Rameswaram, a site of pilgrimage for Hindus, is less than 40 kilometres by sea to Jaffna.. Spiritually, racially, ethnically, geographically and linguistically, Sri Lankan Tamils and Indian Tamils are pretty much inseparable. India, however, cannot afford to be too openly or too actively sympathetic. For over sixty years, India has had its own blood-soaked history of massacres in the backyard through its military occupation of Kashmir – an on-going conflict that has its roots in another violent legacy of colonially-imposed communal divisions. As the old adage says, those who live in glasshouses should not throw stones. Much that goes in Jaffna is no different from what goes on in Kashmir.  Such is the nature of state oppression.
In keeping with our contemporary form of imperialism, Sivakumaraval now hopes to turn to the powers that be, those of the United States, for intervention. It remains to be seen whether anything will change.
To return to Simon, whom I first met some thirty years ago in a small South Indian restaurant in a backstreet of central London – I wonder what he makes of the latest turn of things… Simon and I became friends as we sat eating the same food on adjacent tables, the conversation turning from the commonality of our shared Carnatic culinary heritage to events ‘back home.’ Simon, it turned out, was an ‘asylum seeker.’ He had once been a student at the University of Jaffna, where he found himself in the heart of turmoil. ‘I couldn’t live there,’ he explained, ‘too much violence. You were in trouble if you were a Tiger and in trouble if you weren’t. Nothing there… No future at all… nothing for young people.’ Over the years, we have met occasionally, always by chance and almost always in the same restaurant. Simon inevitably comes along on his own. For a while, he lived in a shelter for refugees, then in a bed-sit in a bed and breakfast place in Earl’s Court. ‘Very dirty place,’ he complained, ’small, small mice running about everywhere at night.’ Then things got slightly better. He obrained the right of residence in the United Kingdom and got a job as a janitor in an old-age home . A room came with the job. Later, he moved in for a while into a house rented by Tamils. He had to move out. ‘Dangerous,’ he told me, ‘Two of them are Tigers and they are pressurizing me. Me, I am fed up of all this dirty game politics. I just want a normal life…If I get mixed up with them, I could get kicked out of the country and where would I go then?’ At one point, Simon entered into a relationship with an Englishwoman. It did not work out. He seemed dejected. ‘What to do? Cultural difference. She couldn’t understand about things back home.’
Simon, presumably, also could not let go of things ‘back home.’ As violence rips Jaffna apart, his words frame all those who are forced to flee for their lives and then live them out in displacement: ‘No peace at home and no home in peace.’

Note:

Tamil Tigers: 1,000 Civilians Died In Govt Raid

April 21, 2009, AP
Article

COLOMBO, Sri Lanka — Sri Lanka’s Tamil rebels said Tuesday that 1,000 civilians died in a government raid on their territory that the military says freed thousands of noncombatants from the war zone. The military denied the accusation.

As government forces have pushed the rebels into an ever-shrinking sliver of territory, both sides have accused the other of endangering civilians. Rights groups say the rebels are holding many against their will to use as human shields. But those groups have also accused the government of indiscriminate shelling in the tightly packed region in its bid to end the 25-year war.

It is not possible to obtain independent accounts of the situation because the war zone is restricted to journalists.

The international Red Cross warned that a final offensive “could lead to a dramatic increase in the number of civilian casualties.”

Human Rights Watch, which said between 50,000 and 100,000 civilians remained stranded, warned more will die if the government launches a major attack.

“Both sides need to show far greater concern for civilians, or many more civilians will die,” said Brad Adams, the New York-based group’s Asia director.

On Monday, Sri Lankan soldiers broke through a barrier that the Tamil Tiger rebels had erected to defend their slice of territory. Some 35,000 civilians then poured out of the area and the exodus continued Tuesday. The government said more than 50,000 have fled thus far, and the figure was expected to rise.

But the rebels said in an e-mailed statement that more than 1,000 civilians died in the government’s raid and nearly 2,300 were wounded.

“And today a situation of bloodbath is prevailing,” the statement said.

Military spokesman Brig. Udaya Nanayakkara denied the allegation.

The rebels called on the United Nations and the world community to act to rescue the trapped civilians.

The rebels have fought since 1983 for an independent state for Sri Lanka’s ethnic minority Tamils. More than 70,000 people have been killed in the years of violence.

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Lost and Found

By Parvati Nair

When John handed the suitcase to me, the thought I had was not that I was taking it from him, but that it was taking me somewhere. Walking towards the station, I noticed how so many people looked at it as I walked by. The suitcase seemed to have a life force of its own, an ability to attract attention. In the sunlight, its colours ranged from the lightest gold to a burnished copper. I stood for a moment on the corner of Charing Cross Road and Oxford Street and looked at it. More than anything else, more even than our memories, material objects speak to us of the irrevocability of time. You cannot find a suitcase like this any more, I thought. Where these days would one find a suitcase made of wood and leather? With initials engraved? Now they make them flimsy, disposable, entirely anonymous, even hard to distinguish, ready to be thrown into the hold of a plane and then out onto the baggage rack. And so, too, has the nature of journeys changed. We seldom say farewell anymore to loved ones. Or embark on voyages. We expect to arrive anywhere in the world in less than a day and to text home to say we’ve landed, to stay in touch via the mobile phone and internet. I watched a strange incongruence unfold before my eyes as I sat in the tube — the stillness of the case against the jarring sounds coming from my neighbour’s iPod. The suitcase revealed the newness and the raucousness of the contemporary. The three Japanese ladies sitting across me looked at the case, then at me and smiled. I knew the reason why they smiled was not because I had a suitcase with me, but because I had this suitcase. This suitcase, that spoke of another time — indeed, another sense of time and another sense of place.

The suitcase is here in my study now, where it will remain for the duration of its stay. Mark took a photo of me as I came home with it. My plan is to find objects to put into it. Objects that will somehow be meaningful and symbolic. However, as I begin to think of what these might be, I ask myself also what I shall find inside this case. Pandora’s box, maybe or, perhaps, a treasure chest?

In the morning light, the marks on the suitcase looked at first like scars. Some were deeper than others; there was one like a bruise that had scratched the surface, others no more than faint lines that petered off. Then it occurred to me that indeed perhaps they were not scars, but traces. The casual imprints of collisions, happy encounters, rough resting places, the rubbing of shoulders between strangers. . . Like the traveller who comes home, the suitcase has many stories to tell. And like the traveller from afar, the suitcase is mysterious, impossible to know. All I could read at first were the letters J.D.P. My thoughts went to John’s grandfather, Captain John Perivolaris. My sole reference points for him were the words and photograph on John’s blog and of course, this suitcase. I tried to imagine the suitcase in a cabin on a ship. Might there have been a porthole in the cabin? An endless, shifting seascape outside? Had I ever known any sea captains? Ports? Or ships and anchors? I remember my mother once telling me that when she was young, she had spoken to a man who had travelled widely on ships. She was still in India then. He spoke of faraway places, of having been in Las Palmas, Gibraltar, Hong Kong, Singapore, Aden. At the time, my mother had yet to travel much, though she wanted to. The names seemed glamorous. Exotic and faraway. So she had looked at the globe to find these names, but it was hard to tell what the places were like or how far away they really were from home. Later, she found herself visiting nearly all those places and each time, she would retell the story of that man and of how he had ignited in her the desire to see the world.

I remember too the port of Ceuta back in the 1970s, a small Spanish town on the northern coast of Africa that I used to visit as a child. The main street would fill for a day or two with sailors whenever a ship came in to port. This happened often, at least twice or thrice a week. They would fill the bars, speak foreign languages, laugh, drink and buy things and then, of course, disappear forever. They came from all over: Turkey, Italy, Greece and further afield… India, Japan. Strangers who came and went with the sea breeze.

That old, forgotten memory made me realize the suitcase itself was a sort of port, a solid rectangular object that stayed the same whatever the tide. Perhaps it was so for Captain Perivolaris, as it accompanied him throughout the voyages of his life. Now it was here moving from hand to hand and we were the sailors, the travellers who visited it and stayed for just a little while. The suitcase is resolute. It remains unchanging regardless of what we put in it or take out from it. My thoughts turn from John’s grandfather to others I do not know but have become linked to, Margareta Kern, Caroline Watson, Dinu Li, and John by whose desk this suitcase had remained for some months. Somewhere, in some ineluctable form, their traces were also on this case. On its surface. Like me, they had held the handle. They too had opened the lid, looked inside, wondered where it had been, what thoughts it had triggered. They too had sought to inhabit it for a while, filled it with their memories and the haunting of what once was. By bringing the suitcase home, I have entered an invisible weave of strangers, all of us bound by the ephemeral, the fluxes of displacement that are uniquely ours, and ours alone. In so doing, I am encountering the odd familiarity of the stranger. I know nothing or very little about you, and yet when looking inside this case, I feel your presence here in my midst… As I pour my memories into this case, I watch them swirl and mix with yours. I had not expected this… This unexpected connection with those I do not know.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

From the Academy of American Poets

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Seamus Heaney Reflects On His Life In Verse

Huffington Post

This past week, Seamus Heaney was awarded the prestigious David Cohen prize for his life’s work in poetry. It gave Heaney (who turns 70 next month) the chance to reflect on his career, and gives us the chance to as well. The ceremony, interestingly, called for Heaney to select two poems that sum up his work. He was upfront about the difficulty of this: ” I have a slight problem in knowing how to represent a lifetime of poems by reading only a couple of them.”

