tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-250977582024-03-10T20:24:21.269-07:00Things THEY Don't Want You To KnowA blog dedicated to publishing stories ordered taken down for fear of lawsuits.Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.comBlogger1466125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-57254658634447122462016-09-10T06:28:00.001-06:002016-09-10T06:37:17.339-06:00Fran Drescher's Husband Waits Four Years To Sue Over Allegedly Defamatory Article.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kgpvpkmSy1w4JHyz2GRIrfOSEAShsqWK3swEc9Xq1jMFRzASH4lNH-GiMtoiKwDMAGB4ZhyphenhyphenXn5ywUf26SUg_yNw7gmgzjCaa9bUphEd5gyPXfQdUN1JxfKdTiphHyXKLa-q-pw/s1600/Fran+Drescher-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kgpvpkmSy1w4JHyz2GRIrfOSEAShsqWK3swEc9Xq1jMFRzASH4lNH-GiMtoiKwDMAGB4ZhyphenhyphenXn5ywUf26SUg_yNw7gmgzjCaa9bUphEd5gyPXfQdUN1JxfKdTiphHyXKLa-q-pw/s1600/Fran+Drescher-2.jpg" height="320" width="279" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"She had style, she had flair, she was THERE!"</td></tr>
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This <a href="http://gizmodo.com/5887480/the-inventor-of-email-did-not-invent-email">was posted on <i>Gizmodo.com</i></a><a href="http://gizmodo.com/5887480/the-inventor-of-email-did-not-invent-email">, originally on February 22, 2012</a>. In September 2016, a vote of new company owner Univision ordered this post to be taken down. Univision had just purchased Gawker media following the bankrupting of that company by billionaire anti-freedom magnate Peter Thiel. <a href="http://gizmodo.com/univision-executives-vote-to-delete-six-gawker-media-po-1786466510">This post was taken down because it was the subject of litigation against the company.</a><br />
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It is being reposted here not to demonstrate the truth or falsity of anything in the article, but to demonstrate why the fear of lawsuits inhibits the free press. The owner of this blog does not profess any belief in the truth or falsity of any allegation in this article. If you believe this article to be false, defamatory or actionable in any way, you may contact the blog owner to discuss it.<br />
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<a data-id="" href="http://gizmodo.com/5887480/the-inventor-of-email-did-not-invent-email" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black; line-height: inherit; margin-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;">The Inventor of Email Did Not Invent Email?</a></h1>
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V.A. Shiva Ayyadurai is a fraud who has been masquerading for years as the pioneering mind behind email. At least according to a bunch of geeks <a href="http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20120222/11132917842/how-guy-who-didnt-invent-email-got-memorialized-press-smithsonian-as-inventor-email.shtml?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">who mobilized from all corners of the digital world</a> to try to set the record straight.</div>
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The imbroglio began late last week with a routine news report and it was settled, appropriately enough, with a detailed email.</div>
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TechDirt <a href="http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20120222/11132917842/how-guy-who-didnt-invent-email-got-memorialized-press-smithsonian-as-inventor-email.shtml?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">reports</a> that last Friday, The Washington Post wrote about what should have been a <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/national/on-innovations/va-shivaayyadurai-inventor-of-e-mail-honored-by-smithsonian/2012/02/17/gIQA8gQhKR_story.html" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">sweet acquisition by the Smithsonian Institution</a>:</div>
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The Smithsonian has acquired the tapes, documentation, copyrights, and over 50,000 lines of code that chronicle the invention of e-mail. The lines of code that produced the first "bcc," "cc," "to" and "from" fields were the brainchild of then-14-year-old inventor V.A. Shiva Ayyadurai.</div>
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Unfortunately, a lot of people don't believe that Ayyadurai invented email in 1978. The doubters say that all Ayyadurai did was write a computer program called "EMAIL," which he <a href="http://cocatalog.loc.gov/cgi-bin/Pwebrecon.cgi?v1=1&ti=1,1&Search_Arg=Ayyadurai&Search_Code=NALL&CNT=25&PID=FgMj1TMBIHWxOrn8bBBj7UbwOW7&SEQ=20120220122136&SID=1" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">copyrighted in 1982</a>. While I in no way want to undermine Ayyadurai's accomplishments, there's a pretty strong case that he's full of it. The fact is that networked communication actually predates Ayyadurai's computer program by quite a few years.</div>
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While holding a copyright might be good enough for some people, the Internet cognoscenti weren't going to have it. When they saw that blasphemy in print, they took to Ayyadurai's Wikipedia page, wrote letters of complaint, and debated as only geeks can. TechDirt <a href="http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20120222/11132917842/how-guy-who-didnt-invent-email-got-memorialized-press-smithsonian-as-inventor-email.shtml?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">dug up</a> this wonderful email written by Thomas Haig to the SIGCIS email list. Randell points out that <a href="http://www.listbox.com/member/archive/247/2012/02/sort/time_rev/page/1/entry/1:99/20120222123114:035B8704-5D7B-11E1-A40A-B6652BEBE2E6/" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">ARPANET sent the first message between two computers back in 1971</a>.</div>
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This version of the story makes ARPANET contractor Ray Tomlinson the inventor of email. Tomlinson doesn't quite take credit for the invention, but he does seem to think that the system he was using back in 1971 was indeed email. According to the description <a href="http://openmap.bbn.com/~tomlinso/ray/firstemailframe.html" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">on his website</a>:</div>
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The first message was sent between two machines that were literally side by side. The only physical connection they had (aside from the floor they sat on) was through the ARPANET. I sent a number of test messages to myself from one machine to the other. The test messages were entirely forgettable and I have, therefore, forgotten them. Most likely the first message was QWERTYUIOP or something similar. When I was satisfied that the program seemed to work, I sent a message to the rest of my group explaining how to send messages over the network. The first use of network email announced its own existence.</div>
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These first messages were sent in late 1971. The next release of TENEX went out in early 1972 and included the version of SNDMSG with network mail capabilities. The CPYNET protocol was soon replaced with a real file transfer protocol having specific mail handling features. Later, a number of more general mail protocols were developed.</div>
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Notice that Tomlinson never goes quite so far as to call himself an inventor here, and in the page's FAQ, he acknowledges the contributions made to the technology both before and after he sent those first messages. That makes Ayyadurai's claim all the more strange—<a href="http://www.vashiva.com/inventing_email.asp" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">as if the most important part of the accomplishment was coining a term</a>. Thomas Haig, from the email before, has no patience for the semantics game when it comes to this question:</div>
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They seem to be confusing copyright protection with patent protection, and implying that he would only have copyright on a program he created if it was the first of its kind. I could write a program called "OPERATING SYSTEM" tomorrow and hold the copyright, but it wouldn't mean I invented operating systems.</div>
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Well put! The Washington Post did publish a correction, which only half-admits that Ayyadurai didn't really invent email. Perhaps the truth is that email as we know it really shouldn't be considered a single person's invention. [<a href="http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20120222/11132917842/how-guy-who-didnt-invent-email-got-memorialized-press-smithsonian-as-inventor-email.shtml?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">TechDirt</a>, <a href="http://openmap.bbn.com/~tomlinso/ray/firstemailframe.html" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Washington Post</a>, and <a href="http://openmap.bbn.com/~tomlinso/ray/firstemailframe.html" rel="noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #28ade6; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Roy Tomlinson</a>]</div>
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<a href="http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/is-peter-thiel-funding-dr-shiva-ayyadurais-35mn-lawsuit-against-gawker/articleshow/52497146.cms">Ayyadurai denies that he has any connection with Peter Thiel. He is suing Gawker Media for $35,000,000.</a> He did not file the suit for more than 4 years after the original articles were posted.</div>
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Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-30819668811680584682014-06-29T20:19:00.001-06:002014-06-29T20:23:49.298-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-5525091736837509602014-06-07T11:11:00.000-06:002014-06-07T11:11:37.761-06:00As has happened before, "lit, a place for stories" is MOVINGBecause the domain name for this site costs $39.95 a year now, and I'm not paying that. So now, you can find <b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.nonsportsman.com/">lit at its new site by clicking here.</a></span></b><br />
<br />
Thanks and see you over there!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWXKUKIpyyguJt9FcG3YsmF9VWSo86eJ45cugHUnL1Yp7V5Ti7yx3NBsSp9FO7d3M0pzfLJa_-SuOE8z-v5epA71aQtJ5nUOjGhUmuUfQpyn72RJMsa24Z7QL9nVHseDKmY9atQ/s1600/20140606_204924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWXKUKIpyyguJt9FcG3YsmF9VWSo86eJ45cugHUnL1Yp7V5Ti7yx3NBsSp9FO7d3M0pzfLJa_-SuOE8z-v5epA71aQtJ5nUOjGhUmuUfQpyn72RJMsa24Z7QL9nVHseDKmY9atQ/s1600/20140606_204924.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-82781986734855297082014-06-06T18:07:00.001-06:002014-06-06T18:07:28.605-06:00The IWM BLOGTACULAR CONTINUES!!!!<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Time for another installment of the </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Indie Writers Monthly</i><span style="font-size: large;"> blogtacular blog tour!</span><b style="font-size: x-large;"> </b>For those of you who missed Day One, this tour is to tell you all the reasons you should be reading <i>Indie Writers Monthly</i> magazine and blog. Or, to put it in a more bold-faced, underline-y, hyperbolic way:</div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></b>
<a href="http://img1.imagesbn.com/p/2940045728492_p0_v1_s260x420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img1.imagesbn.com/p/2940045728492_p0_v1_s260x420.JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>ALL THE REASONS YOU SHOULD BE READING <i>INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY </i>THAT ARE ABSOLUTELY FACT-BASED AND IN NO WAY EXAGGERATED SO YOU CAN'T SUE US PROBABLY:</u></span></b></div>
<b><br /></b>The first day of the tour, remember, was on Sizzling Hot YA Books, and featured this reason:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Reading <i>Indie Writers Monthly </i>will help you become a time-traveler.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
And you can <b><a href="http://sizzlinghotyabooks.com/iwm-blog-tour/">click here</a></b> to go read that one, but first, read reason #1:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2. Reading <i>Indie Writers Monthly Will Give You Superpowers.</i></span></b><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Let's say</i> you want to get superpowers but you do not have any radioactive animals or mysterious lightning bolts striking your chemistry sets or are not from Krypton. What are you going to do?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36GVHDxht3UFif3x1SvdWB3TbVPsS_9JpKxjn2wKXFyq38OecTw_bia6pS8uYhoaMQQMikie0tCwc94DQ2WhmVRrhsNtj2FINCwLcb8zHz9uLzGqFqEWW0y_irtduQH-y9LLEmg/s1600/Paris_Tuileries_Garden_Facepalm_statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36GVHDxht3UFif3x1SvdWB3TbVPsS_9JpKxjn2wKXFyq38OecTw_bia6pS8uYhoaMQQMikie0tCwc94DQ2WhmVRrhsNtj2FINCwLcb8zHz9uLzGqFqEWW0y_irtduQH-y9LLEmg/s1600/Paris_Tuileries_Garden_Facepalm_statue.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Of all things... I had to be bitten by a radioactive STATUE."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Here's what you're going to do: You're going to meet Pat "PT" "Grumpy Bulldog" "How Many Nicknames Can One Guy Have" Dilloway.<br />
<br />
PT is one of the IWM gang of five, and among his many, <span style="font-size: large;">many</span>, <span style="font-size: x-large;">MANY</span> accomplishments are a couple of series of superhero books. PT is the author of <i>The Scarlet Knight</i> series, featuring a superhero who uses a magical armor and sword combo and is helped by a ghost, and he's also completed The Girl Power Series (featuring superheroes whose gender has been swapped), along with a collection of supporting novels for both series.<br />
<br />
OK, fine, I hear you out there saying "Well, that's all well and good for someone who <i>wants</i> superpowers but for crying out loud, I've got kids and the laundry is piling up and now you want me to go out and fight giant robots in Metropolis and all I really want to do is improve at writing and selling books."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.artfagcity.com.s3.amazonaws.com/wordpress_core/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/harried-housewifekitchen-young_familyjpg-240x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://static.artfagcity.com.s3.amazonaws.com/wordpress_core/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/harried-housewifekitchen-young_familyjpg-240x300.jpg" height="640" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fighting Giant Electric Pterodactyles MY BUTT. Get home NOW."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
First of all, <i>I'm not saying you </i>have to <i>fight the robots</i>, but what are you going to do, let them destroy the city?<br />
<br />
Second of all, if you <i>just</i> want to be a writer instead of part of the Universe Corps of Superheroes, okay, I get it. Being able to shoot laser beams from your fingertips isn't for everyone. (I go through a lot of keyboards on my laptop.) <br />
<br />
What PT also brings to the table is a great deal of experience at writing and publishing. He has written, by my informal count, about 50 -- yes, FIFTY -- books, in a variety of genres: literary fiction, romance, YA, sci-fi, and more, and he's tried out about every site you can use to sell books. He's had his books published by traditional companies, written flash fiction anthologies, and indie publishes his books.<br />
<br />
And he shares those tips with you, as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of books, movies, comics, and more, on the Indie Writers Monthly blog and in our magazine. In the past month, PT has posted articles on <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/06/liebster-award.html">how he created his signature character, the Scarlet Knight</a>, the <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/hachette-men.html">fight between Amazon and Hachette</a>, and how to <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/beware-chucker.html">avoid being a 'chucker</a>.' <br />
<br />
What's a "chucker?" Well, you'll just have to click that link and see, won't you?<br />
<br />
Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe the Briane signal is lighting up the sky. *dons mask, fluffs out cape* "TO THE BRI-COPTER!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKktz8JJqSujpFmmpE-rXefkGHeRkqPYctxf1MwGxOIdf5q4JSWv8rDqgsYemiX5HLLbraaPLBCOvl2Vch0LYnp9pD6ZquTFvK4mAatsGz5eddHWnYcHH0aMt6aJZnWcaEtGwM/s1600/0318141842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKktz8JJqSujpFmmpE-rXefkGHeRkqPYctxf1MwGxOIdf5q4JSWv8rDqgsYemiX5HLLbraaPLBCOvl2Vch0LYnp9pD6ZquTFvK4mAatsGz5eddHWnYcHH0aMt6aJZnWcaEtGwM/s1600/0318141842.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Briane Pagel: the man who successfully lobbied<br />
to have the Justice League include<br />