It was no doubt a tough task for the Nobel Laureate. Born to farmers in rural County Derry in Northern Ireland, Heaney’s life changed dramatically at the age of 12 when he earned a scholarship to a local Catholic boarding school, an opportunity he would later describe as moving from “the earth of farm labour to the heaven of education.” His poetry is often occupied with the gap–and the bridge–between such an earth and heaven, and I was a little surprised that he didn’t choose a poem addressing that theme, such as the well-known “Digging,” wherein he compares his father’s labor (”by God, the old man could handle a spade. /Just like his old man”) to the work he does with his pen.

Instead, Heaney chose two poems which speak to the poetic process: the short lyric poem “Underground” and the sonnet “A Drink of Water.” “Underground” recounts a moment when Heaney and his new bride ran to catch a concert at Royal Albert Hall. He conflates the memory with a series of mythological allusions:

There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,
You in your going-away coat speeding ahead
And me, me then like a fleet god gaining
Upon you before you turned to a reed

Or some new white flower japped with crimson
As the coat flapped wild and button after button
Sprang off and fell in a trail
Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.

Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms,
Our echoes die in that corridor and now
I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones
Retracing the path back, lifting the buttons

To end up in a draughty lamplit station
After the trains have gone, the wet track
Bared and tensed as I am, all attention
For your step following and damned if I look back.

Heaney chose “Underground”, in part, “in gratitude for all that London and the people I have known in London have given by way of literary inspiration and confirmation.” Given the circumstances, one can also read it as a comment on nostalgia. Perhaps Heaney, retracing his career, is returning more solemnly to scenes of passion, in which case the phrase “damned if I look back,” a nod to the myth of Orpheus, takes on a very different meaning. But I like best how the poem speaks to the poetic process. Specifically, how the poet revisits the vivid scene portrayed in the first two stanzas in the relative tranquility of the last two: “lifting the buttons…After the trains have gone, the wet track/ Bared and tensed as I am, all attention”. The poem enacts the Wordsworthian idea of poetry as emotion recollected in tranquility.

Heaney’s second choice, “A Drink of Water,” also speaks to the poetic process. In this case, it’s the act of finding inspiration from an unlikely muse:

She came every morning to draw water
Like an old bat staggering up the field:
The pump’s whooping cough, the bucket’s clatter
And slow diminuendo as it filled,
Announced her. I recall
Her gray apron, the pocked white enamel
Of the brimming bucket, and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle.
Nights when a full moon lifted past her gable
It fell back through her window and would lie
Into the water set out on the table.
Where I have dipped to drink again, to be
Faithful to the admonishment on her cup,
Remember the Giver fading off the lip.

Heaney told his audience that “A Drink of Water” is in some ways about “receiving a gift and being enjoined to ‘remember the giver’,” but that he also intended for water to symbolize poetic inspiration:

“The old lady in the poem was a neighbour, a crone, as she might have been described, who lived on her own, down the fields from us,” he said. “To us kids she had a certain witch-like aura, but in the poem she becomes more like a muse offering the cup of poetry to the child incertus.”

Incertus, a Latin word that roughly translates to uncertain, is also the pseudonym under which Heaney published his first poems. The Nobel Prize winning poet should, by now, at least, be sure of the success of his life’s work.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

A Bull For The Little One

By The McGlynn (written years ago)

On the lower Platte, about a quarter mile above the mouth, there is a pull off from the road that I always use to see if there are any steelheads in the river. As I was pulling in to the spot earlier this week there was a lone fisherman on the bank staring at the river. A good six feet four in height, he was decked out in Wal-Mart, holding a ten-foot spinning rod and reel. I approached him and inquired as to whether there are any fish in the river.
“Fish, they’re all over the river,” he replied.
“Catch any?” I asked.
He turned to me and removed his sunglasses. His face appeared gaunt and his eyes bloodshot.
“I’ve been chasing these fish and casting for days. Haven’t landed one. Had a couple on but they broke off,” he wearily replied.
“What are you using?” I asked.
“Everything. I’m so doggone tired. Been at it since Friday. Haven’t eaten much. Haven’t slept much. Can’t sleep. The damn fish are in my head. Don’t even know what day it is.”
“It’s Wednesday,” I replied.
“My God, I’ve got troubles. My boss let me off early on Friday. Met my buddy and have been at it since. Supposed to be at work on Monday. I’m going to get fired.
My old lady wants to know when I’m coming home. I try but I don’t. She’ll leave me and take the little one.”
I have wondered why the term “old lady”. This guy was in his late twenties or early thirties and they have a little one. He looked bedraggled and exhausted.
“I’m The McGlynn,” I said.
“Earl, here,” he replied. “My buddy left me on Sunday. Went back to Flint. No fish. I couldn’t leave. He don’t understand. No one understands. My boss, my wife. My little one might. We go ice fishing and catch them gills. Her eyes pop out when one is caught. Man, I’ve got troubles. God, I’m tired. The little one’s eyes would really pop out if I brought one these bulls home. Man, would they ever! What’s your name again?”
“The McGlynn. Irish,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said. “Saw these fish on that TV a couple years ago. Everyone had a big one. My buddy said the Platte was where to go. A friend told him years ago.
My buddy has no patience, though. He didn’t do any good. Went back to Flint.
God, I’m tired. The boss called my old lady. Wanted to know what’s wrong. She’s born again. Wouldn’t lie. Told her to call him and say I’m sick. Hell, I am. Nope. Born again. I’m in deep shit. God, I’m tired. I lay down and these damn fish are in my head. Can’t sleep. No one understands. Can’t do anything right. Get snagged up. Knots all over my line. At times forget how to cast. End up in the trees. I got a cooler to put the fish in. Hell, it’s empty. God, I’m so dog gone tired.  Irish, huh?”
“Irish American. My brothers changed my name,” I replied.
“You let them?” he asked.
“They wanted to honor me. Name used to be Dick,” I said.
“Cool,” he said, “What do you use?”
“Flies,” I replied.
“Flies? Don’t have any of them. Catch many?” he asked.
“Some, but I put them back,” I replied.
“You what?” he said.
“It’s a long story,” I replied.
“No time,” he said. ” I don’t have time left. I just wanted a fish to take home. I can see the little one and one of these here fish. God, I’m tired. My body hurts all over. Eyes are burning. I’m going to get in the truck and get miles from here. Going to pull off and close my eyes for a while. Gotta get back to Lansing. Gotta get away from this damn river. Gotta get the fish out of my mind. My old lady is great but she don’t understand. Man, do I have trouble.”
I saw in him some of myself from years ago. In the early sixties I had come to the Platte for a weekend in early April. I hit the river at sunrise that Saturday morning, tired from the night drive. It was freezing cold. Bedecked in Sears Roebuck, I held a spinning rod and the lure was a Mepps spinner. (The following year I would switch to the fly rod and streamers and claim later that I was the first to fish for steelhead with a fly rod. It would be a few years before I saw another fly fisherman on the Platte. A fisherman from the local town of Honor would file a false claim in his book published in the seventies.)
The fish laid along a downed tree with clear gravel beneath. It looked like a log. My heart raced and hands trembled at the sighting of my first steelhead. I approached from below. The first cast resulted in snarled line, forgetting to release properly. The spinning reel was a confusion of monofilament. Body shaking, fingers not responding, cursing the darkness of despair into which I had fallen, it took precious minutes to untangle.
The second cast snagged the tree. My being went ballistic. I cursed the Gods of darkness. I broke off, remembering where in the tree I went fishing. It was a costly lure to lose.
I thought I could not do anything right. My mind turned to home and how the kids would marvel at this monster when I brought it home. I would lay it on the kitchen table. Elaine would want to put newspapers beneath. We would gaze at it and I would tell my story of the battle. I would leave out the preliminaries. No need to confuse the little ones. Elaine would cook it. She would know how. I did not have the vaguest idea.
I tied on another Mepps spinner. On the third cast the fish hit and I netted him after a good tussle. It was the first steelhead in my life. It was the only steelhead I caught that weekend.
My heart and mind were caught between fishing and home for the rest of the weekend.
The drive home was a joy of remembrance and high anticipation. It would be a year before I returned to the Platte, fly rod in hand.
I was now standing next to a man in deep despair. I could see his kitchen table with a fish upon it, newspapers underneath. Even the little one, on her toes, peeking up over the table. I saw her eyes bug out. I even saw his “old lady” with a smile on her face. And Earl would tell his story.
I was ready to tell Earl that he could tell the little one how he fought the fish that broke off. He could describe everything about the battles. Her mind would grasp his words. I did not. Words would not penetrate his despair.
“Earl,” I said. “Follow me. I want to show you something. We’ll pray to the Gods for a fish.”
“I’ve been talking to Him for days,” he said. “He ain’t listening.”
Without much conviction Earl followed me down to the bend in river. We entered the river below some fish on a redd.
Later, as he was putting his gear in the back of his truck, he said, “you know, I never saw a fly rod before. Never had one in my hand. Used to throw rotten apples off a willow stick as a kid in Georgia. Feels a little the same. Cost much?”
“Depends,” I replied.
He was hurriedly packing up. Almost left his spinning rod behind. His mind was elsewhere. He shouted out the window of his truck, as he was pulling away, “gotta get some ice for that cooler.” He drove a few yards, stopped and shouted out “do you think they’ll understand?”
“The little one will,” I shouted back.
I retreated back to the bend in the river, found my sitting log, and watched the male steelheads chase one another off a redd occupied by a female. A jack, an immature steelhead, lay below the redd, observing. I thought these are the best of times.

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Winter, Still

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Student’s painting reflects

struggles and hope

February 24, 2009
By Andrea Hahn 02/24/2009 15:26:55

Full Article

CARBONDALE, Ill. — Keith Jacobs, a student in the SIU School of Medicine’s Medical/Dental Education Preparatory Program, created “The Dynamics of Hope” to commemorate the election of the country’s first black president.

While the painting, on display on the second floor of Wheeler Hall, is partially a portrait of President Barack Obama, it also serves as Jacobs’ commentary that now is a hopeful time but one fraught with challenges.

“The painting represents the struggle to get a black president in office, but also the challenges he faces now that he is there,” Jacobs said…………………………………………………………………

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I Met the Walrus

“I Met the Walrus” was nominated for Best Animated Short at the 2008 Oscars. Loren Lankford of Paste Magazine writes: “In 1969, 14-year-old Beatles fan Jerry Levitan tracked his idol, John Lennon, from a Toronto airport to his room at the King Edward Hotel. Inside, he convinced Lennon to do an impromptu interview. Thirty-eight years later, Levitan teamed with director Josh Raskin to create and edit a five-minute short film entitled ‘I Met the Walrus’ based on the interview.

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Panhala

Excellent Site For Poetry

_

Boundaries
The universe does not
revolve around you.
The stars and planets spinning
through the ballroom of space
dance with one another
quite outside of your small life.
You cannot hold gravity
or seasons; even air and water
inevitably evade your grasp.
Why not, then, let go?
You could move through time
like a shark through water,
neither restless or ceasing,
absorbed in and absorbing
the native element.
Why pretend you can do otherwise?
The world comes in at every pore,
mixes in your blood before
breath releases you into
the world again.  Did you think
the fragile boundary of your skin
could build a wall?
Listen.  Every molecule is humming
its particular pitch.
Of course you are a symphony.
Whose tune do you think
the planets are singing
as they dance?
~ Lynn Ungar ~

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“In a sense America is dying from within, because they forgot the instructions on how to live on earth.”
– Floyd (Red Crow) Westerman (August 17, 1936 December 13, 2007), Dakota musician, activist and actor

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OUR DANGEROUS TERRORIST

Look at him, if you can: our prisoner, our dangerous terrorist.

He sits there on the hot, barren ground,

Hooded, unable to see his world,

Surrounded by barbed wire to keep us safe.

Look at him, our prisoner, our dangerous terrorist.

In his hooded darkness, his hand caresses the flushed forehead of a small child,

His arm embraces this child, holding him close to his chest.

Look at the child’s small bare feet; look at his eyes closed against the glare of his world.

Look at him, our prisoner, our dangerous terrorist.

What words of comfort is he saying to this small child?

What is the child saying to his protector?

Look, his mouth is open. Is he moaning? Is he crying?

Look at him, our prisoner, our dangerous terrorist.

He sits there on the hot, barren ground.

He feels this small child next to him, breathing heavily in the hot sun.

Our terrorist is hooded but he is not blind; he will remember this world.

Look at him, if you can: our prisoner, our dangerous terrorist.

He embraces this small child. Do we?

He protects this small child. Do we?

He loves this small child. Do we?

Who, then, is the terrorist?

Is he? Am I? Are you?

Mary O’Leary-McGlinn

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Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circum spice. (1)

PENINSULA PEACE

 

(An ode to July in Michigan)

Time and time again, I have found peace here at this lovely inland lake

On this beautiful peninsula in Michigan:

Peace as comforting as the early morning sun warming

The waiting lake;

Peace as sweet as almost-forgotten scents of earth, woods, leaves, life released

By the soaking Summer rain;

Peace as soothing as the movement of white wisps of clouds, slow-dancing

Across a vast expanse of blue;

Peace as calming as the lake at twilight,

Quiet, still, serene;

Peace as deep as the infinite, star-studded

Northern night sky;

Peace as loving as the full golden moon laying down a path of

Soft light across the gently rippling night water.

Oh, to be able to keep this peace as a mystical memento

Of a Leelanau retreat,

To bring it home as a spiritual shield against

The city glare and noise,

Until, returning north, I am made new once again by

The peace of this peninsula..

Mary Oleary-McGlinn

(1) If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.

State Motto of Michigan

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The Poem

Sent by Jim

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A Walk Through Arlington

Come, walk with me past the white stones
Through ancient fields of the fallen
Along paths of dreams not seen
Through aisles of solemn stillness
The oaks and elms not heard
To acres not visited by the tours
Come, walk with me

Past wars and our discontents
We will look for fresh earth
Where a canopy is ready
Where fresh wreaths adorn the new white
Where an anthem and taps sound
Come, walk with me

Past the innocence of youth
The bounty of life never seen
The saga of age denied
Borne by brothers to rest
We will see the past
Come, walk with me

The moment is over the next rise
The white of canopy
Green shoveled aside for the earth
Upon approach
Curfew calls a mother and daughter
Come, walk with me

Stones’ whiteness sears the eyes
A nation’s history cries
Pangs of conscience overwhelm
We are among the young
Born to flower we failed
Such a large bounty to waste
Come, walk with me

One of eighteen years rests
Beloved daughter, Sam
No child will bound into her lap
No child will grace her knee
Her art of mind and heart lost
No warm hearth of ages of love
Come, walk with me

Through alleys of white
Row upon row of young
Never to return to their streets of warmth
Nor to grace a porch
And shout a greeting to the village
Their virtues denied by war
Come, walk with me

Oh Sam, I hurt for you
For denying you your destiny
The bounty of life and saga of age
If only my voice could provoke your silence
We could meet the dawn
And grasp the moon
One would grace your knee with a little one
Give warmth to your mother
Come, walk with me

Our view will turn to and over the river
Where a little tyrant rules
Rising through lies, fear, slaughter and blood
To the applause of a nation
And that of a listening congress
Silence triumphs its halls
Come, walk with me

Come, walk with me
Let us go outside …..and march
Come, walk with me
For Sam and the young resting….in silence

The McGlynn

October, 2007

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A Sense of Place

Everyone has memorable big-letter days in their lives – weddings, births, graduations – such days are too few, but are also somewhat artificial in that they are so unique, and so unlike daily life that they have an almost detached feeling to them. Then there are those remarkable days that happen within the relatively normal ebb and flow of our lives that stand out and never fade away. They stay with you not because they are easy to remember, but rather because they are inescapable and cannot be forgotten, like they are part of your identity.

June 8, 2001 was such a day. The setting of it was by no means my regular or ordinary daily life. Quite to the contrary, it was extraordinary in that Marna and I, before we were married, traveled to Ireland for two weeks. However, it was ordinary in the sense that we were travelling on our own, making provisions on our own, and spending our time together. Every day, Ireland presented something remarkable for our pleasure. Quickly, notions of deadlines, projects, bills, and the daily grind were forgotten. But June 8, 2001, stands out above every other day.

Ireland had a very special feeling. Not to sound trite or cliched, but Ireland felt like home to such an extent that home has never felt quite the same since I returned. To this day, I find myself constantly questioning the speed, modernity, and hassle of our lives. In Ireland, I felt so much more in focus and within myself in the moment, instead of thinking about later that day, or tomorrow, or next week. So with this sense of place, I revisit June 8, 2001 every day of my life.

Marna and I drove into the Dingle Peninsula, located on the very southwest corner of the island. It is a small peninsula that jets out into the Irish Sea and Atlantic Ocean. I say we drove, but Marna had done all of the driving. My skill was keeping us on the map, and her skill was keeping us on the road. We complimented each other perfectly as we never really found ourselves lost or in a ditch. As the day progressed, we stopped in Anascaul – the home of the great Irish antarctic explorer Tom Crean, and where you can still see The South Pole Inn, the pub he operated later in his life – and Dingle – a beautiful town with brightly painted homes and businesses. The day was near perfect, low 70’s, mostly sunny, and no humidity. As beautiful and scenic as Dingle and Anascaul were, it was our drive into the peninsula that stays with me.

It was the town of Inch, and its beach, that is locked into my memory. Inch sits near the base of the Dingle Peninsula and looks out onto Dingle Bay. The bay view further looks out to the confluence of the Irish Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. The Inch beach, or strand, is beautiful – it is where parts of Ryan’s Daughter were filmed. And you can drive right down onto it. On this particular day, at this particular hour, at this particular moment, there was no one there but the seagulls and us. It was windy, and the rising hills above the beach acted to funnel the sound of the waves and wind right down onto you. At times it was a near deafening sound, not in a painful way but totally natural. There were enough clouds to give the pure blue sky some context, some comparison. The sun was bright, but the winds kept the air cool. We parked the car, on the beach, and walked around – picking up some shells and stones. Marna and I could hardly not laugh, it was all so perfect and beautiful it almost had to be a joke. While we did very little – no hiking, tanning, or swimming – we were there for quite a while in a stunned state of sensory attachment. Finally, and regrettably, it was time to go.