"eating lots of pizza" as a superpower.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/">CLICK HERE if you'd like to go read Indie Writers Monthly right now</a>!<br />
<br />
Or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Indie-Writers-Monthly-Issue-June-ebook/dp/B00KOYQ4SO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1401989104&sr=8-2&keywords=indie+writers+monthly">CLICK HERE to get the June issue of our magazine</a>, which is FREE through June 6 and only $0.99 after that! It's got three great short stories, tips on coming up with titles, blog reviews, an author interview, and more!<br />
<br />
AND don't forget: you can submit your time travel story to our anthology/contest. The deadline is June 15, but if you ask nicely we'll give you more time. You can win money! <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/call-for-story-submissions.html">Details here</a>.Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-61698758937253497712014-06-04T20:56:00.002-06:002014-06-04T20:56:46.153-06:00Unfollowed (A #Love Stories) (Infinite Monkeys)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvKxdMpm5g-imFzrrJC0S0TdUm6S4dvQXuo3LI8n2FxclwQzgwkLuzs0YZdEU0T-6qd8b0cg2574v79p68Vs83CqymO4s90xx3LoO6BnNQzqa3IkePEUGVyuGbR7-T2aYjDF2vw/s1600/20140603_181925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvKxdMpm5g-imFzrrJC0S0TdUm6S4dvQXuo3LI8n2FxclwQzgwkLuzs0YZdEU0T-6qd8b0cg2574v79p68Vs83CqymO4s90xx3LoO6BnNQzqa3IkePEUGVyuGbR7-T2aYjDF2vw/s1600/20140603_181925.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giraffe by Mr Bunches<br />X-ray drawing by me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h1>
<u><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";">Unfollowed (A #Love
Stories):</span></u><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<a href="mailto:.@poethuntress"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.@poethuntress</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Thanx for favoriting my tweet!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="mailto:.@poethuntress"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.@poethuntress</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">:
thought you might like this story: “14 women who changed… </span><a href="http://tiny/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://tiny</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#FF
these Tweeps are GREAT: @johnnyonthespot @14milesofbadroad
@whycantiusepunctuation @poethuntress<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@poethuntress
I shuld have put you 1<sup>st</sup> on that list sorry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@poethuntress
thought your blog post today was great, couldn’t comment bc nt a member<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@poethuntress
sorry about the misspelling!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
have started to write #poetry on my blog, check it out: “Crocodile tears
can’t…. </span><a href="http://tinier/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://tinier</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">New
#poem, come comment on it: “What it’s like… </span><a href="http://tiniest/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://tiniest</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@poethuntress
congrats on getting published, like the photo! #waytogo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#FF
people who can really write @poethuntress @johncheeverreincarnated
@poethuntress YES she deserves to be on there twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@poethuntress
I can’t DM you? Twitter must be broken #stupidtwitter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">New
poem on my blog: “Dark dark dark </span><a href="http://attoparsec/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://attoparsec</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Check
out what I found: Poethuntress.tumblr.org: awesome poetry!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
started a tumblr: “Found Poetry </span><a href="http://lightpicosecond/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://lightpicosecond</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Awesome
poem by @poethuntress on her Tumblr: “And then I traveled through time… </span><a href="http://siriometer.com/"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">http://siriometer.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#FF
Tell them I followed you and maybe these
people will unblock me #haha @poethuntress
“That is all”—Homer Simpson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">@homersmainman
@poethuntress No, I didn’t realize it was the Germans who said that, not Homer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
been a while since I’ve been on Twitter. Do people still use this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s
what I had for breakfast today: #pictureoftoast
#hashtagyourphotoinsteadofpostingit<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="mailto:.@gamegeekgal"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.@gamegeekgal</span></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Thanks for the RT! I’m going to go check out your blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">_______________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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The <i>Infinite Monkeys</i> project is almost over. Another two months or so. Until I reveal what it's all about, <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2008/11/right-as-usual-and-this-time-it.html">here's a link to more <i>Infinite Monkeys </i>stories</a>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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AND HEY, why don't you write a Time Travel story for the IWM anthology and win money! <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/call-for-story-submissions.html">Details here</a>. </div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-12198879546335717902014-06-02T05:16:00.000-06:002014-06-02T05:16:07.610-06:00June Bugs!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXCAsfM69NZVO9psMTErO7ju-jXJRMajeKqEwqbikgP7dvRerXFocBQEQaYJQCCk9jJHBKl67mFR2oscsLAwAC87H4V3DXJWmqj58XaK-oglC_hmgVNCrB8cl29Q4qsGN-NK0/s1600/june+2014+cover+with+words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXCAsfM69NZVO9psMTErO7ju-jXJRMajeKqEwqbikgP7dvRerXFocBQEQaYJQCCk9jJHBKl67mFR2oscsLAwAC87H4V3DXJWmqj58XaK-oglC_hmgVNCrB8cl29Q4qsGN-NK0/s1600/june+2014+cover+with+words.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
Featuring not 1,<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> not 2</span>,<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> but THREE amazing stories</span><br />
from our writers, as well as tips on coming up with titles, AND how hard it is to write a bad story AND the IWM interview of Andrew Leon, "June Bugs" is a deal and even MORE so given that it's FREE from Monday, June 2 through to Friday, June 6.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Indie-Writers-Monthly-Issue-June-ebook/dp/B00KOYQ4SO/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1401611141&sr=8-5&keywords=indie+writers+monthly">CLICK HERE TO GET IT TODAY!</a>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-76756668571881103092014-05-31T15:03:00.000-06:002014-05-31T15:03:04.281-06:00Higgs Boson’s adventures in space: Episode 37 (250=1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSod0LskU5ZU9zy-YA-bCkMe1A8SD5Wa9Z43LRrKXGaKU7l_KbvmnH3WobA0xSdWeiUD8B7pZeG83wzcTomVw3sVGWkUCYqjqGxbVWTml42A4PvPewIBwKKR93vl1vq4-RtTeyA/s1600/20140531_133041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSod0LskU5ZU9zy-YA-bCkMe1A8SD5Wa9Z43LRrKXGaKU7l_KbvmnH3WobA0xSdWeiUD8B7pZeG83wzcTomVw3sVGWkUCYqjqGxbVWTml42A4PvPewIBwKKR93vl1vq4-RtTeyA/s1600/20140531_133041.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<!--[if supportFields]><span
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style='mso-element:field-begin'></span>TC "Higgs Boson’s adventures in
space: Episode 37:" \l 1</span><![endif]--><!--[if supportFields]><span
style='font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Cambria","serif";
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style='mso-element:field-end'></span></span><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><b>Higgs Boson’s adventures in space: Episode 37:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">With
a single tentacle-slap, <i>Zith-Gar</i> had
managed to disarm Higgs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
situation looked bleak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“The
situation looks bleak,” Higgs said to Zith-Gar, “But I’m not worried.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“How
can you NOT worry, Higgs?” asked Zith-Gar incredulously. “You are unarmed. I
have three of my feet on your throat.
Your precious Earth 2.0 is already 50% disintegrated! And you and I
know, Higgs, that there is no coming back from that level of disintegration.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“You’re
going to stop all this, and release me,” Higgs said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“I…
never! Why would I ever do that?!”
demanded Zith-Gar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Because,”
Higgs said, “You’ll <i>never</i> kill your
son-in-law.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Zith-Gar
looked down, all three of his eyes goggling. Both mouths gaped in awe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“You
DIDN’T!” it said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Look
at my hand,” Higgs said. “No, the other one.
You’ll see the wedding ring right there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“But,
I thought… we’re not even the same species… and anyway, our mating rituals,”
Zith-Gar muttered, warily looking down with his focusing eye at Higgs’ left
hand. “It would kill you…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">There
was no ring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Zith-Gar
straightened back up and saw that he was staring at the business end of a ray
gun pointed directly at his central life organs. It looked powerful enough to pierce his
pneumothorax.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“How…”
it said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Simple,”
Higgs said. “I’m Higgs Boson.” And he blasted Zith-Gar into trillions of pieces
which somehow missed hitting him and left his uniform spotless. “And you never had a daughter,” he told the
remnants of Zith-Gar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">It was in the 1950s that Richard Nixon said "<i>you won't have any stories that are exactly 250 words long counting the title to kick around anymore</i>," but he was wrong. WAY wrong, because 250=1 stories are JUST THAT. So there, 1950s Richard... hey, what's that strange glow? How are you teleporting in here, 1950s Richard Nixon? Why are there so many of you? AIEEEEE!!!!! HELP ME...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Or just read more <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html">250=1 stories like this one by clicking here to get a complete list of all of them.</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-22772938969697017062014-05-27T07:42:00.002-06:002014-05-27T07:42:38.493-06:00Our Time-O-Scope Shows That All Of The Kids At The Science Fair Will Go On To Do Great Things, Except For Tommy, Who Will Die Horribly By The End Of This Fair. (Infinite Monkeys)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQybekOYLlwf4NwaWCI63TiQqgX66yWk0O_mSs07C3xM6ul8lZYl1kTBAVVEWXFxOJwXZeIPu8lrqqarir_e9mqraHOmn4A5kY0CENcE4WOYDD3oL1ecFbVJXmW2335iQ__hGzA/s1600/0322141518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQybekOYLlwf4NwaWCI63TiQqgX66yWk0O_mSs07C3xM6ul8lZYl1kTBAVVEWXFxOJwXZeIPu8lrqqarir_e9mqraHOmn4A5kY0CENcE4WOYDD3oL1ecFbVJXmW2335iQ__hGzA/s1600/0322141518.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<h1>
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";">Our Time-O-Scope Shows
That All Of The Kids At The Science Fair Will Go On To Do Great Things, Except
For Tommy, Who Will Die Horribly By The End Of This Fair.<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span></b><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Welcome,
everyone, to the 14<sup>th</sup> annual Bronson LaFollette 8<sup>th</sup> Grade
Science Fair, where this year for the first time we will be judging the entries
not just on originality, completeness, and scientific accuracy, but also on how
much today’s performance in the science fair impacts your little darling’s
future performance in society, thanks to the Time-O-Scope that Mr. Ott has
finally perfected, and the patent for which he has generously granted to the
school after using it to realize that the three children born to his marriage
would actually be the result of an affair his wife is having with his brother,
one which started, ironically, at the same time he began to devote himself to
inventing the Time-O-Scope! Could’ve
used this little number before you actually invented it, eh, Mr. Ott? Live and
learn, live and learn.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We’ve
already actually spent a little time – heh, heh – sorting through the
preliminary entries, and while we’d like to think the future is malleable, Mr.
Ott has definitively proven that it isn’t, and so we can announce that each of
you kids, the best and brightest our Advanced Placement Science Program has to
offer, are destined for great and wonderful contributions to the human race,
except for you, Tommy. You won’t live out the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“And
while we’d <i>like</i> to reward everyone
with a prize package, life doesn’t work that way. Don’t worry – 13 of the 14 of
you will have long, fascinating lives in which you will receive fame and
fortune and help out your brethren on this planet, so even if you don’t get a
gift certificate to Mel’s Pizzeria today, you are all, each and every one of
you, winners. Yes, even you, Tommy, but it won’t do you much good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,
please don’t stand so close to me, Tommy. It won’t matter, in the end, but I’d
rather not get soot and ashes on my suit. Just had it dry-cleaned! As long as
you’re here, though, I can give you your prize: Third Place, for your entry
‘Solar Powered Submersibles Can Explore The Sea Efficiently!” Your model of a
submarine and the tether that lets it run on solar power even when it is
hundreds of fathoms underwater is truly ingenious, and we have no doubt you’d
have gone on to do even greater things in oceanography if it wasn’t for the
fact that you’re a goner within the next hour.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sorry
– 45 minutes. Didn’t realize it was so late!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Second
Place goes to Ellie, for her – not now, Tommy, this is really Ellie’s
moment—for her entry “<i>Soil Replacements
Will End Crop Rotation</i>.” Ellie, this kind of idea will revolutionize… why
are you crying, sweetie? He’s your best friend? Well, that <i>is</i> very sad. Give him a hug,
quick! And then maybe think about the Radley boy. He’s going to win the Heisman
Trophy in seven years! … and, don’t forget this! It’s a red ribbon, and as
second place you get $10 worth of free play at Ned’s Arcade! Don’t spend it all
on <i>Pac Man!</i> Heh, heh!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Tommy!
Please, try to be a bit of a man about this.
I promise you that it won’t hurt, if that’s any consolation. At least not for <i>long</i>. And everyone will be amazed by how your… well, I shouldn’t
say too much. That’s the danger of the
Time-O-Scope! While it can give us a clear look at a future that is set in as
rigid a pattern as the crystalline latticework of our first prize winner,
sometimes the knowledge would be better off not known! Just ask Mr. Ott! Or
Tommy!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Or
ask Nelson, who of course grew those crystals that can serve as superconductors
for ultra-thin computers, and not only earned himself early admission at the
magnet high school for science careers, but a $25 gift certificate to The Hobby
Lobby! Nelson, despite my general dsire
to not tell everyone all that I now know about your futures, I don’t mind
telling <i>you</i> that when you spend that
$25 on electromagnets, it’s going to help you use these crystals to create a
way to nearly instantaneously catalog and sequence DNA, so even though it takes
you 10 years to do that, it’s well worth it, Mr. Nobel Prize Winner, 2030! Come
up here, son, and shake my hand. You’ll
also want to be well away from Tommy, of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There
you go, son! Congratulations, again, and let’s have a big round of applause for
all our young scientists and engineers, the future leaders of tomorrow, except
for Tommy, whose only remaining mark on the earth will be a bench erected on
the spot where he’s sitting now. Can we
get Tommy’s parents to load his project up in their station wagon? No sense
leaving these things to the last minute.