It easily is the single most idyllic and pure moment I have experienced. There is not a day that passes in which I do not close my eyes and imagine Marna and myself standing barefoot on the sands of the the Inch strand staring out at the waters, sun in our eyes, wind in our hair, crashing waves in our ears. I can still see, feel, and hear it as if it were yesterday.

By Boo Radley

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Assassinated Red Menace Dictator Dumped into The AuSable

By The Irrelevant Press, Reported by The McGlynn
Published: May 2005

The Irrelevant Press reported this morning that General Sciurus Vulgaris, dictator of the Red Menace, was assassinated by a bullet to the head while eating lunch on the banks of the AuSable at noon on April 30, the most holy of days in this year’s calendar. It is reported that the General’s mind had been affected for a long time by the virus parapox, giving him a false sense of security. The parapox spreading program was initiated two years ago under the direct orders of President Sciurus Carolinensis, the leader of the rebellious Greys. The President was quoted saying at that time that all means, including the Greys’ natural borne parapox, was to be employed in the annihilation of the Red Menace.

A year ago, with victory still in doubt, Carolinensis ordered the introduction of Viagra as a food supplement for his army, contributing to a dramatic increase in the army’s numbers and a satisfied barracks’ life for the troops.
Another tactic used was the introduction of truckloads of salted shelled peanuts for his troops; the salt being required for the survival of his army of Greys but anathema to the Red Menace. Caches of peanuts were stored underground for winter sustenance.

Carolinensis has denied Vulgaris all funeral rights and has denied a request for his body from the Sciurus Vulgaris of Great Britain, where the struggle between the Greys and the Red Menace continues unabated. Rumor has it that the body was mistakenly buried but was dug up by a battalion of Greys and, following a massive celebration and a torch parade led by Carolinensis under a banner proclaiming “Mission Accomplished”, dumped the remains into the AuSable river at midnight.

The assassination of Vulgaris could mean the death knell of the Red Menace and the complete return of the AuSable country to a stable democracy under Carolinensis. Under his leadership a clandestine program of rendition was enacted whereby dissident Greys are sent to Great Britain where they must join the Greys in the battle against the Red Menace or face extermination or sterilization at the hands of the Red Menace, assisted by the British Government.
(The BBC reports that the Ministry of Agriculture and the Forestry Commission has given financial incentives to those killing the Greys. Cartridges are issued free to approved grey squirrel clubs; for those operating independently, a quid was given per tail sent to the county pest officer in bundles of six. Some relished the thought of using new poisons, ICI explosives, gas, and elaborate traps against the grey offenders. Boys are allegedly removing tails from live squirrels. The Forestry commission advised enticing the Greys into sacks to kill them (probably haphazardly) through a blow to the head with a cricket bat.
A member of the House of Lords has called for the Greys to be ’shot on sight’ in an effort to keep their numbers under control.
“We must revert to a policy of shooting on sight,” said Viscount Brookborough. “I accept that we would not wipe them out, but where we are we have found that the best way of control.”
Baroness Farrington outlined government plans for a sterilization program for the Greys (calling them grey bushy-tailed menaces) in order to keep their numbers at bay. “What we are doing is working, and hoping, through sponsoring via the Forestry Commission, a project at Sheffield University, that within three years of testing we may have developed a successful sterilization program”

In a wide rambling celebration speech President Carolinensis again addressed the danger that the Vulgaris in Great Britain pose to the Grey Nation. Stating that the weapons of mass destruction that Great Britain possess and are providing the Vulgaris are an imminent threat he went on to say:
“The folks who conducted to act on our country made a big mistake. They underestimated our nation of Greys. They underestimated our resolve, our determination, our love for freedom. They misunderestimated the fact that we love a neighbor in need. They misunderestimated the compassion of our country. I think they misunderestimated the will and determination of the President, too.
The enemy understands a free Sciurus will be a major defeat in their ideology of hatred. That’s why they’re fighting so vociferously. The ambassador and the general were briefing me on the — the vast majority of Sciurus want to live in a peaceful, free world. And we will find these people and we will bring them to justice.
As you know, we don’t have relationships with Great Britain. I mean, that’s — ever since the late ’80s, we have no contacts with them, and we’ve totally sanctioned them. In other words, there’s no sanctions — you can’t — we’re out of sanctions.
Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our Grey citizens, and neither do we.
Believing that security is the essential roadblock to achieving the road map to peace, we will make sure our troops have all that is necessary to complete their missions. That’s why I went to the Congress last September and proposed fundamental — supplemental funding, which is money for armor and body parts and ammunition and fuel.
We ended the rule of one of history’s worst tyrants, and in so doing, we not only freed the Greys, we made our own Greys more secure.
You’re free. And freedom is beautiful. And, you know, it’ll take time to restore chaos and order — order out of chaos. But we will. We hold dear what our Carolinensis Sciurus Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator.
Soon we will have an election. Who could have possibly envisioned an erection — an election in our land at this point in history?”

To the Vulgaris terrorists the President had this to say:
“My answer is bring them on. And in my judgment, when the the Grey Nation says there will be serious consequences, and if there isn’t serious consequences, it creates adverse consequences. Further the notion that the Grey Nation is getting ready to attack Great Britain is simply ridiculous. And having said that, all options are on the table. I’m the commander — see, I don’t need to explain — I do not need to explain why I say things. That’s the interesting thing about being president.”
As he left the stage the President greeted a former soldier saying “I’m honored to shake the hand of a brave Grey who had his hand cut off by Vulgaris”

The elderly Vulgaris, one-time AuSable Country vagabond who rose to be the dictator of the Red Menace , and the scourge of the Greys, was, like many of the world’s dictators, a product of civil chaos which brought Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini to power. The Sciurus Famine of the ‘80s was such a chaos, leading to the titanic struggle over AuSable’s food supply which paved the way for Vulgaris’s domination in the former mighty AuSable land of the Greys.

Before the climax of a brutal career unparalleled in Sciurus history, he had subdued the Greys, imported the Red Menace Army and created a social and economic system founded upon the complete subjection of the populace to his will in all basic features of social, political, economic and cultural life. His depravity knew no bounds, even ordering his army to bite the private parts off their victims.

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Red Menace Attack

Red Squirrel Knocks Out Power to 5,000

By The Irrelevant Press, Reported by The McGlynn
Published: August 15, 2006
KOKOMO, Ind. (AP) — A terrorist red squirrel invaded a power substation and left more than 5,000 homes and businesses without electricity.
Duke Energy restored the service from the South Main Street substation near Wildcat Creek after about an hour Sunday night.
”The terrorist red squirrel died in the attack and we lost 5,039 customers for the space of an hour,” Duke spokesman Rob Norris said.
The outage included much of the city’s central neighborhoods west of U.S. 31.
Further comment on this Red Menace attack came from both President Sciurus Carolinensis, leader of the Grey Nation with its capital on the banks of the AuSable River and the Grey Nation’s Homeland Security Secretary Cherti.
Carolinensis stated “This country is safer than it was prior to 9-11 when the Red Menace reached its strength.” The President was on the airport tarmac here where he was appearing at events focused on finding more beer for his constituents (to go along with the peanuts and to stimulate the Viagra taken by his troops). “We’ve taken a lot of measures to protect the Grey Nation. But obviously we still aren’t completely safe. … It is a mistake to believe there is no threat to our nation. The Reds in Great Britain are continuing to slaughter our fellow Greys in that country.”

The Greys’ Homeland Security Secretary Cherti , upon hearing the news, stated:
“We want to make sure that there are no remaining threats out there, and we also want to take steps to prevent any would-be copycats who may be inspired to similar conduct.”
He again stated the watch points to identify the Red Menace cells:
• Unusually large purchases of nuts and or birdseed.
• The absence of a dog or cat in their home.
• Radiation levels in excess of federal standards, particularly around woodpiles and . under redwood decks
• An unusual interest in local politics, especially as it pertains to rodent control
• Membership in social and or political organizations promoting environmental
awareness which would protect their feeding grounds.
• Names like Vulgaris, Squrrlluva, Chitters, and others.

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Shara’s Writings

Fireworks

Last week, on a severely hot day, Mr. Fatwater had stormed over to the Morgans’ home. Dan, jumping on the trampoline out in the backyard, had seen Mr. Fatwater’s black pick-up truck racing towards the house, a wide streak of dust chasing the vehicle. Dan had quietly run inside and hid under his bed.

Mrs. Morgan, who had been baking in the kitchen, whisked t the door in a flowery apron upon hearing the doorbell. In the study, Mr. Morgan set down his newspaper, put food in the cat bowl (the cat was named “Mouse”) and joined his wife at the door just before she opened it.

Mr. Fatwater stood on the porch, his hand raised in an angry fist to begin knocking again. His hunched frame looked especially tiny in the doorway and he glared up at the Morgans from beneath bushy, grey brows.

“I thought I told you,” he croaked. Dan, from his hiding spot, could hear every word.

“I’m sorry, but told us what?” said Mrs. Morgan politely.

“Last year, on this exact day, I told you.”

Dan fidgeted under the bed. After a second of confused silence, Mr. Morgan spoke.

“Last July 4^th?”

Mr. Fatwater turned to him.

“Don’t light those doggone fireworks. They spook my horses and no one can ride ‘em for days. They throw everyone off. I have to wait a week ‘til they can get back on the trails and I lose customers!”

Dan slid further back under his bed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fatwater,” said his mother slowly. “It won’t happen again. I guess we… forgot.”

Out on the porch, Mr. Fatwater wiped the sweat dripping off his bald head and looked to Mr. Morgan for his apology.

“Er, yes, of course. No more fireworks,” said Mr. Morgan, shifting from one foot to another.

Mr. Fatwater spat off the side of the porch, slowly turned, and left without another word.

Dan heard the door shut. He could hear the shuffling of his parents’ feet and then his mother’s voice.

“Daniel!”

He didn’t respond. He was to busy trying to figure out if he would be in trouble for lighting those fireworks the night before.

“Daniel Morgan! I know you’re under the bed! Lunch in the kitchen! Now!”

Dan slowly scooted out on his tummy from beneath the bed and walked into the kitchen where his mother and father were already seated. His blonde hair hung in

his face as he sat down and piled mashed potatoes on his plate, avoiding eye contact with his parents. His father swiftly said Grace and then his mother immediately began talking.

“So, Dan, when did you light the fireworks?”

Dan mumbled something through a mouthful of potatoes, his eyes on his plate.

“What was that?” Dan swallowed hard.

“Um, when you and dad went into town for groceries last night.” His mother frowned at him.

“I see.” She turned to Mr. Morgan. “Well. Do you have anything to say to your son?”

Mr. Morgan, who had been reading the back of the milk carton, looked up guiltily. “Well, son. Uh, you should always make sure an adult is around when using fire to light something.” He looked back to the milk carton.

“And?” demanded his wife. She gave a sigh of frustration before addressing Dan again. “Mr. Fatwater complained about you lighting fireworks last year. Yet you still lit some again yesterday although I know you remember him scolding you last year, because you asked me the meaning of… never mind. Anyway, you must respect your elders even if they are a little-“

“Grouchy?” said Dan.

“Yes, older and therefore grouchy,” agreed his mother.

“And creepy?” said Dan again.

“Ok, that’s it,” his mother replied, scowling. “You’re grounded for a few days. I’ll let you know when your time is up.”

“But… but, July 4^th is on Friday!” Dan protested.

“And you already lit your fireworks. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t. I specifically remember you promising with all your heart that it wouldn’t happen because we didn’t want to upset our new neighbors. Remember? Who gave them to you anyway?”

“Tim,” said a subdued Dan.

“I’ll have a talk with his mother. I swear, that child is such a little rascal. Gets everyone into trouble. Well, finish up and go do your homework.”

Dan did as he was told, closing his door sharply behind him to express all his thoughts he didn’t dare say.

After he had gone, Mr. Morgan turned to his wife who had begun to clear the table.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“Hm?” responded his wife vaguely, bustling about. “Oh don’t worry, Richard. I won’t really ground him for that long. Just tomorrow. I want him to learn some respect is all.”

“Oh, not that. That’s not what I meant,” said Mr. Morgan.

“Well, what did you mean?”

“I’m wondering why Mr. Fatwater complains about our fireworks.”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Mrs. Morgan replied. She began to load the dishwasher. Mr. Morgan walked over to help her.

“His ranch is next to the Bonds’, right?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s all the way on the other side of town, isn’t it?”

“I know. We just have to put up with his senility, dear.” And with that, Mrs. Morgan snapped the dishwasher shut.

(To be continued)

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The Macon County Mystery

Chapter 1: The Fair

The Macon County Fair took place every fall, just before Halloween. Everyone in the county generally showed up, which isn’t saying much since Macon was a very small town. Brett and Vanessa Terrence, also known as “the Terrence twins”, had arrived there early on the chilly Sunday morning to say hello to the townspeople taking part in the fair. It seemed that half of the Macon population was involved in running the fair and Brett and Vanessa knew every one of them.

Calling out hello’s left and right, first to the librarian, Mrs. Fording, who let them in for free and lastly to Mr. Reynolds at the carousel, Brett and Vanessa found themselves at the psychics’ lair. Upon entering the brightly colored tent, they were pleasantly surprised to find Ms. Moss in an outrageous turban and an ugly chartreuse dress.

“Why hello, dears!” cried Ms. Moss. Then, putting on a mock severe voice, she said, “I hope you two have your work ready for tomorrow. That project is a big part of your grade.”

Ms. Moss was the English teacher at Macon County High and by far the nicest teacher there. All her students loved her, even the ones that received low grades through no fault but their own.

“Aaaand hello to you too,” said a smiling Brett. “I have my project almost ready. I’ve just gotta put the finishing touches on it and then it’s all done.”

“I just have to, not ‘gotta’,” corrected Ms. Moss, before she could catch herself. “Oops, sorry! These corrections slip out. Don’t worry, I’ll try to save them for the classroom.”

Brett scowled.

Ms. Moss turned to Vanessa. “I’m sure you’re finished with your project.” Before Vanessa could state otherwise, Ms. Moss continued, “Oh forget it. We aren’t in school today. There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow. Tarot reading, anyone?”

And so, Brett and Vanessa found their morning pleasantly engaged with Ms. Moss and an earful of make-believe kids and wealth. Apparently, Vanessa would stumble upon a vast fortune, but only after she renounced her worldly possessions and moved into the woods.

(”But I thought she was renounced!” said Brett. “Jealous,” muttered Vanessa.) Brett would supposedly be married five times and twice to the same girl.

(”That sounds reasonable. Who could stand to live with him?” she joked as Brett stuck his tongue out at her.)

An hour flew by until Brett and Vanessa stood up, thanking Ms. Moss for her wonderfully entertaining readings.

“My pleasure!” she said with a smile. “Be sure to stop by again before the day is over and make sure I’m still alive.”

They assured her they would do just that… after Brett had muttered under his breath “Wouldn’t she know when her end was coming?” and Vanessa elbowed him hard in the ribs.

When they stepped out into the sunlight, Brett and Vanessa were amazed to see how many people had arrived in the last hour. Screaming kids swarmed the fairgrounds, pulling on their charges’ hands. Groups of teens, just as rowdy, lined up for rides and games. It seemed as if the whole town had congregated at the fairgrounds. As they weaved through the crowd, they heard many shouts of greeting and returned all of them. With Halloween just around the corner, everyone was in a festive mood.

“Over there!” Vanessa pulled on Brett’s arm. “Let’s take a look at the pumpkins. Dad told me yesterday that we should pick one out and bring it home.”

“But I wanted to… ride on the carousel,” Brett finished lamely.

“HOW old are you again? We need to get a good pumpkin before they’re all gone!”

“Why? Where are we going to put it while we go on the rides?”

“I’m sure Ms. Moss will let us leave it in the psychic’s tent,” replied Vanessa. “You know, it’ll add to her whole ‘mysterious’ tarot theme.”

“Fine, fine. But we have to go on each ride before we leave. And YOU can carry the pumpkin.”

“Okay, I will. But you’re holding my purse then.” She shoved her purse into Brett’s hands.

“Your money might accidentally go missing!” he said, as she walked away.

“And I know where you live!” she called over her shoulder.

The pumpkin patch was at the far corner of the fairgrounds. It was actually a decent size thanks to Mr. Andrews, who had the best green thumb in Macon County. A big tent stood to one side of the patch, packed with parents and kids taking out their artistic abilities on their chosen pumpkins. Mr. Andrews sat watching, pride written all over his kind features. Brett and Vanessa waved to him before stepping into the orange-dotted lawn.

Vanessa immediately spotted the biggest pumpkin and made her way toward it. She squatted next to it and inspected it closely, looking for any bug holes or bites. It was perfect. She was just about to stand up and call Brett over when a grating voice sounded close to her ear.

“Good choice, dearie.” Vanessa gasped and jumped up, startled. She turned and found herself looking into Mr. Vanderwort’s eyes.

Mr. Vanderwort was, without doubt, the creepiest man in the county. He lived alone at the top of Billing’s Hill and only left his home on very rare occasions. Rumors circulated within the town about his past; that he was in one too many wars, that he was a drug-smuggler back in the day, that he was a retired sailor who had witnessed his crew drown. But they were all rumors. No one knew for sure how old he was or what his past was and for sure nobody would ask him. It was said that once a man jokingly asked him what he did for a living and Mr. Vanderwort had just stared at him, his cold eyes glaring out from beneath his scraggly hair. The next day, all of that mans’ cattle were found dead in the field. Everyone knew it was better to steer clear of Mr. Vanderwort.

Vanessa took a deep breath and silently willed her heart to stop racing. “Hello, Mr. Vanderwort. It’s a nice day to be out.” Mr. Vanderwort stared at her. Then he stared at the sky.

“Yep. They’re here,” he said, still staring hard at the blue sky. Vanessa glanced around. Brett was on the other side of the patch with his back to her, chatting with a group of his high school buddies. So much for a rescue. She told herself she was being silly and turned back to Mr. Vanderwort, who was still looking skywards.

“Um. Who’s here?”

He jerked his eyes back to her.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he growled. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I d…don’t, really,” Vanessa stammered, slowly edging away.

“The underground. The underground. They come from under the ground. From the underground.”

“Everything okay, Vanessa?” Mr. Andrews had walked over and he now put his hand on her shoulder. Mr. Vanderwort glared at him.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,” he spat. Then he loped off towards the main section of the fair, his hunched figure clearing a wide path from the other visitors.