Now, with that, I’ve got to go and figure out who it is Mr. Ott shoots a
month from now. I can’t stop it, but I might want to be first at the estate
sale.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">_____________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2008/11/right-as-usual-and-this-time-it.html"><i>Infinite Monkeys</i> are just these stories, you know? Read more of them here</a>.</span></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-78953993446745288552014-05-22T05:29:00.000-06:002014-05-22T05:30:07.915-06:00Some Zombie Stories, 6 (250=1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAQ4v0bvl-3Wpi0lgD1j1roD4Y_dej4IJ3nXYuUU_SYzXpy7GxeBBl-SuKvhgNNgmA8hhjPJ4LqpOogIBVMpqKmWoFNxnWh0WPAq5DP8MwbKXufipfATMNkzqQYJMxoz4CB3x-w/s1600/0626121258b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAQ4v0bvl-3Wpi0lgD1j1roD4Y_dej4IJ3nXYuUU_SYzXpy7GxeBBl-SuKvhgNNgmA8hhjPJ4LqpOogIBVMpqKmWoFNxnWh0WPAq5DP8MwbKXufipfATMNkzqQYJMxoz4CB3x-w/s1600/0626121258b.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<b><u>Some Zombie Stories, 6:</u><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">At the zombie carnival, every spring, nobody eats anyone’s brains, nobody shuffles in a horrifying manner while moaning, and almost nobody pushes their hands up through the dirt in a terrifying metaphor or prelude to the next film.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Instead, there are games of chance and skill. Zombies toss their hands, fingers circled into an "O", and try to land them on pegs to win withered stuffed animals, or throw an eyeball into a set of goldfish bowls containing zombie goldfish, the fish circling lazily and occasionally blowing bubbles. The bubbles are not breath. They are escaping gases from the decomposing tiny pets that will not (unlike the ones <i>you</i> bring home) die the next day. They are already dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">There are rides, too, and though they are assembled by zombie carnies and not very safe, the zombies ride them without fear. Once, the Zoomer Coaster collapsed but it didn’t make headlines; the 20 zombies just calmly put themselves back together and went to get some cotton candy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">The cotton candy is fresh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">We all go watch the zombie carnival. We can’t get in. There’s a sign out front says "<i>You Must Be This Dead To Enter</i>," so we just look, and wonder what it’d be like to hang out with the zombies and watch them guess our weights through mouths with almost no teeth left, to go through the Funny House with them and watch the mirrors make them look alive again, for just a moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">____________________________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">In 250=1 I write stories that are exactly 250 words long, including the title. <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html">Here's a list of all of them. </a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">DO YOU LIKE TO WRITE? INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY IS SEEKING STORIES ABOUT TIME TRAVEL FOR ITS ANTHOLOGY. THERE'S PRIZES. <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/call-for-story-submissions.html">CLICK HERE FOR DETAILS.</a></span>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-72313013035796752592014-05-18T08:01:00.000-06:002014-05-18T08:01:00.870-06:00A Work In Progress, 2: (Infinite Monkeys)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgUfmaIDpAksUsZR1vxkhVpo_ixZ3t4ZGB8stCNska2FOXbL45mABZfhNrcsrAH31-lamdmLaawqss-oEfwbBZV9znTVT_kP1x53YhSYe_3fU1y873pf5eJGM1NTyDr0SL5toSA/s1600/20140501_193841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgUfmaIDpAksUsZR1vxkhVpo_ixZ3t4ZGB8stCNska2FOXbL45mABZfhNrcsrAH31-lamdmLaawqss-oEfwbBZV9znTVT_kP1x53YhSYe_3fU1y873pf5eJGM1NTyDr0SL5toSA/s1600/20140501_193841.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<h1>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc382133898"><u><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";">A
Work In Progress, 2:</span></u></a><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘<i>two guys talking about football while each
slowly comes to the realization that the other does not understand the game’<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">_____________________________________________________________________________________</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: Californian FB, serif;"><span style="font-size: 19.09090805053711px; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"><i>Infinite Monkeys</i> stories are part of a project I'm working on. <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2008/11/right-as-usual-and-this-time-it.html">You can find a list of them -- many of which have far more words than this -- by clicking here</a>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">DO NOT FORGET:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;" /></div>
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COMING ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, it's the first-ever anthology of stories by indie writers to bear the <b>INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY stamp of approval*, </b>and we want YOU to be a part of it.</div>
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The anthology is going to be a collection of stories about <b>Time Travel,</b> and here is <b>HOW YOU CAN GET IN ON THIS:</b></div>
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A. Have a story about time travel, or write one.</div>
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2. Submit that story to us, by <b>June 15, 2014. </b>(send submissions to <i>litaplaceforstories[at]gmail.com</i>** and label them "IWM TIME TRAVEL ANNUAL" or something like that.)</div>
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THIS IS IMPORTANT: paste the story directly into the of the email. </blockquote>
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I'M NOT OPENING ATTACHMENTS. </blockquote>
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III. Make sure you have the rights to the stories and it'd be nice if it hadn't been published somewhere else. </div>
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Word limits? Who do you think you're talking to, here? Because there'll only be a few weeks to read them, shoot for somewhere between 1 and 1,000 words, but if you go longer, by all means, go longer.</div>
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Still reading? Good. Here is <b>WHY you want to get in on this!</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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8(a)2.: The stories we like the best will get put into the anthology and you'll be a published writer! </div>
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and</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">C: There are prizes! Specifically, the story picked as best by the IWM gang will win a </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">$15 Amazon Gift Card</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> and the Runner Up will get a </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">$10 Amazon Gift Card</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">.</span></div>
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So there you have it! I look forward to getting those stories.</div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-91460425984846896182014-05-17T08:27:00.001-06:002014-05-17T08:27:33.481-06:00What Happens When The Symbolism Of McDonald’s Cheeseburgers Is Questioned. (250=1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLwrNg48lUU9vsPr7MpEN_DeO6GmpNnPXZM6ujZboikc2mlDHbr-tRJzK5Y4kqCRKFob1_PAAYkXRcxpwaPpZouyOEUMtX-7ajMJRlpMR_hhJdJW4HLRu1SwjjqqOvrnD72HdBQ/s1600/0405141348a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLwrNg48lUU9vsPr7MpEN_DeO6GmpNnPXZM6ujZboikc2mlDHbr-tRJzK5Y4kqCRKFob1_PAAYkXRcxpwaPpZouyOEUMtX-7ajMJRlpMR_hhJdJW4HLRu1SwjjqqOvrnD72HdBQ/s1600/0405141348a.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What Happens When The Symbolism Of
McDonald’s Cheeseburgers Is Questioned.</span></b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">AJ is afraid all the time but
not in an overtly-crippling way. AJ
fears he is too happy about some things, and not happy enough about
others. He confides this one day to
Tiana. Tiana serves (in her mind) as a
de facto therapist but stands (in AJ’s mind) as a potential love interest in
the story that would be his life if AJ ever gets around to writing that
autobiography.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“An autobiography of <i>nothing</i>,” Tiana thinks, taking AJ’s coupon from him. AJ has a coupon every day.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why do you come here every
day?” Tiana asks AJ.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Would you like to go out
sometime?” AJ responds.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“This isn’t even good food,”
Tiana whispers back to him.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s the <i>best</i> food,” AJ says, “In that it’s unique. Anyone can make a burger. Nobody can make a <i>McDonald’s Cheeseburger</i> except McDonald’s.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why do you want to go out with
me?” Tiana asks.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I think it would make me just
the right amount of happy,” AJ responds.
“And I’ve asked you out now 14 times. So you should say <i>yes</i>.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You like unique stuff, huh?”
Tiana asks him.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes.”</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m a twin, you know.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">AJ has to think about that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And,” Tiana says, “Every
McDonald’s cheeseburger is like every other McDonald’s cheeseburger.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">AJ looks down at his tray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So nothing,” Tiana says, “Is <i>less</i> unique than a McDonald’s
cheeseburger.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">AJ does not know where to fit
this new idea into his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There'll be new stories coming, too, but as with before, this one appeared on another blog and now is appearing here, and so you can read it again or for the first time. 250=1 stories are stories that have exactly 250 words including the title, and <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html">I've got a whole lot more of them here.</a></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">HEY WRITERS </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY is looking for your time-travel stories for our first ever anthology. There are prizes, but there is also a deadline. <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/call-for-story-submissions.html" style="color: #7c93a1; text-decoration: none;">Click here for details</a>. </span></b></div>
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Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-7380021110406114512014-05-14T05:05:00.001-06:002014-05-14T05:05:23.948-06:00Everyone in the world is copying me in advance. (250=1)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcSmpORLsJCI4uY7_08mskyBQz7psX5p6KLAlimX-CndcWai_Eylzu0YAiAZ9U3oxfvsw6meJ-vq_q26Pt5cTYwifHDNCTdQjaeZIfIuZNYTYHwxowc-eNUzGWRy1eP3uTt_1gQ/s1600/20140504_190203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcSmpORLsJCI4uY7_08mskyBQz7psX5p6KLAlimX-CndcWai_Eylzu0YAiAZ9U3oxfvsw6meJ-vq_q26Pt5cTYwifHDNCTdQjaeZIfIuZNYTYHwxowc-eNUzGWRy1eP3uTt_1gQ/s1600/20140504_190203.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Everyone in the world is copying me in advance</span>.</span><br />
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It made you uncomfortable to be alone with him in the subway car, not just because he was mumbling loudly enough to seem he was trying to talk to you, complaining about how everyone knew his thoughts and did the stuff before he could.<br />
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“And the waffle iron? I came up with that!” he suddenly said ferociously, and you got off the car at the next stop because that little fleck of spittle in the corner of his mouth seemed too wild to want to deal with at 3:00 in the afternoon.<br />
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The job interview didn’t go well. You were still unnerved by the whole incident, and you were pretty sure that the waffle iron was older than the subway nut. The interviewer never called.<br />
Later on, even Gina’s encouragement (<span style="font-style: italic;">why don’t you just go ahead with that idea you had?</span>) wasn’t enough to help you sleep and in your dreams you saw him again.<br />
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“EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD IS COPYING ME IN ADVANCE!” he yelled in your head, and it didn’t help that in the dream he was an extra on the set of <span style="font-style: italic;">Ocean Girl</span>.<br />
<br />
And you had to take the F train, two days later, to yet another job interview. He was there, of course, and he said “I’m going to invent an app that will scan the ears of small children and see if there is an ear infection.”<br />
<br />
But that was <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> idea.<br />
<br />
Six months ago.<br />
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<br />
250=1 stories are stories that are exactly 250 words long. This one originally appeared on another blog, too. I'm just rerunning it, but if you didn't see it before, you didn't even need to know that and if you <i>did</i> see it before, then you already knew that. Basically this whole paragraph was pointless. Sorry.<br />
<br /><a href="http://www.tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html">Here's a list of all the 250=1 stories, </a><i><a href="http://www.tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html">ever</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Other announcements:</i><br />
<br />Don't forget that <i>lit</i> pays for stories. Click the "We Pay for Stories" tab up top there.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And</i> Indie Writers Monthly needs your short time-travel stories! There's a prize and publication possible. <a href="http://indiewritersmonthly.blogspot.com/2014/05/call-for-story-submissions.html">Details here.</a> <i> </i>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-87684133254091931832014-05-13T05:52:00.000-06:002014-05-13T05:52:24.941-06:00Children's Magazines Are Full Of Lies (250=1)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_CaIgarG8hm2AmpmlQkB5Sp4WhrT6xJzBY8E6_Jz8orVvhYAFp4BImuGTDAEgSypaUNitEnlmdWEjpQw_UvxJHcO06Gfl_XDiKX7P2nvSiZ86d7f2hD5g1Av467UAqK-DSkSvw/s1600/2011-06-18_12-32-31_342.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_CaIgarG8hm2AmpmlQkB5Sp4WhrT6xJzBY8E6_Jz8orVvhYAFp4BImuGTDAEgSypaUNitEnlmdWEjpQw_UvxJHcO06Gfl_XDiKX7P2nvSiZ86d7f2hD5g1Av467UAqK-DSkSvw/s320/2011-06-18_12-32-31_342.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693380975753290978" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 180px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 29.09090805053711px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Children's Magazines Are Full Of Lies.</span></span><br />
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For the 74th time, on his 37th beach vacation, Kincaid walked the shore just after the tide went out. Alone on the beach, sand sifting into his sandals wetly, he shuffled along knowing he would not find what he was looking for.<br />
<br />
Somewhere, in the past, which in his thoughts was a country he’d never visit no matter how many travelogues of it he watched, a little boy lay on the floor, a magazine spread out before him showing a glossy photo of a sea urchin and a crab in a tiny pool of water, trapped in the rocks after the tide went out. It was a private ocean, and Kincaid, like that little boy from the other country would, eventually, too, had spent his life looking for one.<br />
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Later today, he’d take Olivia to ride on roller-coasters. They would stop for pizza at that restaurant. But for now, Kincaid simply walked by himself, the taste of corn flakes on his breath. When he saw rocky outcroppings he climbed on them, carefully, watching where he put his hands and his feet, each time to no avail.<br />
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“Why do you get up so early?” Claudia asked him once on vacation. He’d shrugged. “I like to not waste time on vacation,” he’d said.<br />
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“Next year, maybe, we’ll go to the mountains,” Kincaid told the surf. But he knew it wasn’t true. There are 217,490 miles of coastline in the world, and he was not getting younger.<br />
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Some of you may have seen this story before; it's a reprint that originally appeared on my blog <i>Thinking The Lions</i>. In 250=1, I write stories that are exactly 250 words long, including the title. <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2006/09/babies.html"> Here's a link to more of them, if you liked this one</a>. Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-1665220547152230602014-05-12T05:47:00.001-06:002014-05-12T05:47:33.298-06:00Call for story submissions!Announcing the first ever<br />
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COMING ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, it's the first-ever anthology of stories by indie writers to bear the <b>INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY stamp of approval*, </b>and we want YOU to be a part of it.</div>
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The anthology is going to be a collection of stories about <b>Time Travel,</b> and here is <b>HOW YOU CAN GET IN ON THIS:</b></div>
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A. Have a story about time travel, or write one.</div>
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2. Submit that story to us, by <b>June 15, 2014. </b>(send submissions to <i>litaplaceforstories[at]gmail.com</i>** and label them "IWM TIME TRAVEL ANNUAL" or something like that.)</div>
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THIS IS IMPORTANT: paste the story directly into the of the email. </blockquote>
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I'M NOT OPENING ATTACHMENTS. </blockquote>
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III. Make sure you have the rights to the stories and it'd be nice if it hadn't been published somewhere else. </div>
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Word limits? Who do you think you're talking to, here? Because there'll only be a few weeks to read them, shoot for somewhere between 1 and 1,000 words, but if you go longer, by all means, go longer.</div>
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Still reading? Good. Here is <b>WHY you want to get in on this!</b></div>
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8(a)2.: The stories we like the best will get put into the anthology and you'll be a published writer! </div>
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and</div>
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C: There are prizes! Specifically, the story picked as best by the IWM gang will win a <b>$15 Amazon Gift Card</b> and the Runner Up will get a <b>$10 Amazon Gift Card</b>.<br />
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So there you have it! I look forward to getting those stories.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBin3scRr33iAWAIrJLZIn1u6E2lkrNCZYRhF_QenWagqLU5FdqtD9PylEL6SXwyidQ6fNohe4PzYhyqdUxmTYOB-FsfljY6rROBtIp4vmJfT9DwcUiqSS1BBh2ziNDuIofgq/s1600/20140510_164234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBin3scRr33iAWAIrJLZIn1u6E2lkrNCZYRhF_QenWagqLU5FdqtD9PylEL6SXwyidQ6fNohe4PzYhyqdUxmTYOB-FsfljY6rROBtIp4vmJfT9DwcUiqSS1BBh2ziNDuIofgq/s1600/20140510_164234.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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PSST? Want to read some of my own time-travel stories? Check out </div>
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"<a href="http://www.nonsportsmanlikeconduct.com/2013/11/blog-post.html"><span style="font-size: large;">the natural order of things is largely determined by what direction we are headed and how fast</span></a>," or </div>
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<a href="http://www.nonsportsmanlikeconduct.com/2013/09/headline-time-travel-is-only-possible.html">HEADLINE: “Time Travel Is Only Possible In One Direction, Scientists Say.” Subhead: “Balderdash,” Tim says.</a></h3>
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And here's <a href="http://tboe.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-best-time-travel-story-by-someone.html">a link to five 250-word time travel stories</a> (and an essay on another one) </div>
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<b>*no actual stamp will be created.</b> It is a metaphor.</div>
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**while this is an IWM and not a <i>lit</i> venture I need to keep my regular gmail unclogged up and I assume there will be 100,000s of stories coming in. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMtUxgdWTpqCMS014s6u5tsJxR9bVPLa4CrKbdEnEgb-vuwhyLzQPSEgra7wsrLEumPOr6sGwo07Tlf7DVGXLWPBygny3IJ9mG66dctVO8d3FZvD8K9Dia76NZ2Q5YTnZyZLZAw/s1600/iwm+may+2014+altered+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMtUxgdWTpqCMS014s6u5tsJxR9bVPLa4CrKbdEnEgb-vuwhyLzQPSEgra7wsrLEumPOr6sGwo07Tlf7DVGXLWPBygny3IJ9mG66dctVO8d3FZvD8K9Dia76NZ2Q5YTnZyZLZAw/s1600/iwm+may+2014+altered+cover.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
... <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Indie-Writers-Monthly-Vol-Issue-ebook/dp/B00K6O6VLM/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399602691&sr=1-3&keywords=indie+writers+monthly">INDIE WRITERS MONTHLY ISSUE 3: MAY FLOWERS</a> is on the stands now! Well, no, it's not. It's only available electronically because: trees. But it's free! From now until May 13 get the latest issue absolutely free, and be treated to a new story from Sandra Ulbrich Almazan, author of the "Twinned Universes" saga, an interview with superhero/sci fi writer P.T. Dilloway, tips on how to get ideas for writing, and stories of how indie writers got started.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Indie-Writers-Monthly-Vol-Issue-ebook/dp/B00K6O6VLM/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399602691&sr=1-3&keywords=indie+writers+monthly">It's all available just by clicking RIGHT HERE</a>.</b></span>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-3135913387773923722014-05-04T06:54:00.003-06:002014-05-04T06:59:02.217-06:00A story in which the main characters are a dinosaur and a baseball player but they never meet and may not, in fact, have anything to do with each other at all, depending on how much you think about it. (Short Stories With Long Titles)<div nbsp="" style="display: block; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 12px auto 6px;">
<i>This is a Short Story With Long Title. No time to read it? I have helpfully provided a link for you to download a .pdf and take it with you to read while you are, say, waiting on line at the grocer's.</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/221861009/A-Story-in-Which-the-Main-Characters-Are-a-Dinosaur-and-a-Baseball-Player-but-They-Never-Meet-and-May-Not" nbsp="" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="View A Story in Which the Main Characters Are a Dinosaur and a Baseball Player but They Never Meet and May Not on Scribd">A Story in Which the Main Characters Are a Dinosaur and a Baseball Player but They Never Meet and May Not</a></div>
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<iframe class="scribd_iframe_embed" data-aspect-ratio="undefined" data-auto-height="false" frameborder="0" height="600" id="doc_38352" scrolling="no" src="//www.scribd.com/embeds/221861009/content?start_page=1&view_mode=scroll&show_recommendations=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc386949678"><b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A story in which the main characters are a
dinosaur and a baseball player but they never meet and may not, in fact, have
anything to do with each other at all, depending on how much you think about
it.</span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They say that dinosaurs are extinct, and
Piatnitzkysaurus figures they are probably right, depending on what the word <i>means</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Word meanings were important,
Piatnitzkysaurus knew, because you could say a lot with words if you knew what
they meant, and people especially were <i>really really </i>good with words,
even if the words they used when they saw Piatnitzkysaurus were mostly words
like<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"<i>Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!</i>"<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">and<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"<i>Ohmygodrunkidsgetoutofhereitsgoingtoeatus</i>." <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Piatnitzkysaurus wondered what those words
meant. Once he tried imitating one of the words that he heard someone
say. He had been watching two people sitting around the glowing things
they made, called <i>fires</i> he was pretty sure, and he'd heard them doing
the thing they called<i> talking</i>, which Piatnitzkysaurus had used to do
with his own buddies.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The human with the longer hair had said it
was cold.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The human with the shorter hair and the
little packet of paper in its hands had offered to go get a <i>blank</i>-ette<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The longer-haired human had invited the
shorter-haired one to put down the <i>buque</i> and "<i>cuddle</i>"
and Piatnitzkysaurus had turned that word over and over in his mouth, feeling
the strangeness of it echo through his crests. <i>Cuddlecuddlecuddle</i>
it kind of feels when he says it like <i>chewing</i> on something <i>soft</i>,
no bones to crunch through.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Then he saw the humans looking scared and he
tried to tell them <i>no, I was just trying out your word</i> but they pointed
and stared and ran away in their metal thing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They left behind the <i>fire</i> and some <i>chocolate</i>.