Mr. Andrews glanced upwards. “It sure doesn’t look like rain,” he laughed. Then he said more seriously to Vanessa, “Mr. Vanderwort is harmless. Still, stay away from him. Some people have been through more than we can ever comprehend.” He gave her shoulder a pat and headed over to help an indecisive family choose a pumpkin.

Vanessa stood quietly for a second. Underground? What did Mr. Vanderwort mean? Then she decided she was just being silly. I must be dumb if I’m going to listen to his crazy talk, she thought. She picked up the big pumpkin (it was heavier than it looked) and walked over to the tent to find Brett and pay for it.

Later that evening, on their fifth carousel ride, Vanessa told Brett what happened in the pumpkin patch. Brett laughed.

“He’s crazy!”

“I KNOW that,” said Vanessa, feeling slightly stupid, “but it kind of weirded me out.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Mr. Vanderwort has a couple of screws loose. Underground? Haha! Does he believe in vampires or something?”

They stayed to help clean up the fairgrounds after the crowd had left. Brett and Vanessa’s parents weren’t expecting them home at a specific time so, when asked to help out by a harried-looking Mr. Crosby (who had organized the fair), they happily agreed. They were quickly supplied with gloves and trash bags and set to picking up litter in the dimly lit fairgrounds.

“What I don’t get,” said Vanessa, “is why someone had to dump this can on the ground two inches away from the garbage can.” She picked the can up and dropped it into her bag.

“Hey kids!”

A tired Ms. Moss walked toward them. She looked like a mess. Her turban was skewed and falling off. Her makeup was smudged and she had a big ketchup stain on her robe.

“Wow, what happened to you?” asked Vanessa.

Ms. Moss glanced down at the ketchup stain with a small grin. “I told a little boy that he should stop eating so much if he wanted health in his future. He didn’t like that very much.”

“Well,” said Vanessa, suppressing a giggle, “I guess some people don’t know a good fortune-teller when they see one.”

“Thank you, honey. Your pumpkin is still in the tent. Amazingly enough, it doesn’t have ketchup on it.” Ms. Moss massaged her forehead. “My last prediction for the night: I will be sleeping for a decade.” They laughed and she said good-bye.

An hour later, they had almost all of the trash off the ground. Most of the adults had done their share and sleepily headed home. Mr. Crosby thanked Brett and Vanessa and told them to leave whenever they wanted. They decided to stay ten more minutes and then head home.

“Watch this!” Brett grabbed a half-eaten pretzel from the ground and launched it at a nearby trashcan. It bounced off the side with a “thud”.

“Haha! Great aim, Brett. You should join the NBA,” said Vanessa sarcastically. She walked over to pick up the pretzel and put it in the trashcan. Something glittery caught her eye. She reached in and pulled a long chain out. Dangling on the end was a big key.

Brett jogged over. “Hey cool! Isn’t that one of those old keys?”

Vanessa held the key up to get a better look at it. “Yeah, they’re called skeleton keys. I wonder why this was in the trash can.”

“Well, someone’s loss and your gain. It’s neat. Keep it.”

“Yeah, it is.” Vanessa tucked the key and chain into her jacket pocket. “I think we’ve picked up most of the garbage. Head home?”

After piling the trash bags near the port-o-potties and shedding their gloves, they found their pumpkin and began their walk home. It was a twenty-minute walk to the town square and ten-minutes past the square was their home. They didn’t mind the walk at all. In fact, Mr. Crosby had asked them if they wanted a ride. But it was such a beautiful night that they decided to enjoy it. Chatting animatedly about the day and the people they had seen, they cut through an old cow field and walked by the abandoned barns.

“They’re creepy at night,” said Vanessa, looking up at the looming outline.

“They’re creepy in the day and they still smell like cows,” muttered Brett. “Jeez, it’s getting chilly out here.” He stopped to get a better grip on the pumpkin. “I still can’t believe you talked me into carrying this thing.”

“Would you rather make a girl carry it while you watched? That’s not very gentleman-like,” said Vanessa sweetly.

“You don’t count. You’re my sister,” replied Brett, but he didn’t try to give her the pumpkin.

They continued walking.

“I love it out here,” said Vanessa, breathing in deeply. “It smells like autumn. Oh, watch out for the old well.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

And then, without warning, it happened.

Vanessa felt a tug on her purse and whirled around. “Wha-?!”

Someone was trying to pull her purse off her shoulder.

Vanessa screamed and pulled away. She crashed into Brett behind her, who dropped the pumpkin. The person stumbled back out of the barn shadow and, in the moonlight, they got a clear view of him. The first thing they noticed was that he was extremely white, almost luminescently so and… completely bald. No eyebrows and not a hair on his head. He looked to be about four feet tall and was only wearing a long, black shirt. The second thing that stood out about him was that his nose was abnormally long and pointy.

“Ow! He scratched me!” said Vanessa, examining her arm.

“Good grief,” gasped Brett. “That is one ugly little kid.”

For a few seconds, they stood there looking at him. He stared back with small, squinted eyes.

And then he hissed.

“What?! He just-.” Vanessa didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. The kid lunged at her purse again and she screamed.

Brett jumped forward. “Get off my sister!” he yelled and grabbed the boy from behind. Brett dragged him off Vanessa and shoved him hard.

The kid staggered back, tripped over a piece of wood and fell straight into the well, all without a sound.

Vanessa and Brett froze, too shocked to say anything.

Vanessa found her voice first. “Oh my God, I think you killed him.” They ran over to the well and peered into it. It was pitch black.

“Hello?” Brett shouted into the well. “Can you hear me? Hello!”

His voice echoed back at them.

And then silence.

They waited for a noise, anything to let them know that the boy was okay.

Nothing.

“We need to get to the police now!” breathed Vanessa.

Brett was still staring into the well. “I didn’t mean to. God, I didn’t mean to-.”

“I know you didn’t mean to!” shouted Vanessa. She took a deep breath and said, in a soothing voice, “It’s alright. It was an accident. Now we need to get someone to help, okay?” Brett looked at her and nodded.

They turned away from the well and ran as fast as they could towards the town square, the pumpkin forgotten on the ground.

Chapter 2: The Book

The next day was the longest school day Vanessa had ever endured. She had gotten very little sleep the night before, due to their odd encounter, and now she couldn’t focus in class. She attempted to pass the time by doodling and reading under her desk, but she couldn’t focus on either one. Somehow she survived through English, history, art, science, and was now waiting for her last class to end. Glancing at the clock every two seconds, she waited for what seemed like eternity. As soon as the bell rang, she jumped up and was the first out the door.

Brett was waiting for her at her locker.

“Any news?” she asked him eagerly.

“Principal Watts pulled me out of math and said we should go to his office after school was over. Let’s go.”

They quickly walked down the school halls, navigating their way through the students.

“I hope the kid’s okay,” said Brett.

“I’m sure he is. The well is empty and probably piled with leaves.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Why was he trying to grab your purse? I don’t get it. We don’t have pick-pockets in this town. All of that happens in the city.”

“I don’t know. I thought we knew everyone in Macon. Anyone move here recently?”

“Not that I know of. But if they did, I’m sure we’ll find out soon.”

They arrived at Principal Watts’s office and knocked on the door. The portly principal opened the door and said in a booming voice, “Come on in!”

He ushered them in and told them to take a seat. “I’m sure you know the Sheriff?” he said, gesturing to a uniformed man occupying the third seat.

“It’s okay, Morris. I talked to the kids last night at the office,” said the sheriff.

Brett blurted out, “Sheriff, we really need to know if that boy is okay.”

The sheriff took off his hat and rubbed his balding head. “Well, now. It’s the funniest thing.”

Vanessa and Brett held their breath.

“We didn’t find anyone in that well,” said the sheriff.

“What?!” said the twins in unison.

“He fell in there. We both saw it!” exclaimed Vanessa.

“A boy, wearing black, looked about ten,” said Brett. “Maybe he climbed out?”

The sheriff laughed. “No, son. Someone falls in that well, they’re gonna stay in that well. It’s too deep to climb. Are you sure you saw the boy fall in? Could he have tripped and ran away?”

The twins exchanged looks.

“Sheriff, I’m positive,” said Vanessa, “That boy fell into the well. Brett saw it too.” Brett nodded.

“Well now, it was dark and it had been a long day. Your mind can sure play some funny tricks on you when you’re tired.”

“But he scratched me when he tried to grab my purse!” exclaimed Vanessa, “I still have the marks on my arm!” She rolled up her sleeve and showed the sheriff the red scratches.

“Now, now,” boomed the sheriff, “that could have come from anything while you were taking the shortcut. I’m sure there were lots of trees and shrubs along the way.”

Brett and Vanessa didn’t know what to say. The sheriff stood up. “It’s a good thing it didn’t happen though. We don’t have to worry about what a boy’s parent might say about an empty well in the middle of a dark field.” He laughed loudly and then shook hands with Principal Watts. “Good-bye, Morris.” He turned to Brett and Vanessa, who also stood. “Kids, stay away from dangerous places in the dark. Your health is more important than a shortcut.” He smiled. “But you’re smart and I’m sure you know that.”

Brett and Vanessa thanked him and said good-bye to the principal.

“Okay. Now I don’t know what to think,” said Vanessa, as they walked home. “I know we weren’t BOTH hallucinating.”