Of all the things humans had, Piatnitzkysaurus loved <i>chocolate</i> the
most. In order of favorite things, Piatnitzkysaurus figured it was:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">1. Chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">2. The Cretaceous period because it had
been warmer then.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">3. Humans. But not to eat.
Well, not <i>always</i>, but sometimes Piatnitzkysaurus got hungry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">******************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"I call this one </span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">'Casey at the Bat'," Mooch said to the
guy next to him. He fanned out the cards and held them up for Tim to take
one.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Tim glanced over.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Don't you even <i>watch</i> the
games?" he said.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch shrugged, blew a bubble, and popped it
loudly, sucking the gum back in.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Sometimes," he said, and held the
cards up, waggling them encouragingly. Off in the distance, there was a <i>crack!</i>
and the crowd sounds got louder and Tim absently took a card from Mooch as the
center-fielder, Jack, jogged out underneath the lazy fly ball, caught it, and
hurled it towards the second baseman. He waved at Mooch and Tim and the
other relief pitchers in the bullpen.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"You've got to look at it," said
Mooch.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"What if the cameras are on us?"
Tim said, and glanced down at the card.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"It's 10-2," Mooch told him.
"The cameras aren't looking at us."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Do you know what your card is?" he
asked, after a second.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Yeah," Tim said. "Ace of
spades."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"No, <i>don't tell it to me</i>,"
Mooch sighed. He took the card back and shuffled them in.
"That's not the trick."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"How do you think these things up?"
Tim asked him, taking a card from the now reshuffled pack.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Can't tell you," Mooch said, and
even if he wanted to, he couldn't have. <i>Casey At The Bat</i> had come
to him, full-fledged, in a dream. He'd watched in his dream as he
himself had done the trick for himself, the dream just him and himself sitting
at the old kitchen table in his apartment in Brooklyn where he lived in the
off-season, with Louisa. Louisa <i>loved</i> card tricks, so he was
surprised that he hadn't been showing <i>her</i> in the dream, but he hadn't:
he'd been showing himself.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Tim had handed back his card to Mooch, who
had set it down on the bench between them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"OK, watch," he said, echoing
himself in his dream. "You've got the bases loaded," and he
laid three cards out into a diamond. "There's two outs," he
said, putting two cards in between the three bases. Tim watched
him. "And Casey's up to bat." Mooch picked a card off the
top of the deck and laid it face up where home plate would be on the diamond.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"That's my card!" Tim said,
appreciatively. It was the 7 of hearts. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Yes, it is," Mooch said. <i>Just
like in my dream. </i>"OK, you're a pitcher, what pitch do you throw
Casey?" This was the <i>trick</i> part of it: don't tell the person what
the pitch <i>means</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Um. Slider," said
Tim. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Slider," Mooch said.
"1-2-3," he counted out cards, laying them on top of the card at home
plate, the 7 of hearts, and then flipped them around. "Strike
one," he said, winking at Tim.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Strike one?" Tim said. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Yeah," Mooch said. "OK,
count 0-1, and the runner on first is leading off." He flipped the
first-base card over and Tim said:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Hey, that's my card!" <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The 7 of hearts sat at first base.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"How 'bout that," Mooch grinned.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The crowd in the stadium groaned.
Neither of them looked up.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Alright, what pitch you throwing
next?" Mooch asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Um. Not a slider. Not
again. Curve."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch nodded. "Curve it is.
Curve. 1-2-3-4" he counted out cards, and laid them on home plate,
flipped all the cards upside down and said "Strike two."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Tim laughed. "My curve is
great."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"OK," Mooch told him. "2
out. 0-2 count. Bottom of the 9th. Runners got to take a big lead.
Guys on 1st and 2nd get a couple of steps," and he flipped the 2nd-base
card. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It was the 7 of hearts.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Nice," Tim said.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"So. 0-2. What do you
throw?" Mooch looked at Tim, who looked him straight in the eye, as
Mooch had looked himself in the eye in his dream.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"The heat. Fastball," Tim
said.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Fastball. 1-2-3," Mooch
said, laying out three cards, flipping the 7 of hearts over, and looking up at
Tim.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Think you got him?" <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Tim stared down at the cards.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Did I?" he asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Let's see," Mooch said, and
flipped the card over at third base: "Runners are going before you
throw!"<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The 7 of hearts was at third base.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"How..." Tim said.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"You better look him back," Mooch
said. "Here, take your card, put it in the deck." He
picked up the 7 of hearts, and handed it to Tim. Tim looked at it,
flipping it back and forth, checking it out. He shrugged and handed it to
Mooch, who shook his head.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"You have to do it. You're the
pitcher. Look him back." So Tim tucked the card into the deck
and Mooch picked up all the cards on the bench, shuffling them in as he talked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"OK, runner back on third, and you're on
the mound. 2 outs. 0-2 count. Bottom of the 9th. You're
throwing the heat, and Casey's at the plate." As he talked he laid out
cards in the diamond shape, 1st-2nd-3rd-and home plate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"OH," Mooch said.
"Mighty Casey has struck out." He flipped the card over at home
plate. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It was the 7 of hearts.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch breathed a sigh of relief. He
hadn't known for sure if the trick would work.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">******************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Piatnitzkysaurus knew it shouldn't go too
near humans, but it couldn't help itself. They were endlessly
fascinating. He remembered when he'd first seen <i>mammals</i>, a billion
years ago or maybe it was a million. Piatnitzkysaurus wasn't much for
counting. That was another thing, like <i>words</i>, that was really hard
but he'd had enough time, sometimes he felt, that he ought to <i>get it</i> by
now. If humans could do it when they were only a few years old and still
soft and pink and hardly able to walk, how could he <i>not</i> count, or do
words?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He walked down the side street just away from
the street lights, past the shoe repair shop that looked deserted but it wasn't
really, he knew. Once, he'd hidden behind the dumpster in the alley all
day long and watched as the person who worked in the shoe repair shop had come
up to the door in the morning, pulled a key out, and opened the front door.
Piatnitzkysaurus had pulled his long tail in to hide it better and kept a wary
eye out for others as he'd watched the front blinds be pulled up, the neon sign
that said <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">S-H-O-E-S-F-I-X-E-D-W-H-I-L-E-U-W-A-I-T<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">had been lit up, its neon glow seeming to
slowly fade as the day grew brighter.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">All day long Piatnitzkysaurus had watched and
nobody had come in our out of the shop and at the end of the day the man had
left the shop, turning off the<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">S-H-O-E-S-F-I-X-E-D-W-H-I-L-E-U-W-A-I-T<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">sign and walking away.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Tonight, Piatnitzkysaurus stood outside
the shop and then curiously walked slowly down the street towards the
"main drag," as Piatnitzkysaurus had heard it called. His head
was slightly taller than most of the buildings on this little side road; had he
wanted to he could have stood up straighter and looked onto their roofs but
Piatnitzkysaurus knew from experience that there wasn't much to see up there,
just some little chairs and bottles that were long empty and sometimes some old
clothing or shoes, never chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">At the corner, Piatnitzkysaurus looked left
and right. There were street lights, all along both sides, but it was
late enough that nobody was out. Piatnitzkysaurus did not know how to
tell time and wasn't truly a nocturnal dinosaur; he much preferred the
lushly-leaved forests of South America, the heat of the day stifling unless you
were cold-blooded, in which case you welcomed it because it gave you energy to
get up and eat, hunting down smaller animals and stopping to eat some carrion if
you came across it, and occasionally fighting over a mate, roaring and gnashing
teeth and clawing at your opponent with your giant feet and trying to get a
good grip on the back of his neck so that you could tear his spine out and
leave it there as a sign of your prowess.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Good times</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But now he was here and needed to come out
mostly at night because if you wanted to see the town you had to come at night,
as humans thought Piatnitzkysaurus was extinct and were scared whenever he
tried to talk to them. It's not like he was going to <i>bite them</i>,
not always, because they were a lot of work for a small meal, and bony.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Piatnitzkysaurus turned right and strode
along the sidewalk, glancing into the windows. A used-clothing store
caught his eye and made him flinch until he realized the people in the clothing
in the window weren't people at all, didn't have faced, and he leaned first his
right eye up against the window and then his left, looking at the blank
mannequins and wondering why they didn't have eyes themselves. He
wouldn't want to hang around a bunch of pale-skinned faceless piatnitzkysauri,
wouldn't find that fun at all, and he figured the dummies were there to scare
others off.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A little ways down, he looked at a food
store, the window stocked with breads and rolls and other brown, small round
things. The taste haunted his nostrils as he sniffed for a hint of
chocolate. He did not like the smell, <i>at all</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He remembered once when he and two others had
come across a half-rotten <i>brachytrachelopan</i> and they had <i>gorged </i>themselves,
for <i>days</i>, there on the hot plains so far away from the jungle. The
others had thought him crazy mostly, but he'd found that corpse and it had kept
him full for a long time.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He hadn't like the plains otherwise.
The other dinosaurs could see him coming too easily, and he wasn't fast enough
to chase them down. He'd ended his exploratory trip early.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">At the end of the street was a set of small
metal boxes. In it, although he couldn't read, a newspaper told anyone
who cared to looks that the Reds had won the World Series that day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">**************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"So you get to stay in bed <i>all day?</i>"
Louisa asked him.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"If I want," Mooch said.
"Season's over, and I don't even have to report for a few days."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Do you get one of the rings?"<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Yeah. I guess." He
shrugged, a move that didn't quite come across when he was lying down.
She wasn't looking at him, anyway. The shrug was more for himself.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"But you didn't pitch in any of the
games."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch tried not to sound defensive.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Not in the <i>Series</i>, no, but I
helped get us there. I pitched <i>in the season</i>."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"I didn't mean it like that."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch knew he would never wear the ring,
though. Because <i>everyone</i> would say that, or think it, or he would
imagine they were thinking it but not saying that.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"A five-letter word for <i>separate</i>,"
she said, pronouncing it like the adjective, not the verb. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"What's it start with?" he asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"I don't know," she said.
"I haven't gotten any of the clues yet. And I'm all the way up to
seven across. I might as well give up. I don't even know why I do
these things."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She stood up, wearing just a t-shirt that
didn't even come down to her waist. He looked at her naked lower half,
the shapely legs tapering up to her waist, and secretly tried sucking in his
stomach a little.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Want to go get breakfast?" she
asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"I'm not sure I want to get mobbed by
people this morning," he said.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"..." Louisa said, and then shook
her head. "We can order in," she suggested.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch wondered if she'd been going to say <i>Nobody's
going to mob you</i>. Sometimes Louisa said stuff before she thought
about it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But then, so did he.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He wondered if she would accept his proposal <i>this
time</i>. Maybe if he used the Series ring?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Let's just go out," he said, and
sat up.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">******************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Piatnitzkysaurus ran and ran and ran, the
sounds of the alarm still ringing in his ears as loudly as if he was still
standing in the store itself. He hadn't known about <i>alarms</i> and
hadn't known about <i>glass</i> and how it broke, and hadn't known that the
humans could use their metal things to get there <i>so quickly</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">All he'd wanted was some chocolate. And
they had <i>so much of it</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The grocery store was closed; he'd known
that. Because it was <i>dark</i> and nobody was in it, which meant <i>closed</i>,
he'd gathered, and so he'd not paid it much attention but a tiny glimpse out of
the corner of his eye had shown him a giant stack of <i>chocolate</i>, piles
and piles of it all wrapped up and ready to eat just colorful and delicious and
he couldn't resist.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He'd tried to just walk into the chocolate
and get it, regretting that the chocolate had the skins on it, those little
flimsy shells or whatever that humans wrapped chocolate in. He didn't
like the taste of those, Piatnitzkysaurus didn't, but it was worth it to eat
them to get the chocolate. Sometimes you had to eat some scales or bones
or whatnot to get the good parts of the prey, and that included chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Something had blocked him, <i>glass</i>, the
see-through stuff that humans have <i>everywhere</i>, but he couldn't bear it,
not tonight. So much disappointment today, the deer that got away and his
reflection in the swamp scaring him with how old he was getting and then the
chocolate was behind <i>glass</i>, and Piatnitzkysaurus had leaned up against
the glass and despaired, pressing his large crests and nose up against it,
willing it to <i>come to him</i> as he nearly cried with the sadness of so much
chocolate not his, and he pressed too hard and the glass shattered and he'd
been <i>inside</i> the store.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br />
The bells had started clanging and whirling and that as much as the sound of
the glass breaking had scared him half to death but he was <i>on top of </i>the
chocolate, it was falling around him and the scent intoxicated him, so he just
began eating, pieces and pieces of it, feeling the skins tear under his teeth
and swallowing some whole, the rivulets of chocolate and saliva dribbling down
onto his hands as he repeatedly dug his face into the pile and grabbed <i>more
more more</i>, his stomach swelling with the feast.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And then there they were, <i>humans</i>, in
their metal with their own flashing lights and yelling their <i>words</i>
"<i>Ohmygodwhatisthat</i>" and "<i>weregonnaneedbackup</i>"
and "<i>Forgodssakeshootthatdamnthing</i>" and he first tried to talk
to them but all they said back was meaningless things like "<i>Cantyouhearitroaring</i>"
and "<i>Keepfiring</i>" and then one of their things they were aiming
at him flared light and he felt a sting on his chest and looked down and saw he
was <i>bleeding</i> so he ran forward to get back out of the store, crashing
through another <i>glass</i> and holding one final pack of chocolate in his
tiny hands and they kept hitting him with those things that made him bleed it
was like he was being <i>bitten</i> by invisible things <i>how did they do that</i>
so he ran, and didn't try talking to them anymore.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They followed him at first, but he knew the
town pretty well and he took off into alleys, hearing their sirens after him
"<i>Wooowooowooowooo</i>" and he dodged away from the sound. He
wasn't used to running, had probably only had to flee something 1, 2 maybe 3
times if he was being honest with himself, <i>remember that pterodactyl?, </i>and
so he wasn't sure how to do this, but he kept heading for the forest and he
made it there, under the trees, where he ran far enough in to know he could get
the better of them if they came after him. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He watched the rest of the night from the
forest, as their lights came close but not too close. Once, something
flew overhead with a terrible noise, shining lights into the trees but he hid
underneath some branches. As the sun came up, he headed to his cave and
went far far back into it, scrambling over fallen rocks to hide in the cool
depths where the heat never came. It would be hard for him to wake up, he
thought, but he would and later that day or the next he would have to come out
in the sun to warm up and then begin to find a new place to live. He
didn't want humans always looking around for him. As much as he wanted to
be friends, he knew they didn't, always, and so he would have to move again.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He took the packet of chocolate and packed it
against his chest, already sleepy from the cold of the cave. He would eat
it when he woke up.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=25097758" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">******************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Wonder what happened there?" Mooch
pointed at the grocery store across the street from the bakery. Louisa
looked up from the crossword puzzle, squinted in the early morning sun at the
police cars parked across the lot, cops walking in and out of the broken front
windows, newspaper photographers snapping away.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">"Probably some kind of drunk
driver," she said. "What's a seven-letter word for <i>bullfighter?</i>"<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Mooch sipped his coffee and shrugged.
"<i>Toreador?</i>" he guessed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Louisa shook her head. "Too many
letters."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Let
me see the sports page," Mooch told her.</span>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-17112522259173665542014-04-30T12:31:00.003-06:002014-04-30T12:31:28.178-06:00fer de Lance (Horror)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xNHYbEkQttrsUfmmuU0iuVMb9rj3yRWXuatlj08cAMvpivwD3hV9I9PmDBdkoY4mflj4jRDqqlwMcmFVxfFZjCZKADh4GDAsnq00njJ2VU37N4GVUHkTXS2C2COv8lnS_O7T/s1600/old-man.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xNHYbEkQttrsUfmmuU0iuVMb9rj3yRWXuatlj08cAMvpivwD3hV9I9PmDBdkoY4mflj4jRDqqlwMcmFVxfFZjCZKADh4GDAsnq00njJ2VU37N4GVUHkTXS2C2COv8lnS_O7T/s320/old-man.jpg" height="482" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626993784504131634" style="display: block; height: 241px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" width="640" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A crowd is gathering outside Philip fer de Lance's house. All of them have recently lost someone close to them. Why are they there?<br /></span><br />
<i>Don't like to read online:</i> <a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/59605397/Fer-de-Lance">Click here to print the whole story for free off Scribd</a>.<br />
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<u><span style="font-family: Papyrus; font-size: 26pt; line-height: 69.33333587646484px;">fer de Lance</span></u></div>
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<b>A crowd had begun to gather outside of Philip fer de Lance’s house.</b></div>
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Some held signs. Some held candles. Some held an imploring look. Some were implacid.Some were crying. Some held babies. Most did not. All looked a little scared. All looked a little confused.</div>
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Not many of them talked amongst themselves as they sat on the sidewalk, or in their cars along the street, or paced up and down. None crossed into Philip’s yard, none walked through the small gate that did not quite latch tight in the white picket fence – <i>he had a white picket fence, </i>some thought to themselves when they arrived, <i>how could the house look that innocent?</i>—that surrounded a front yard that was entirely unremarkable. Unremarkable except for the crowd that had begun to gather and not talk amongst themselves.</div>
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The ones who had been there for a day, or a week, none longer than two weeks yet, had haltingly compared notes on why they were there. Or, more accurately, how they knew to be there, outside Philip fer de Lance’s house in a small suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska, on a side street that did not even really need to exist, a small offshoot of two other side streets. And none were sure why except they knew somehow they had to be there.</div>
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As the crowd had begun to gather they had seen signs of activity in the small Cape-Cod-style house. This morning Philip had shut the drapes in the living room. He did not appear to see the 15 or so people who were on the sidewalk and in cars in front of his house; he did not shut the drapes against them but had appeared to do it because the sun was coming in.</div>
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And they had seen the light on in the upstairs window, the one on the left as you faced the house from the street (which they all did, most of the time) last night, until shortly after five o’clock. The light had gone on around 4:30 p.m., as the sun had begun going down. The house faced east, and so the office would get almost no light in the afternoon, and as September passed into October as it was now, the evenings were gloomy. So the light had gone on and they had seen it go on and stay on until just after 5 o’clock, at which time the light had gone off and they had seen the kitchen light shine out of the side of the house onto the small side yard that led into the back of the house. (They could only imagine the backyard. Shrubbery kept them from seeing into it, but they could see the hickory tree that loomed over the house, three of them in fact, the type of trees that are always dropping not just nuts but twigs and branches.)</div>
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The light on in the upper window past five o’clock meant that Philip had worked a little late, and those among the crowd who knew that felt, depending on why they were there, either a small shudder, or a yearning to ask a favor.</div>
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Now, today, the crowd watched as the blinds were twisted open a little, to allow light to get in from the midday sun, still bright enough that Philip could probably work without a lamp for a while, as he settled down after his lunch to his desk. They could not see into the room the blinds helped protect, Philip’s upstairs attic office.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Upstairs, in that attic office, Philip sat down to his afternoon’s work. He pulled out his</span></b> yellow legal pad, 8 ½ by 13 inches, with the neatly-ruled lines and a few slivers of paper near the top where he’d torn off previous drafts. He pulled out a few pens and laid them on his desk alongside the yellow paper, and turned on the small radio that sat on the desk.</div>
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Philip was 67 years old and had followed this routine nearly every day for 24 years. Up until a few months ago, he had followed this routine at his office a few miles away, and after his retirement he had followed it at home. His desk, an old one he’d had brought home from the office many years ago (with the permission of the editor-in-chief and publisher at the time, of course) was one of the older, massive, wooden desks that used to populate offices, and it dwarfed Philip. His chair was a wheeled, swivel, arm chair, likewise made of wood and without any installed padding.He did not use padding; work was not supposed to be padded. The desk and chair would not have looked out of place in a Superman comic issued in 1947, and were probably made around that time and served as a model for the desks and chairs drawn in the comics at that time (and since.)</div>
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In the drawers of the desk were the usual office supplies – including some more modern ones like <i>post-its</i> but nothing too electronic or modern. There were ballpoint pens; Philip was not so old-fashioned as to insist on fountain pens, not when getting one nowadays marked you not just as eccentric but also cost quite a bit, too, and he had not liked fountain pens the first time around and gladly jettisoned them when ballpoints came out. The drawers contained a ruler, and a small office dictionary and thesaurus, and his files of both work-in-progress and completed efforts.</div>
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On the desk itself were the radio (he did like to listen to music, quietly, while he worked), a desk lamp, and a pen-and-pencil holder, as well as a desk-calendar/blotter. And, now his legal pad for rough drafts, and his pens. Philip sat at the desk for a moment, sipped the cup of tea he had made for the afternoon, and then bent forward.</div>
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At the top of the legal pad, Philip wrote in a neat hand a name: <i>Jane Sylvia Ruthering.</i> He sat back and thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. He underlined it and sat back again, sipping his tea. <i>What had Jane been like</i> he wondered, and closed his eyes, and thought and sipped his tea as the crowd outside watched the blinds for a hint of what was going on.</div>
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Some of the crowd outside had newspapers, each day a few of them would go into town and get some newspapers. Some of them had laptops, and would go to the coffee shops downtown where the wireless internet had reached even Lincoln, and would search for information to confirm why they were there. They mostly did not talk about it.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Inside, Philip opened his eyes and leaned forward. He picked up his pen and wrote again</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">:</span> <i>born 1947 – died 2006.</i> He went on: <i>Jane Sylvia Ruthering passed away on Tuesday after a short illness. Jane Sylvia was known as Jane or Janey to her friends. She was born in East Cambridgeshire, England on September 12, 1947, to her parents Thomas and Edna Ruthering.She lived in East Cambridgeshire until she was 21, when she moved to London and took a job as a receptionist at a recording studio.</i></div>
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Philip dotted the <i>i </i>in <i>studio</i> and put the pen down again, massaging his hand. He sipped at his tea, now just lukewarm, and re-read what he had written. He began thinking again. He put his tea down and began writing. <i>Jane married her husband, Daniel, at 23 after a short engagement.She had two sons, </i>here he thought for a moment, <i>Stephen and David.</i> <i>She is survived by her sons, her husband, and her grandchildren. Flowers may be sent to the East Cambs Funeral Home.Visitation will be from ten to noon Thursday, with the service and burial immediately thereafter.</i></div>
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Philip again put his pen down. His writing was deliberate and slow and the short obituary had taken him the better part of an hour to write. He leaned back a little. He was not as fast as he once was.</div>
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After a while, he turned his chair to the left and pulled the typewriter on its little cart over towards him. He inserted a piece of clean white paper into its reel and rolled it down. He put the yellow legal pad up on a prop-stand next to him and put his glasses on, reading it over again.</div>
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The final typewritten product took him about forty-five more minutes, neatly typed after several mistakes (and each time he made a mistake he started over, taking out the paper and crumpling it up) in a one-inch column down the left side of the paper, left-justified. At the end, Philip typed -30- and pulled the paper out carefully. He read it through one last time for typos and grammatical errors, pondered for a few minutes whether he should add more detail but decided against it.</div>
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He swiveled his chair again and opened the drawer down on his right side. There were a series of hanging folders, each tabbed with a letter of the alphabet. He flipped through until he got to “R” and then pulled that one out. He then put <i>Ruthering, Jane Sylvia</i> into that folder, which contained no other documents yet. He tucked the “R” folder back into the desk drawer, and looked with a muted satisfaction at the neatly-filed papers before closing the door.</div>
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He sat a moment longer until the song on the radio was finished, then clicked it off. “At least today I got a little break,” he said, and got up to go downstairs and watch the afternoon gardening show he usually missed.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">…The crowd continued to gather without being aware, really, that they were gathering.</span></b></div>
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Throughout the afternoon, while Philip watched his gardening show, the people outside the house milled and fretted and wasted time. They did not, yet, think of themselves as a crowd, and none of them, if questioned, would have readily admitted why they were there.</div>
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Certainly not Tammy Hudson, previously a mother of two from upstate New York. Tammy sat in her Hyundai Elantra, parked in front of the neighbors’ house and watched Philip’s window flicker, that night, as the television beamed its light to Philip’s eyes. She could see him, through the drapes, sometimes, a small head unsteadily getting up once or twice, in shadow relief against the drapes outlined in the blue-white glow a television emits no matter what show is on. Every morning, Tammy moved her car to the opposite side of the street; this town had an alternate-side parking rule in effect and she didn’t want to get towed.</div>
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She didn’t read the paper each day.</div>
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She didn’t listen to the radio.</div>
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She didn’t eat much. She had some groceries in the back of her car, things she’d bought three days ago just after she’d first pulled up. When she’d pulled up on the street she’d known that she was in the right place, and had gone to get some food and drink that wouldn’t spoil. She hadn’t even pondered how long she might want to stay there, but she’d known she’d want to. She’d come back and parked her car just up the street, where she could sit behind the wheel and watch his house.That whole day she’d sat there and watched his house, seen the telltale signs of movement, the lights going on here or there, the lights going out finally. When the last light had gone out, and when she’d watched another half-hour and was convinced that Philip had gone to sleep that night she’d let herself sleep.</div>
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When she’d woken the next day, there had been a few more cars there. And some people who’d walked up the street and slowed in front of Philip’s house and then turned around. They were braver than she was, she knew. She didn’t want Philip to notice her yet.</div>
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But she wanted to tell Philip why she was there.</div>
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She had in her pocket a crumpled piece of paper, a newsprint-smudgy remnant that she’d clenched in her hand the entire drive from Buffalo to Nebraska. She’d clung to that paper the entire time. She pulled it out each morning and read it.</div>
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<i>Thomas Jon Hudson, age 5. Parents Tammy and Steven. Thomas Jon was born in Buffalo, New York on May 20, 200_ and passed away on Tuesday at Niagara Hospital. Thomas Jon was preparing to enter the first grade. He is survived also by his sister Louisa Tamara. No memorial service will be held.The family requests no flowers. Donations may be sent to the Thomas Jon Fund, c/o 1<sup>st</sup> Bank of Buffalo.</i></div>
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<i></i>She pulled that out each morning and read it and wondered why it had been written, and how.</div>
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She tried not to read the other story that she carried with her. And she sat in her car and waited, each day, watching to see if Philip would come outside and what she would do if he did.And she kept her cellphone on the seat by her, plugged into the cigarette lighter and fully charged at all times. She called nobody.</div>