“Are you kidding me? Vanessa, I didn’t sleep last night because I was so scared I could have killed a boy. We did not imagine that. There is no way. I can’t believe they thought we were making it up.”

Vanessa was quiet for a few minutes. Then she said, “We should go back.”

“What?” Brett exclaimed, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Vanessa shrugged, “Maybe the police missed something. Maybe the kid dropped something and we can then prove that we’re sane. Maybe a wallet or something. ID.”

Brett smiled wryly. “Fine. I doubt we’ll find a wallet or anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to look around. Let’s change out of our school uniforms first.”

“Duh. Mom would kill me if I got this uniform dirty again for the millionth time.”

They talked about various things as they walked through the falling leaves, determined to keep the subject off last night’s incident.

An hour later, they found themselves nearing the abandoned barns. They had changed, gobbled down dinner, and said a quick good-bye to Mrs. Terrence before bolting out of the house. “Kids,” Mrs. Terrence sighed, clearing the dishes from the table.

The barns looked even more daunting in sunset. They went straight to the well and looked in. Despite the failing light, they could see the bottom of the deep well.

“Yep, empty. Just like the sheriff said,” commented Brett.

“Well,” said Vanessa, “I was right. There are a bunch of leaves down there. Someone could easily survive the fall. Maybe he somehow got out while we were running to the station.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” said Brett, sounding doubtful. They were both thinking the same thing: the walls were much to smooth to climb.

The twins searched the surrounding area but didn’t find anything besides the pumpkin, which was a little bruised but otherwise fine. They even took a quick look in the barns, but only found a couple of rusty watering cans.

It soon grew too dark to continue the search, so they decided to head back home. After ten minutes of walking in silence, Brett suddenly had a thought.

“Vanessa! What was in your purse yesterday?”

Vanessa glanced at him. “Nothing important. Why?”

“Well, I just figured that since he was trying to steal your purse, maybe there was something in there that he wanted.”

“Like money?” laughed Vanessa. “Isn’t that what all purse-snatchers are after? I had a few dollars, some makeup, candy. That’s about it. Definitely nothing worth falling into a well for.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Brett.

They were quiet the rest of the way home, each lost in their own thoughts.

The next few days passed without event. The twins were busy with school and the upcoming Halloween and didn’t have much time to think about anything else. They hung out with their friends near the town square fountain and helped their mother with chores in the evening. Vanessa and Brett also liked to spend time in the library. Both were big readers since their parents opted not to raise their children with a TV in the house. Especially on rainy days, they would take trips to the Macon County Library and spend hours curled up on the big, old couches, their noses buried in books.

One such rainy afternoon, Vanessa came across an oversized, dilapidated book, full of ink drawings of fabled creatures. A big-time fantasy and fiction fan, she was immediately intrigued and began to browse through the pages, one at a time. Oddly enough, there were no words, just drawings on the pages. One picture suddenly caught her eye and she gasped.

Brett looked up from his book. “What?”

“Oh my God, I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Vanessa, still looking at the book.

“What? What? Jeez, lemme see!” He leaned over from his couch and looked over her shoulder. They both stared at the picture.

A bald creature with a long, pointy nose stared back up at them.

“Ohhhhhh no. No, no, no. Not good,” whispered Brett. He grabbed the book from Vanessa’s lap.

“Hey!” she protested, as he studied the picture more closely.

It was, without a doubt, the Thing they had encountered by the barns. It was dressed in black clothes and sketched behind it was a big bonfire. The Thing did not look friendly at all. He had a sneer on his face and small, pointed fingernails. A small “G.B.” was initialed at the bottom of the page.

“Where’d you find this?”

“I just found it in sale section and grabbed it ‘cause it looked interesting.”

“Interesting with no title?” said Brett, one eyebrow raised.

“That’s exactly why. And anyway, that’s beside the point! Why in the world is that… that thing in it?”

Brett examined the front and back of the book. No title on the front. A neon green sticker on the back read $1. The first page was a picture drawing of medusa. There was no title, author, or any publishing information visible anywhere.

“Weird,” Brett muttered. He looked through the pages. “Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“Notice what these drawings have in common?”

“No… What?”

“None of these creatures are good.”

It was true. The whole book was composed of dragons, vampires, and other such evil-looking beings.

Vanessa immediately rolled up her sleeve and looked at the faded scratch marks on her arm.

“Oh man,” she whispered.

“Uh, yeah. I would put something on that if I were you,” said Brett with a grimace. “Maybe like Holy Water.”

They looked through the book together, cover to cover. Each picture had the initial “G.B.” under it.

“Well, what do we do now? I don’t think this is enough proof for the sheriff,” said Brett with a small laugh. “It would be more proof for him that we’re going nuts.”

“We’re definitely not showing this to the sheriff… Or anyone else for that matter. Don’t you dare tell any of your friends.”

“Of course not! They wouldn’t believe me anyway. Think I want them to start avoiding me?”

“Well then,” said Vanessa, “let’s ask Mrs. Fording if she knows where this book came from.”

“Good idea.”

Mrs. Fording, sitting behind the front desk, had no idea where the book came from.

“You found it on the sale shelf, right dearie?” she asked in a chirpy voice. “I’m sorry, but most of those books are donated. In fact, we have a donation box near the front. Most of the time I don’t even see who puts books in there.”

She handed the book back and peered at them over her square glasses. “Good luck with your search though. Macon County is small so just try asking around.”

“Mrs. Fording, do you know of anyone who donates here regularly?” asked Vanessa, putting the book carefully into her backpack. “I mean, you must see some of the people who drop off books.”

“Hmmm. Let me think for a minute.”

Mrs. Fording placed her fingertips together and closed her eyes, silent for a few moments. Brett looked at Vanessa and rolled his eyes.

“Well now,” said Mrs. Fording, her eyes popping open. “I have noticed Mrs. Ferguson putting books in there. You know, the baker’s wife? Oh and also Mr. Dante, that handsome Spanish man who moved into town recently,” she said, dreamily.

Brett turned a snigger quickly into a cough as Vanessa stepped on his foot.

“Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Fording. We’ll ask around,” she said, placing a crumpled dollar bill on the desk.

“Enjoy the book!” Mrs. Fording chirped as they walked toward the entrance.

“Well, we know one thing for sure,” said Brett, as they stood on the library porch and watched the rain drizzle down.

“And what’s that?”

“Neither Mrs. Ferguson or ‘handsome’ Mr. Dante is the author of the book. The initials are ‘G.B.’ and their last names don’t start with a ‘B’.”

“True,” replied Vanessa. “But it’s possible that Mrs. Ferguson’s last name started with a ‘B’ before she married Mr. Ferguson.”

“I guess so,” said Brett, slowly. “But a baker’s wife? Aren’t they supposed to be all round and jolly? And somehow I can’t imagine a woman drawing those pictures though.”

“What! Why not?”

“Well, they just seem to be more of a guy-type thing to draw. I mean, how many girls do you know that sketch Medusa’s and dragons in class?”

“I think it could be very possible that a woman drew those,” said Vanessa, somewhat miffed. “Not only boys have good imaginations.”

Brett quietly replied, “Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with imagination.”

They stood side-by-side and quietly waited for the rain to cease.

Chapter 3: The Search

Mrs. Ferguson, in fact, was round and wearing the typical dusty apron. But she was most definitely not jolly, at least not when Vanessa and Brett stopped by the bakery the day before Halloween. Her assistant baker, who she had been training to run the bakery in the future, had left to the city for a better job offer. Mrs. Ferguson was in a terrible mood and bustled around, swatting at the construction paper bats hanging from the ceiling. She placed two slices of rhubarb pie in front of  the twins and ranted and raved about her ex-assistant, how she had practically raised him, taught him all her recipe secrets, etc. Brett and Vanessa listened politely and ate their pie, glad they obviously weren’t expected to respond to this outrage.

When Mrs. Ferguson stopped to catch her breathe, Brett quickly threw in, “Well, this sure is the best pie I have ever tasted and I’m sure there will be plenty of people knocking down your door to work with you.”

At this, Mrs. Ferguson completely changed.

“Oh you sweet, sweet boy,” she said, her eyes tearing up. “That was just what I needed to hear right now. You see what happens when children are raised well by their parents? They turn out to be polite and helpful and cheerful and… and… well, like you wonderful children.” She clasped her hands and gazed lovingly at them.

Brett glanced uneasily at Vanessa.

“Um, Mrs. Ferguson?” ventured Brett. “We were wondering if you could help us with something.”

“I sure will try, darling. What do you need help with? Are you baking a cake for someone? Maybe a girl?”

“Oh no,” said Brett, with a slightly terrified look. “I don’t bake cakes. I actually don’t bake at all… ever.” He sat back in his chair.

“Well then, what can I help you children with? Aside from baking, I’m not quite sure what else you might need me for…”

Brett, from the look on his face, was obviously still picturing himself with oven mitts and a flowery apron, so Vanessa took over.

“Mrs. Ferguson,” she said, “you donate books to the library, right? Mrs. Fording, the librarian, told us that she’s seen you put books in the box a few times.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. I donate the books I buy at the used bookstore. I do love those romance novels! Did you know that Mona Donaldson started writing her novels again? You do know who she is, right? Of course you do! Every girl your age does.”

Vanessa exchanged looks with Brett. They were both thinking the same thing: romance novels?