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Now, today, the fourth day she was here, she looked around the street. There were twenty-seven cars on the road, all parked on the same side, as hers was. None of them appeared to belong to anyone who lived on this street, not the least because each of them had a person or people in it, which was quiet and full of big trees and had sidewalks that were cracked and worn and showed the signs of an aging suburb. The houses were post-World War II houses that, although kept up nicely on first glance also showed signs of aging: a number hanging upside down on the door, a mailbox leaning a little, grass not trimmed around the fences. Most of the people on this street were probably quite old, maybe all retired, all living in their houses and trying to keep up and spending time waiting for their children to come and help out by mowing the lawn or fixing the clothes’ dryer so it didn’t take forever.</div>
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In addition to those cars, there were two groups of people sitting on the sidewalk outside of Philip’s house. Not <i>groups</i>, maybe. Clusters? One was of four people, and none of them appeared to know the others and they did not talk. The other was of three people and they did seem related, a husband and wife and a mother-in-law, maybe.</div>
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One was of three girls, each about college age. They held the signs. The cluster of had the two with candles.</div>
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Those people sat there. Others would come up, hang around outside the house for a few minutes, and then go, or sit further up the street. Sometimes the car people would get out and look at the house.</div>
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Tammy turned her car back off and pulled out a can of soda, warm from sitting in the backseat. She sipped at it carefully, watching Philip’s door. It was her fourth day of watching, and she was not out of food yet.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">…Inside, unaware that it was Tammy’s fourth day, Philip awoke.</span></b></div>
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He got up, and got out of bed. He scratched his armpit under his long nightshirt and slipped his feet into brown slippers that were cracked and old. He pulled on a bathrobe and shuffled to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and stared at his face in the mirror for a while.</div>
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“Another big day, Phil,” he told his reflection. It was what he’d said every day to his reflection for as long as he could remember. He paused for a second before leaving, and tried a smile at himself.It was maybe too early for that.</div>
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He went downstairs and into the kitchen, where he pulled the towel off of the birdcage that sat on a pedestal next to the sink. “Good morning, Charlie,” he said, and peered into the cage.“Pretty boy. Pretty boy?” He was supposed to say that to the bird as much as possible. The pet store man had said that was how you taught them to talk. He also said this every morning to Charlie:</div>
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“Another big day, Charlie.” The bird chirped and Philip reached inside to pull out the seed cage. He busied himself with feeding Charlie and cleaning the cage, as he did everyday, taking his time over it because he had plenty of time. Then he prepared his own breakfast, and turned on the radio to the talk radio station he listened to. He sat at the table, listening to the morning news while he ate oatmeal and watched Charlie hop around.</div>
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He lingered over breakfast but finally had no choice but to admit it was over. “What should we do today, Charlie?” he asked his friend, and got a chirp, to which he responded “Pretty boy.”The pet store guy had said most birds could say that. Philip washed up the bowl and his glass and set them on the towel on the side of the sink to dry.</div>
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He spent another hour of the morning showering, and shaving, and getting out his clothes, and getting dressed in a white button-up shirt and black pants, and his socks and shoes, the outfit he always wore to work. Because it was Friday, he wore one of his ‘funny’ ties.</div>
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When he’d talked to the retirement counselor at the VA, the counselor had suggested varying his routines. <i>You’re retired now, Phil</i>, he’d said. Philip wished he would not be called “Phil.” <i>You should take advantage of that. Break out of the old routines. Do some gardening.Maybe take a trip. Do you have some family or friends somewhere you could visit?</i></div>
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He didn’t. He hadn’t had family to visit in at least ten years, but he didn’t tell the retirement counselor that. He didn’t listen to the rest of the suggestions, either. Philip fer de Lance had gone to work every day for 50 years, and had spent the last forty of those at the obituary desk. He knew how to do that, and so he did that.</div>
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And so he did that today, again, walking up the stairs to his desk in the upstairs office, where he went through the ritual again: legal pad, pens, radio, thinking, writing, listening to the radio, writing more, typing, and filing.</div>
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He wrote this:</div>
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<i>Anessa Eva Wedford, 200_-200_. Anessa Eva was the daughter of James and Ella Wedford, both of Portland. Anessa was born with a congenital heart defect and passed on after an unsuccessful surgical intervention. Memorial services will be held at the St. Thomas Church Monday afternoon.</i></div>
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<i></i></div>
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It always made Philip sad to write about the babies, and this one took him longer than usual. He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief which he carefully folded and tucked into his suitcoat pocket then, and filed the manila folder away.</div>
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He began down the stairs and thought he should perhaps get in a little gardening this afternoon. It did not occur to him that it was unusual for him to be writing obituaries for people in Oregon, or England, or New York. He just did his job, and when it was done, as it was now, he changed out of his work clothes and into an older outfit, never shorts and never jeans, jeans were for factory workers, and an older shirt – not a t-shirt and always with a collar—and pulled out his work gloves from the cabinet under the sink.</div>
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He stopped a moment, pulling on the gloves, and looked into Charlie’s cage. “Pretty boy?” he asked. “Pretty boy have a big day?” He glanced at the clock. “Little later than usual, right? Pretty boy? Charlie?” Charlie edged closer on his perch to the old man, eyeing him from one side of his beak, then the other. He chirped, but did not talk. “One of these days, I bet,” Philip said, and went out the side door of his house.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">A slight shudder went through the collected people out front of his house when they heard the door open.</span></b></div>
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Tammy sat up a little straighter when she heard the murmur. Crowds, or small groups, have their own language: buzzes, murmurs, a tensing, a loosening, they become something organic and organized whenever people gather together for a reason, and just like flexing a muscle in your back causes a reaction in the rest of your body, one member of a crowd doing something causes all the others to react. So Tammy noticed that the side door opened, but there was a lilac bush on the side of the house and she could not see who (what? No, who, she was sure) came out. She looked and saw the door close and watched but whoever came out (Philip fer de Lance had come out, she knew but her mind was not, about this adventure, going to make things simple or accept them at face value, since accepting things at face value meant that she would not even be here, so her mind had to complicate things and think that maybe there was something other than an old man living in a small house in Nebraska who was responsible for all this, because the actual truth made no sense, right?) whoever came out had gone around the side of the house into the backyard.</div>
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Tammy got out of her car. She opened the door and stood up and stretched her back and her legs and felt muscles which were used to the carseat position rearrange themselves slowly, flowing like pudding. She shut the car door quietly but not quietly enough for the others around to fail to notice.</div>
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The husband-wife-mother in law group was nearest her, and the husband and wife turned towards her. She met their eyes, each in turn, and nobody said anything. Nobody ever said anything to anyone out here. They could not talk, yet about why they were out here.</div>
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Tammy remembered Godzilla movies. She was just in between the ages of people who would remember them well, would remember them because they saw the originals (for people older than Tammy) or would remember them because they had made fun of them in newer movies (for people older than Tammy) but she’d watched a Godzilla movie, once, the one that had been in theaters in her lifetime, and had wondered, as she watched it, how people could have reacted in real life to that. Here and there, in crowd scenes, there would be an extra who would see this giant lizard walking through a city, New York she thought, and that person would look around at the others onscreen but would not say anything. That extra would not point, or shout, or scream, or duck, or do anything, but would just stare. Tammy thought that was how you <i>had</i> to react to Godzilla, because Godzilla could not happen, and so if Godzilla did happen, it was best to not let others know that you saw it because you might not be sane. What did they do, in real life, to people who said “There’s a giant lizard terrorizing New York!”, after all? They locked them up, because giant lizards do not terrorize New York in real life.</div>
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And in real life people do not gather outside Philip fer de Lance’s small house. And if they do, they do not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or scream. They just stand and stare because nobody wants to be the first to admit that things have gone awry.</div>
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So Tammy did not talk to the husband and wife, and mother-in-law, and they did not talk to her, and nobody around intruded on the little tableau as Tammy stood there. Her opening her car door alone was excitement enough. First Philip’s door opened, then Tammy’s. Not that anyone there knew Tammy’s name, but they all knew Philip’s. Or she assumed they did. <i>She</i> knew it, and she was there. They were there, so… they must know it.</div>
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She looked away from husband, wife, mother-in-law. She looked towards the side door that had opened and closed. She looked at the lilac bush that had blocked her view, saw that it would have blocked the little trio’s view, also, and looked at the treetops over Philip’s small house. She looked at the neighbor’s house, as the sun began to set. No lights on, and nobody had come home today or left this morning or the day before. Maybe nobody lived there, or maybe they were away.</div>
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She looked again at the top of the side door, again at the treetops, as though they could tell her something. In her hands, she held the two newspapers. She had come here for a reason, and now that she was here she did not want to admit that reason.</div>
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Nobody home at the neighbor’s, right? So she stepped around her car, and onto the sidewalk, and walked over to sidewalk in front of Philip’s house, paused at the little gate that led through the picket fence. All eyes were on her. As she stood there, all eyes stared at her, wondering what she was going to do.</div>
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She paced back along the fence, in front of husband and wife and mother-in-law, and stopped at the edge of the fence, where it served as a border between Philip’s yard and the absent neighbor’s yard. She stood there for a few minutes. There was no wind.</div>
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She had come here for a reason even if she did not want to think about that reason. She needed to see a monster. She stepped onto the neighbor’s grass. The crowd tightened up a little bit, the crowd-equivalent of the hair on the back of your neck standing up. She walked slowly across the grass, barefoot, under the tree spreading across the yard, alongside the white fence. Her hand trailed along the fence but did not touch it, floating above it, leveled and fingers extended and slightly spread apart. She leaned slightly forward, peering along the fence and the lilac bushes that began at the edge of the house and overpowered the fence which continued along to Philip’s backyard.</div>
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She walked up to the first bush. She was almost even with the neighbor’s house and ordinarily would have shot a glance at the picture window, hoping that nobody was inside to come out and yell at her, but she did not do that right now. Her entire attention was focused on Philip’s backyard, on listening for sounds. She took another few hesitant steps, and was past the front edge of the neighbor’s house, was now in between the two houses and next to the beginning of the lilac bushes. From the road, they were an impenetrable barrier. Up close, they were sparser, with gaps and holes to see through.</div>
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Her other hand now, too, was spread-eagled out. The left had pulled back a little, was still reaching out as though to caress the fence. The other, now, stretched to her right, fingers splayed, and she put one foot in front of the other, carefully, standing more upright but knees bent.</div>
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To those at the road, watching, rapt, she appeared to be on a tightrope or balance beam.</div>
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Tammy took three more steps and heard a small chunking sound. She stopped. She held her breath. Her head bobbed a little as she tried to see through the cracks. She had driven all those miles, had driven across the country, had driven through the Great Plains, too see this, and she held her breath and stood in her tracks.</div>
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She saw Philip, kneeling down on an old cloth, wearing a pair of khaki work pants that were somewhat threadbare. He had a white button-up shirt on with the collar undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had black socks on and a pair of loafers. The “chunking” sound was of a hand-claw, a small garden tool, that Philip thrust into the dirt between two rose bushes, pulling at small tufts of grass and weeds that were growing there.</div>
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Tammy did not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or scream. She just stood and stared.</div>
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Philip continued working for some time, and then backed up a little. He had a small pail with him and he was putting the weeds into the pail. When he backed up, he stood up creakily. He picked up the pail and walked slowly back to the separate garage behind the house. He emptied the pail into a garbage can and put the tools into it. He went into the garage.</div>
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Tammy still stood and stared.</div>
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Philip came out of the garage and locked the door behind him. He brushed off his gloves and took them off as he walked towards the side door. Tammy could not move. But Philip walked right by her, never looked her way, and she was not moving or breathing, so he would have heard nothing anyway. He made his way up the stairs, three of them, and opened the screen door. There was a groan from the metal spring that kept it from slamming shut, and Philip went inside as Tammy watched, and Philip stood there as Tammy saw him, piecemeal through the gaps in the bushes, and Philip watched as the door slowly slid closed. Tammy heard him lock it, a slight click!, but did not see that. The inside wooden door was then closed, and she heard a chain slide.</div>
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She still stood and stared.</div>
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The kitchen window was open. Through the window she heard a low voice, then a chirp, then a low voice, and then, in a chirpy singsong: <i>Another big day</i>.</div>
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Tammy finally ran back to her car.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">On Saturday, two things happened almost at the same time.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;"></span></div>
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Nobody had come and talked to Tammy when she’d run back to her car and gotten inside and locked the door. They’d stared at her for a while, then had gone back to staring at Philip’s window.</div>
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Overnight, the crowd had grown. By the time the sun rose on Philip’s house on Saturday morning, there were 20 new people. About ten of the new ones were sitting on the lawn or were pacing. Two were in a new car on the side of the street. Then there were four each by themselves in their own cars. They had all traveled different distances to be there, judging by the license plates on the cars and in one case the sweatshirt a young man was wearing.</div>
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One more would arrive a little later in the day. He would arrive too late for the early morning excitement, excitement being a relative word.</div>
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At 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, the front door to Philip’s house opened. He came outside dressed in his Saturday clothes.</div>
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He’d woken up early today, excited by the prospect of a new development and a weekend. The new development was that Charlie had learned to talk, and that alone had him ready to hop out of bed. He wondered if maybe it was that he did not get many conversations these days, and the voices on the TV were not <i>real</i> voices, they were <i>broadcast</i> voices. That might be, he thought, but he didn’t spend a lot of time pondering it because he wanted to celebrate and that meant getting an early start. Charlie deserved a treat for his first trick, and Philip would have to do that before grocery shopping, he’d have to go to PetCo and get a treat, or a few toys. He could pamper Charlie.</div>
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He went downstairs and before beginning preparations for breakfast, stood outside Charlie’s cage a moment, it’s towel hanging over it. Charlie’s day had not begun, did not begin until Philip pulled the towel off, just as it did not end until Philip put the cover back on each night. Philip stood there a second, and slowly crossed his bony fingers. Then with his other hand he pulled the towel off, trying to do it with his usual flourish but too nervous to do that.</div>
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Charlie’s head perked up and Philip looked at him. There was a silence. Philip crossed his fingers tighter.</div>
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<i>Another big day</i> Charlie chirped, and Philip almost fainted, realized he’d been holding his breath.“Good boy, pretty boy, another big day, another big day,” he kept saying, over and over, unable to stop smiling. He gave Charlie food, fresh water, kept saying over and over “another big day,” and “pretty boy,” and Charlie treated him to the phrase twice more as he ate breakfast: <i>another big day.</i></div>
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“It is, indeed,” he said, and he began to think what type of surprise to get Charlie. He pondered that happy question while bathing and shaving and getting dressed in his weekend outfit, an ensemble that looked like his gardening outfit without the ground-in dirt and grass stains.</div>
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Dressed, armed with his list, and having heard Charlie chirp <i>another big day</i> once more, Philip went out the front door of his house and blinked in the sunlight.</div>
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A cluster of eyes locked on him and he paused.</div>
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There were people just outside his picket fence. There were cars up and down the street. All of the people looking at him.</div>
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These people over here, this little group of a man and a woman and an older woman, they stared at him, they actually leaned towards him. They did not say anything.</div>
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Philip only used the front door on the weekends. He tried to think back to last week. Had they been there? His memory strained. Maybe someone, but not that little group of three. What did they all want? Nobody was saying anything.</div>
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Inside, he heard chirping, and remembered Charlie’s surprise today. He took a few steps forward.He kept a watchful eye on the people as he came off the porch. They all just stood and stared.</div>
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Two on the right held candles, shielded from the breezes by plastic cups. They wore clean white polo shirts and khaki pants and while he watched they crossed themselves and their lips began moving. Praying, he realized. Praying <i>at him.</i> Why?</div>
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The group of three just sat. As he looked back at them the older woman shrank back a bit and leaned into the younger woman whom she resembled. He looked away from the look in her eyes, which he did not recognize. He looked ahead of him, where a small group of people stood. They were not necessarily together, he realized, although they were a group. They had not come together, maybe, but were here together.</div>
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Philip was afraid. He could hear Charlie chirping and if not for the need to get Charlie’s surprise would have turned around to go back inside and call the police. But he could not miss the bus. The bus left in 10 minutes and that was what it took to get him to the end of the street.</div>
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He walked forward again and looked down at the ground instead of at the people. Nobody was doing or saying anything. Maybe they weren’t here for him, he tried to convince himself, but he knew they were.</div>
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At the gate, he put his hand on the latch and stopped. He didn’t want to open that gate. The people, as they saw his hand tense, tensed themselves. His hand clenched, and they clenched, and his hand loosened and they loosened.</div>
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There were signs. Placards. He remembered the protests he’d seen, and the placards those people had held. Those were larger groups, they’d had chants, there had been a reason they’d been there.Why were these people here?</div>
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He looked to his left, saw a woman sitting in a car, her fingers on the steering wheel. Under her fingers were folded, crumply pieces of paper. He looked to his right. The praying duo were there, and clusters of people. He unlatched the gate. He swung it open.</div>
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The people stood there, looking at him. They did not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or scream.They just stood and stared. He moved out into them. He kept his head down. He put his hand to his chest pocket where his grocery list was. He moved as quickly as he was able to move through the crowd and around them and breathed a sigh as he got past the edge of his yard, where they were the thickest. The people behind him, he knew, were turning to watch him go. He heard their feet shuffling, the sussuration of the simultaneous movement of groups, but he did not look back.</div>
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He walked up the street, keeping his feet moving. The people did not follow him, but they did not stop watching him as he stood at the bus stop. He watched them out of the corner of his eye and they watched him back. They did not approach but they did not leave.</div>
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The bus came, and he got on and sat down in the sideways-facing seats for the elderly, showing his monthly pass to the driver, the same driver that was on the bus every Saturday, and Philip leaned back and felt thankful for the return of the routine. He glanced at the people in front of his house, but grew scared again, and when the bus turned the corner he lost himself in the familiar route he took every Saturday, watching the driver’s expressions, the ones he made every Saturday, and the traffic that was more or less the same every Saturday. He hoped the crowd would be gone when he got back and that he would not have to deal with them.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Back at Philip’s house, a cab pulled up and an angry-looking man got out.</span> </b>It was not, Tammy thought as she looked at him, that common that people actually looked <i>angry</i>. What she’d previously thought were mad or upset looks on people’s faces paled in comparison to this man’s face. The cab had pulled up not long after Philip had left, turning the corner just after the bus had pulled away, in fact, and Tammy had seen them both. She’d noted the cab because they were not common in this little subdivision. The cab slowed as it approached and stopped in front of the house. The back door on the driver’s side, facing Philip’s house, swung open hard enough to rebound back and the man got out. He paused as the door moved lightly into him and pushed it back more, and began walking across the street.</div>
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“Hey,” yelled the cabdriver, and the man stopped. He did not take his eyes off of Philip’s house, but he stopped. “The fare’s fifty-three dollars,” the cab driver said. Tammy wondered if that was a lot. It seemed like a lot. She looked at her small change purse sitting among the crumpled plastic bags and coffee cups that were the containers her food had come in lately. She only had about twenty dollars left and had no idea what she’d do when that ran out. Fifty-three dollars just for a drive to this house seemed like an awful expense.</div>
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Tammy did not think that she would be concerned about money for very much longer. Not given what she planned to ask for.</div>
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The man backed up, but stayed staring at the house. He pulled out his wallet and glanced through it. The cab driver held out his hand and the man finally had to look down as he fumbled around with money, seeming confused for a moment. The reason for that became obvious when he spoke.</div>
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“Sorry, mate. Don’t know your money.” He had an English accent, Tammy heard. He handed a few bills and looked at the cabdriver. “’sat enough?” he asked. The cabdriver looked at them, at him, and then pulled out one of the bills. Tammy could not make out what it was.</div>
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“Gave me too much. I’ll keep a little for a tip, but this’s too much. Can’t take advantage of you, can I? Not with what you’ve been through.” The man took the bill and stuffed it into his coat pocket carelessly, having turned his attention back to the house. The cabdriver watched his gaze, then looked from the man to the house to the man. “Sure hope you’re wrong,” he said, and drove off.</div>
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The man stood in the road for a few second, and then without glancing around marched up between the people on the sidewalk and to the picket fence. He pushed on the gate, staring at the front door, and only took his eyes off the door when he had to look down and figure out how to open the gate, which he did quickly. He strode forward again and up to the door and peered in through the small square windows scattered across the solid door. He put his face right up against the screen door, and Tammy could see it pushed in from his nose.</div>
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The man looked to his right, saw the doorbell button and pushed it several times. Without waiting, he then began to knock on the glass above the screen in the outer door. Then he opened his hand and slapped the glass harder, one, two, three times.</div>
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“’Ey! You! Out here!” he yelled. He continued slapping the door and yelling for the occupant to come out.</div>
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“He’s gone,” someone from the sidewalk said, quietly during a pause for breath. The man stopped, hand in mid-air. He turned around, looking at the people gathered around the house and then to the cars with people in them and it looked to Tammy like he’d actually not noticed them before that moment. He stared at them all.</div>
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“What do you mean, he’s gone?” he asked. His accent was not heavy at all, but it gave his voice a strange quality, like the man did not belong here. <i>We all shouldn’t be here,</i> Tammy thought to herself. “He’s died?”</div>
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“He left this morning. He went out.”</div>
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“Out? Out? This bloody… this … <i>he’s gone out?</i>”</div>
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The speaker, the ‘mother’ in the group of three, just nodded, pulling back within herself. The man looked around.</div>
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“And you all saw him go?”</div>
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A few others nodded. Most just watched.</div>
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“And nobody stopped him?”</div>
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At that, the people gathered round reacted in one of several ways. A few looked at those near them, those people being mostly those who had come with someone else. Some, like Tammy, looked down, suddenly finding interest in their own shirts or shoes. Others looked off into the distance.</div>
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“Where’d he go?” The man still stood on the stairs, elevated above them. He had the podium, as it were. Nobody answered. “Do you know?” Nobody answered again. Tammy had not been there long enough to know where Philip might have gone. She wondered if the people that had been here before her knew.</div>
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The man turned back to the door, looked in through it. He revolved around, took in the crowd again, and then took a step down off the porch, contemplating the house. He walked over to the large front picture window, stood up against it and peered in, shading his eyes. When he stepped away, Tammy could see the outline of a smudge where he’d breathed on the glass. The crowd felt to her like it was holding its breath, more in suspense than when she’d gone to look at Philip in the backyard. She kept glancing from the man to the street, to see if Philip would come walking back and see the man. She wondered what he would do.</div>
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The man then walked over to the other side of the house. He turned the corner and she watched as he went to the side door, or so she imagined because she lost sight of him for a second. Just as she wondered if he’d go into the backyard the man came walking back out. He walked to the front porch again and then turned to face the assemblage again. He did not talk, though. He looked at them. He looked at the candles, the signs, the faces, and then walked down the path. He still looked angry. His jacket looked bulky. Tammy wondered if he was armed. He looked angry enough to be armed.</div>
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He let himself back out through the picket fence but did not bother trying to latch the gate. He walked up to the college-aged girls with the signs. He did not talk to them right away, and they did not talk to him. He took the sign in his hands and held it up to them.</div>
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“Stop The Killing,” he said. He put a question mark on the end of his comment, one that was not on the sign. “You really think he can do that?” The girls just looked at him. He stepped back and looked at the other two signs: <i>No more death. Celebrate life.</i> The last one he snorted at. The girls looked offended but scared to say anything. The man turned around, looked at the small family group.</div>
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“What ‘bout you? You here to try to stop him, too?” They shook their heads.</div>
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“We want to ask him a question,” the older woman said, after a moment. The man cocked his head at her. She went on: “I want to know if I’m going to go into remission again.” The man just looked at her. “Or if this time it will kill me,” the woman said. The man was about to say something, it seemed, but he turned away. Then he paused and turned back and looked at the woman.</div>
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“How’d you find out?” he asked her sharply.</div>
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The woman bit her lip and answered quietly. “There was a man who comes in for chemo the same time as me. His wife told me.” The younger woman by her touched her hand. The older woman was crying. “His wife told me,” she repeated “I don’t know how she knew.”</div>
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“Was.” The man said. “So that’s how.” The woman nodded. The man lost a little steam, then, looked as though he was thinking. His mouth pursed and he looked around and he turned back to the house. “I’ve come to kill him,” he said.</div>
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Tammy sucked in her breath.</div>
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The man heard and looked at her. She sat there, in her car, hands on the steering wheel, and met his gaze. Under her left hand was the obituary, under her right was the other article. The man looked hard at her, and walked over, stood in front of the car. Met her eyes. Then he turned around again and walked away. Tammy breathed out.</div>
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“So what’re you all doing here, then, just sitting? Just doing nothing? Just watching him come out and go off to the movies or to get a burger, and you don’t stop him? Nobody stops him?” Nobody said anything. Nobody in the cars rolled up their windows, either. Nobody walked away. They looked at the man, and looked at Philip’s house, and looked down at their hands or their steering wheels. But nobody answered him. “You all know what the hell he’s doing in there, right? That’s why you’re all here, isn’t it? Because he did it to you… well not to you but to someone you knew.”</div>
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The man was stalking from group to group and getting louder and more excitable.</div>
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“To someone you knew, maybe someone you loved and didn’t want to go. Maybe to someone like your mum, who has the flu, the fucking flu, just a bug that everyone gets in the world and they throw up once or twice and then they take some pills and they’re fine, only your mum this time she wasn’t fine, was she?” He had passed back over the little group a few times and was standing at the picket fence, back to the crowd now, hands clenched on the fence the way that Tammy gripped her steering wheel. She saw his hands clench as he said again “This time she wasn’t fine after the pills, no she wasn’t.”</div>
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And as he started crying looking down at the fence Tammy abruptly got out of the car and moved up to him. His shoulders shook as he cried quietly, the way large men do, his chest heaving up and up and up and then down all at once into his belly, and repeating that. “And when she doesn’t get better she says <i>Maybe I’ll go see the doctor tomorrow, Stewart</i>, and before she can she dies.”</div>
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Tammy hugged him from behind, still clutching her papers. He wouldn’t let go of the fence. She hugged her head into his back, thinking that he did not remind her at all of her ex-husband. She hugged him so tightly she barely heard him say “And when you watch her die, suddenly you see… <i>this fucking house in your mind</i> and you know.”</div>
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He pulled away abruptly and looked down at her. “You know.” He said again. She nodded. He backed away from her.</div>
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“I know,” she said. He looked at her. She stared back. The rest of the crowd, the rest of the people, did not say anything but they had all moved a little closer, drawn to the man, maybe.</div>
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“What happened with you?” the man, Stewart, she guessed, asked.</div>
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Tammy looked down at the article and the obituary. She shook her head. She just stared at her fists. Her lip quivered and she dropped her head lower, closed her eyes against the tears. After a moment, even though she knew she could not cry anymore, she kept her eyes closed. Her chest sunk in and her hands shook and her nose sniffled, but there were no tears left. She stood there shaking her head slowly back and forth, felt the man pry out the obituary. He read it, quietly, but loud enough that she could hear the words, the words she saw constantly and could recite by memory. <i>No memorial service will be held.</i></div>
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The man looked at her. “He did that?” She nodded. “A kid? A little boy?” She nodded again. She kept her eyes closed. In a moment, she felt him take her other hand. She kept it balled tightly into a fist. The man held her hand. He didn’t pry. He just held his large hand around her small one, gently, cupping it. Finally, she opened her hand. She could feel others around her, a little closer.The man read again, and this time his voice trailed off near the end but she still knew this one by heart, too.</div>
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<b><i>Police seek area man and daughter.</i></b><i> Buffalo police issued an Amber Alert late last night for Molly Hudson, age 3, and her father, Steven Hudson, age 33. Hudson is described as stocky, 5’5”, with shaggy black hair, a beard and a tattoo of a parrot on his right forearm. Hudson is believed to have fled after assaulting his ex-wife in her home two days after their divorce was finalized. An arrest warrant has been issued for him on charges of first degree murder.</i></div>
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<i>Police found Hudson’s son Thomas at the house after they were called…</i></div>
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The man’s voice trailed off as Tammy found her tears. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Christ,” Stewart said. “He did all that…” and she took the stories back from him, clenched them in her hands. “So what’re you going to do to him?” Stewart asked her. “You must want to kill him.”</div>
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Tammy looked up in surprise. She sniffled and spoke through a mouth that was clammy. “That story was written more than a week ago. I’ve had my cellphone with me the whole time.” Stewart just stared at her. She had to finish the thought. “I’m not going to do anything to <i>him</i>,” she waved one hand, the one with the newspaper article, at Philip’s house. “I want him to do something for me. I want him to kill my ex-husband.”</div>
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Stewart seemed a little taken aback at that. “You want to <i>use</i> him?”</div>
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“It’s been over a week. Nobody’s heard nothing. I’ve heard nothing. I know what happened to Tommy Jon. And I know what happened to Molly…” she paused. “And I’ll know what happens to that bastard, too.” She said that last quietly.</div>
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There was silence. They all stared at her. Nobody moved until there was the sound of a shuffling footstep behind them. When Tammy looked up, Stewart stepped back and Philip was standing there.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Philip was carrying a small paper bag, with handles, in one hand, and a plastic bag in the other.</span></b></div>
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Tammy could see some celery sticking out of the paper bag, and in the plastic bag she saw round shapes, little play-balls. When Philip took another step there was a tiny, tinkling sound from the bag. As the crowd turned towards him, Philip pulled the paper bag up to his chest, protecting himself with it. <i>No</i>, Tammy thought—protecting <i>the bag.</i></div>
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They stood like that for what seemed an absurdly long time, Philip just to one side of the gate, clutching his plastic bag of pet toys to his chest. Tammy and Stewart in front of a semi-circle of people all staring at him. Philip just kept looking from one to the other. Finally, he moved. He edged towards his gate, put one bony old hand onto the latch.</div>
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Stewart roused himself. “None of that, then,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.”</div>
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Philip looked at him, and said in a soft voice “I don’t think all of you should be here.”</div>
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“All of us? Why do you think we’re here?”</div>
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Philip looked at them, at each of them that he could see, and then back to Stewart. “I honestly don’t know.”</div>
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“You say you fucking don’t know?” Stewart yelled, suddenly. “You don’t fucking know?” He was hollering, and advanced a step towards Philip, who took a step back and put the plastic bag behind him. He dropped his grocery bag, too, and Tammy heard a clank that sounded like glass.</div>
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She hoped, for some reason, that nothing had broken. Maybe it was the way Philip stood, or the way Stewart seemed to loom over him. Maybe it was just that she’d been crying. Or that she <i>needed</i> Philip. Maybe more than anyone here. She said “Stop.”</div>
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Stewart looked at her.</div>
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“I will not, and I won’t let you talk to him.”</div>
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“You can’t stop me from talking to him,” she said. “Don’t you try,” she added.</div>
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“You’ve certainly done a right job of it so far,” he said, “sitting here for a week. And it’s wrong what he’s doing,” there was a squeak and Stewart whirled around, grabbed Philip’s hand on the latch that had squeaked and Stewart hissed <i>“Don’t try to get away,</i>”</div>