“Of course I’ve heard of Mona Donaldson,” she lied to Mrs. Ferguson, “and I’m happy to hear she’s writing again. Um, do you read anything besides romance or is that basically it?”

“No, darling, that’s pretty much it. I usually- Oh, one minute. Be right back.”

A couple had stepped into the bakery and Mrs. Ferguson moved over to the counter to assist them.

Brett leaned over to Vanessa and whispered, “Do I look like I bake?”

“No!” she said fiercely, “Don’t be stupid! Since she only reads romance, I guess all we can ask her is if she knows anyone else who donates books to the library.”

Mrs. Ferguson actually did know of a few other people who donated books to the library.

“The used bookstore, you know the one next to Weeber’s Candy Shop, is such a great place to talk to people. I’ve gotten to know a few of the bookstore regulars well since I run into them all the time there. Let’s see, there’s Ms. Smith, such a common name is it not? She’s a quiet one, donates lots of books. Big reader. You can find her working in Weeber’s Candy Shop on the weekdays. Mr. Dante is always at the bookstore too and he told me, in the stunning Latin accent of his, that he takes his books to the library. Oh, and Old Gertrude. Poor lady, about to go any second, if you know what I mean. And I think that’s about it.”

She paused for a breath and Vanessa jumped up.

“Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said. “You have done more than enough, you really have.” Mrs. Ferguson beamed.

Brett stood up and thanked her also.

“Oh you darlings. I wish more people had manners like you two. If they did, they wouldn’t leave you behind at a moment’s notice and run off to the city to work with some big-shot baker.” A dark, distant look crossed Mrs. Ferguson’s face.

Vanessa and Brett muttered a few more “thanks” and escaped quickly.

“Oh my good Lord,” said Brett, as they walked toward home, “I think my ears are about to fall off.”

“I know, I know. Me too,” replied Vanessa, “but she was pretty helpful. I mean, she definitely wouldn’t have been able to tell us anything about that book but she did tell us about a few more book donors.”

“Yeah. And everything else about them.”

“The last person with this book shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I mean, there’s not that many books that get donated to the library. I always look at the sale shelf and there aren’t too often new books.”

“Yeah, but what are we going to do when we find the last person who had the book? I doubt that person is the author or artist and isn’t it most likely that it came from the used bookstore anyway? Why don’t we just ask there?”

“We’ll ask there,” said Vanessa, “but I doubt they’ll know where the book came from. There are so many books there. Probably better to trace it to a particular person. Besides, this is not the kind of book you would find in a used bookstore. Who would buy it? They could just look at the pictures in the store and put it back on the shelf.”

“You bought it,” pointed out Brett.

“Very funny, Brett,” said Vanessa, sarcastically. Then, in a more serious tone, “If you think about it, this is the kind of book someone would have had given to them. Or passed down in a family or something like that.”

“You’re probably right. I’m just tired of constantly thinking about this book,” Brett grumbled

“Yeah, I know. And it’s the day before Halloween. Should we just start looking again after Halloween?”

“That would be awesome. Let’s not utter a word about the book or the ugly kid until afterwards, ok? Let’s just enjoy Halloween like normal kids do. Promise?” Brett stuck out his pinky.

Vanessa hooked pinkies with him. “Promise.”

Everyone at Macon County High was giddy with anticipation for the holiday and for the fact that it was a Friday. Orange and black streamers hung in the halls of the school and most of the students were wearing costumes. The school staff allowed the students to wear costumes every year on Halloween instead of the usual school uniforms. In fact, many of the staff themselves wore costumes.

Brett had decided to wear his football uniform. Halfway through his first class, he began to realize that it wasn’t the most comfortable costume. Of course, his practical sister had decided to wear regular clothes and throw on a glittery, pink mask. He figured he should have done the same, minus the glitter and the pink.

“Pssssssssst! Brett!”

Brett glanced up from doodling in his notebook. Pete Wagner was signaling to him. He looked at Mrs. Howard. Her back was towards them as she scribbled math equations on the blackboard.

“What’s up, Pete?” Brett whispered.

“Are you going trick-or-treating tonight?” Pete whispered back.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay. Well, me, Jason, and Kat are going together if you want to join our group.”

“Sounds good. I’ll just run it by Vanessa. I’m sure she’ll be up for it though.”

As soon as math class ended, Brett made his way to Vanessa’s locker and waited for her to arrive. She appeared a few minutes later, breathless with excitement.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm. “You’ll never guess what I figured out during history class!”

“Um. Ow.” Brett pulled his arm away from her. “What did you-?”

“This!”

Vanessa reached into her jacket and pulled out the chain with the skeleton key.

“What about it?” asked Brett.

“This is the jacket I was wearing when that thing attacked me,” said Vanessa, triumphantly. “I realized the key was in my pocket during history class.”

Brett looked skeptical.

“You don’t know for sure that it was after the key.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t. Not for sure anyway. But I have a strong feeling it wasn’t going for my purse either.”

————————————————————————————

Travels With Shara

Prologue

My mind slowly brings to focus the faint chirruping of what seems to be a cricket. Opening my eyes into darkness, I sit up quickly, a momentary flicker of panic until I remember where I am: my Uncle Dave’s house in Plymouth, Michigan. I’m lying on an air mattress at the foot of two beds, now occupied by my mother and father who are snoring peacefully despite the continued chirruping. I lie back down, realizing that the electronic chirps are emanating from a cell phone somewhere near my parents’ heads. I make a sweeping gesture with my hand and find my own cell phone. It’s 4:00 AM. I snuggle back under the red-printed reindeer blanket and wait for one of them to wake up. They continue to sleep, however, and the alarm begins to get on my nerves, too faint to wake them up and too loud to let me sleep. Damn cricket, I think. Sighing, I pull myself back into a sitting position and peer at my mother’s small form on the bed.

“Mata,” I whisper loudly. No answer. “Mata!” Louder. I hear her stir.

“Hm?” she says sleepily.

“Are we supposed to get up now?”

“Huh?”

“Your cell phone alarm.”

“Oh.” She finds it and turns it off.

“Are we supposed to get up?” I ask again. Now my father’s voice joins in.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I was wondering if it was time.”

“Well, what time is it?” He sounds annoyed. Like I wanted to be up at four in the morning either.

“It’s four.”

“My alarm is set for four forty-five.”

“Forty-five more minutes?” My mom is snoring again, leaving me on my own to figure out why an alarm went off at 4 AM.

“Yes,” says my dad. “Go back to sleep.”

“Oh. Well, Mata’s alarm was set to four.”

“Okay.”

I lie back down, confused. Forty-five more minutes, forty-five more minutes…

I open my eyes what feels like a minute later. My parents are up and about, my dad with a towel wrapped around his waist and my mom gathering up her stuff to go to the bathroom. I groan and roll over, but it’s too late. My dad has seen that I’m awake.

“Time to get up.”

I don’t respond and lie stationary, like a rabbit crouching in plain sight with its body rigid and heart pounding.

“Shara.”

(I’m invisible, I’m invisible…)

“Shara, get up.” This time I hear something in his tone indicating that it would be a very unwise idea to disobey.

“I’m up,” I grumble and slowly get out of bed.

My mother rushes off to the bathroom and returns three minutes later, showered and refreshed. I glare at her like it’s her fault for not giving me more time. I’ve barely located my toothbrush.

About forty minutes later, we’re packed and ready to go. Dave is up with his cup of coffee and waits patiently while we pile our luggage into the trunk of his car. We have all packed lightly for our trip: my dad and I a duffel bag each and my mother a suitcase almost as small. Dave informs us “mornings are not for me” and we set out to the airport with my uncle behind the wheel. We’re all extremely tired and therefore very giddy. Dave asks me if it’s true that I’ve met Jon Bon Jovi. I say no and ask him who told him that.

“Your mother,” he replies. I turn to glare at her for a second time that morning.

“You told me you met him at a dinner!” she cries.

“What? Jon Bon Jovi? I don’t even know what Jon Bon Jovi looks like!”

“Well I never even heard of him before you met him and told me his name!”

We argue for a few more minutes in this manner. When we’re done, my mother is left unconvinced and I’m left questioning my memory.

“However,” I tell Dave, not to be outdone, “I have met a lot of celebrities, my favorite being Jay-Z.”

“And she’s good friends with Lance Bass,” pipes up my mother. “He calls her with his relationship problems, you know, with his boyfriends.”

“Who’s Jay-Z?” says Dave to my dad.

“I don’t know. Some rap artist, I think.” I roll my eyes in the backseat.

“A rapper, huh?” says Dave. There’s a moment of silence. Then my dad attempts to sound out what he thinks is rap music.

“Boom-boom-BOOM-BOOM,” he says, trying to sound like the bass beat. Dave, of course, joins right in and starts making up rap lyrics.

“Yo’ momma don’t like me,” he begins.

“’Cause I have gender issues,” finishes my dad. They dissolve into laughter while I shake my head in the back seat and try to hold back a smile. Still little boys at heart.

We thank Dave at the airport and say good-bye to him, promising to see him in eight days.

“Be careful of the big monkeys,” he warns, before taking off in the bright red car.

Inside, my parents and I find the Delta check-in line. While we wait in the short maze of black ribbon, my father and I entertain ourselves by reciting lines from “Nacho Libre” and I tell him about the plot of “Blue Streak”. I proudly realize that we are the loudest family at the check-in counters.