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Philip tried to puff himself up then, and pulled at his hand, which Stewart kept clamped tightly to the gate. Philip tried, though, Tammy could see, to be tough, and said in a louder voice, “Let go of me or I’ll… call the police.” He very obviously had to pause to think what it was one does when a stranger in a crowd won’t allow you to let go of your gate. “What are you all doing here?”</div>
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“Doing here? What are we all doing here? You know perfectly well what we’re doing here, old man. We’re all here because you… because you…” Stewart faltered.</div>
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Tammy knew why. Tammy knew he’d faltered for the same reason nobody had talked earlier. The same reason they’d all avoided contact with each other up until now. The same reason Stewart had veered away from it in his rant earlier.</div>
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“Because you are killing people with your work,” she said, calmly. Stewart turned to her. They all did. They were surprised. They were surprised that someone would actually cross that line, say what they were all thinking, because (Tammy felt and knew they felt) saying it out loud meant that your old life, your old world, was gone, and you were now part of something new, something horrible. Part of a world where a man could write some words and kill people. Or part of a world where you were crazy and did not even know it. But how much worse could her life get, she thought? Maybe I’m the only one crazy enough to have said that, but I don’t care, she told herself.Maybe that makes it real or horrible, but I don’t care. She looked straight at Philip.</div>
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“You write things down and the people die. We all know it.”</div>
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Philip looked around at them, shook his head. “You’re all wrong, you’ve got it backwards. People die and I write about them. I write obituaries. That’s what I do.” He smiled at her, encouragingly.“Whoever you’ve lost, I’m sorry, but I don’t <i>cause</i> that. I just report it. I’m a reporter.”</div>
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“No, you’re not,” Tammy said. “You make it happen.”</div>
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Philip opened his eyes wider. “Young lady,” but Tammy thrust her hand forward. She held out the articles for him. “You wrote one of these,” she said. “You wrote one of these and it appeared in my newspaper, but you live here, you live thousands of miles away. You live thousands of miles away here, and that didn’t stop you from doing it! It didn’t stop you from doing what you did, from saying what you said!</div>
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“Do you know what you did?” She grew louder, and her mouth opened wider. She continued to shake the newspaper articles at Philip, who did not shrink back but stared at her. “Do you know how my son died? Do you?”</div>
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“I don’t,” Philip said, but Tammy didn’t hear him because she was screaming. She’d pulled the articles back, clutched them in her hands as her hands pushed at her cheeks, pressing in on her face as though to try to stop the words from coming out.</div>
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“He died when he walked into the room where my fuck of an ex-husband was beating me up, he’d come in and he was drunk and had walked into the house and I should have fucking changed the locks but I never had any money to do that and he was beating me up and the kids heard” Tammy was not even stopping for breath now and poured ahead “and Tommy Jon came in and I was on the ground, and Steve was going to step on my neck, he had those great big work boots on that always smelled like oil and he was going to put it on my neck and kill me and Tommy Jon rushed forwards and Steve turned and he kicked him! He kicked him, he kicked him, he kicked him across the room and I heard his neck break… it just snapped and then Steve kicked me and I was knocked out.”</div>
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She gasped, and collapsed onto her knees, articles folded in her hands, and pressing her hands into her stomach.</div>
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“I woke up and Tommy Jon was dead on the floor and people were putting me on a stretcher and Molly was gone. She was gone and all I hear now is the clicking of Tommy Jon’s neck. And they can’t find her, they haven’t found her and I know they won’t.”</div>
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The husband, there with the mother and law, bent down and touched her shoulder. “They’ll find her,” he said.</div>
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Tammy laughed. It was so incongruous, so startling, so frightening, that the crowd and even Philip stepped back a pace. It was not a laugh of happiness. It was the wail of a hyena that is lost in the woods.</div>
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“They won’t find her. It’s been two weeks. It was too late by the time I could get out of the hospital. I couldn’t find him and they can’t find him and they won’t find Molly. But I had one thing I could do. I had one thing I could do,” she looked towards Philip “Because I knew what all these people know, and what all the people know who will come here the longer you do this. I don’t know how you do it or what you do or why but I know you <i>can</i> do it and I came here to have you do it one more time at least. I don’t give a fuck about stopping war or saving lives or anything else.I can’t even close my eyes without seeing Tommy Jon fly across that room.”</div>
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Philip looked around at the crowd. He looked back at Tammy, who had reached out a hand and now clutched Philip’s pants just above the knees.</div>
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“You’ve got to do this for me. I’ll pay you whatever I can, I’ll do whatever you want.”</div>
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Philip looked down at her hand. “I don’t know what it is you want me to do.”</div>
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Tammy looked him in the eye. “Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve been waiting and waiting, and I’ve been watching these other people and watching you. I want you to write Steven’s obituary. I want you to kill him.”</div>
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Now Philip’s eyes grew wide. “That’s not… I can’t… you don’t mean to suggest.”</div>
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“You know what you do! You know what it is that you do,” Tammy said, and pulled at his legs.“You have to know. Nobody comes into your room, nobody calls you, nobody gives you assignments. What do you think, each day, when you go up to that room—yes, we see you – and you write these things” she waved Tommy Jon’s obituary again – “What do you think you’re doing? Where do you think you come up with these things? <i>You’re doing it!</i>”</div>
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Philip took the obituary from her, unfurled it, smoothed it, and squinted at it. He clutched at his small bags more tensely as he did.</div>
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“I’m not doing anything,” he said.</div>
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“Yes, you are! It’s you! None of these things would happen if you didn’t write about them. None of these things would occur, Tommy Jon would still be alive if you hadn’t written this! <i>You write them before they happen!</i>”</div>
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Philip stood there looking at her, blinking. “That’s preposterous,” he said, finally.</div>
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“Just please, you know you do this, just please, write one about Steven,” Tammy begged. Philip backed up a step. Tammy clung to him and he shook his leg. “Please, do that. He’s killed my baby boy and he’s killed my girl and why should he go on living?”</div>
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Philip finally shook her hand off and stepped back to the gate, sidestepping Stewart, who simply looked at Tammy as Tammy implored Philip, repeating <i>why should he go on living</i>. Philip slowly slipped the gate open and began to back into it, and said to Tammy,</div>
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“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t do these things you think I do. I don’t.”</div>
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“You DO! Why won’t you just…” but Tammy broke off and lunged at him, clawing at Philip’s shirt, and now she was the one that was angry, and Stewart had to pull her off and the others stood and watched and Philip flailed at her and swung his arms and slammed the gate shut, a small trickle of blood appearing on his cheek as he backed slowly up the path.</div>
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Tammy was smothered in Stewart’s arms, lifted off the ground, kicking and screaming and shouting, and after a series of obscenities in the midst of her sobs she could finally be understood, saying “Don’t know why you won’t do it, don’t know why, you can take a little fucking boy and a little girl and you can kill them but you won’t even think about getting rid of the one who should be dead…” and the people around heard a door slam and Philip was back inside his house.</div>
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Tammy went on like that for a while until she wore out and Stewart set her down, where she crumpled on the ground. Her hand loosened on the other article and it began to slowly blow away down the road in the intermittent breeze. The obituary was gone.</div>
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Tammy sat up, after a long time, and wiped her tears. The rest of the crowd had pulled back but they all looked at her, some straight on, some sideways. She stared at the house.</div>
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“Feeling better?” Asked Stewart. She shook her head.</div>
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“You sure gave him hell,” Stewart told her.</div>
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“I’m not done. I’m going to get him. I’m going to make him do what I want, or I’ll kill him.”</div>
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“I wouldn’t try anything,” Stewart said.</div>
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“Why?” Tammy asked, but before Stewart answered, they were startled by the light in Philip’s attic office coming on. They stared at it for a second; everyone outside the house stared at it. They saw the curtain move slightly, and some thought maybe they could actually see Philip fer de Lance peer out.</div>
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Stewart, after shaking his head, looked at Tammy. “I wouldn’t try anything more because now he knows <i>your</i> name.”</div>
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The light stayed on. Philip was working.</div>
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41n0GCmOhQL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX318_SY318_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA318_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41n0GCmOhQL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX318_SY318_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA318_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
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This story appears in my horror collection <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Scariest-Things-Cant-Imagine-ebook/dp/B0040V4BCS"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Scariest Things, You CAN'T Imagine</span>,</b> which you can buy on Amazon for the low low price of $3.99</a>! <br />
<br />Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-85434891149784422452014-04-28T06:05:00.000-06:002014-04-28T06:05:18.581-06:00I'm back, but not doing A To Z anymore.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">After my brief break -- details are <a href="http://www.thinkingthelions.com/">on </a><i><a href="http://www.thinkingthelions.com/">Thinking The Lions </a>-- </i>I'm back posting but I'm stopping the A To Z challenge. I'll put new stuff up soon, but here's a classic story I wrote that I thought got insufficient attention the first time I posted it. Because it's longer, I've got a link where you can download it free.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 24pt;">Moon Mow Me Cheerios:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 24pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/179344088/Moon-Mow-Me-Cheerios">Want to read this story offline? CLICK HERE to download it for free on Scribd</a>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGcdUfEL_30xbBEEEJ0wIFd3JpJAe7df7y3EDFjEIn398IiX5TQzcfTZCEw_yQh78Hc-T4jIUAVEHfHQ5nMorXkojJ54tw-DL1_lgroUfeSGu3GbFXbbA2b9OJYmjXon8awsr/s1600/1022131136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGcdUfEL_30xbBEEEJ0wIFd3JpJAe7df7y3EDFjEIn398IiX5TQzcfTZCEw_yQh78Hc-T4jIUAVEHfHQ5nMorXkojJ54tw-DL1_lgroUfeSGu3GbFXbbA2b9OJYmjXon8awsr/s400/1022131136.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">From outside the house, through the window, the little boy watched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Inside the house, his mother sat on the edge of his bed, still unchanged, still. She held her fingers to her chin, and stared off into space. Her mouth quivered. She put her face into her hands, sobbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The little boy ran away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This time, the next time, there was already snow, but he did not shiver or even feel the cold. He knew he was supposed to feel cold, but he didn’t, and he thought that must be because of the car, and the box, and the crying. He wished he could feel cold. When he could feel cold, he hadn’t wanted to, but now that he couldn’t, he missed it, a little. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This was all so new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He crept through the backyard again, as he had a few months before, when the leaves were still green and there were still leaves on the trees and the grass still needed to be mowed. His feet slogged through the snow, only a few inches, and he didn’t notice when it got into his shoes and didn’t notice that it didn’t melt in his shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He rubbed the fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left hand, a nervous habit, like making a <i>Time Out</i> sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He was seven, and would always be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There were only dim lights on in the house, even though it wasn’t that late he thought. He would know if he could see the kitchen clock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Quietly, he walked across the patio, warily glancing at the back door. Nobody would come out it, he thought, but he wasn’t sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Below the kitchen window: he stood on tiptoe and tried to pull himself up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His fingers slipped off, and one tore off entirely, falling onto the snow, where it landed, the torn end down, the fingernail – grown a little – pointing at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He picked it up, curiously. He hadn’t known that could happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He wondered what he should do with it and, coming up with no answer, he put it in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He hadn’t wanted to come here, because he felt as though he understood what had happened, that he was no longer welcome here, or wouldn’t be, but finally he couldn’t resist it any more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He pushed a patio chair, the metal white chairs that the sat on in the summer, grilling hot dogs on the grill that now had an inch of snow on its rounded metal top. He pushed the chair to below the kitchen window, the legs of the chair leaving trails in the snow. He didn’t worry about that. Hesitantly, so slowly he could almost not be seen moving in the gathering gloom of the night, the slowly descending dusk enveloping the backyard, obscuring the trees he’d crept through. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With his 7 fingers, he gripped the edge of the windowsill and slowly peeked above it. He could see into the kitchen, where there was only a small light on over the far counter. The kitchen had dirty dishes in it, only a few, but that shocked him. He’d never seen dishes left to sit in the sink before, couldn’t remember that ever happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He stared at the kitchen table. The chairs, four of them, were pushed up against it tightly. The tablecloth, green and white checkered, hung down and bunched up on the seat of one chair. On the kitchen table was a truck. His truck! The dump truck, the one that automatically dumped when you pushed a button on the side and made loud revving noises when you pushed it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He got down off the chair again and sat down on the snow, staring up at the window, wishing he could just ring the doorbell and be brought in from the cold he did not feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A muted voice inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He pushed himself back against the wall of the house, curled his legs up against his chest, and hunched his head down. The light snow flickering around him as it fell he thought (he hoped) covered him up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The voice almost couldn’t be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mumblre-mrgbhaprmumble</i>” it said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was deep. Low. Loud, without being shouty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He turned his head to listen to the wall, ear up against the cold aluminum siding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It did not help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">From farther in the house he heard a voice back, softer, sadder, harder to make out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>somethingsomethingsomething</i>” that voice said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He wondered what they were really saying and sat there in the dim twilight until he realized that was all the conversation there was going to be, and then he got up and ran back to the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He had a place where he sat whenever he wasn’t someplace else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He didn’t sleep, not really, but he could sometimes… <i>turn off</i>, maybe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was by a tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And a pond, sort of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Right now, the pond was still frozen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was, he knew, getting warmer, but <i>warm</i> wasn’t something he really <i>had</i> anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">***********************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The road:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There wasn’t even a spot there, anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He stood just off to the side of the street, outside of the circle of light formed by the streetlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The sidewalk: <i>there</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The yellow lines: <i>there.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The car: <i>not there anymore</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He looked across the street at the house where only one light was one, up on the second level.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He wanted to go across the street and ring the bell. He looked down at his hands: the finger that he would use to ring the bell with was still in his pocket. It had never grown back. He’d hoped it would, but he guessed that kind of thing didn’t happen to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He wondered what he should do next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*********************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Last year, they had had a barbecue but this year they did not unless he was wrong about the day? Maybe he was wrong about the day. It was hard to keep track of <i>day</i> and <i>days</i> and <i>month</i> and <i>months</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The pond was not frozen. It was still and deep and murky with algae, everything everything growing growing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He sat by the tree and looked at his things:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A <i>key</i>, he’d found on the path. He didn’t know what it opened or locked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His <i>finger</i>, which he always kept in his pocket so a squirrel wouldn’t take it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His <i>shoes</i>, which were falling apart and he couldn’t wear anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He looked at his feet, no shoes on them. The soles were black and rough and, he saw, there was a thorn poking into the sole of the foot, one he had not realized was there. He pulled it out, gingerly, but he hadn’t needed to: there was no blood and if he hadn’t felt it go in, he wouldn’t feel it go out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He’d hoped they would have a barbecue because he thought maybe that if he could go back it would be then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But he was starting to realize that he was not going back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">***************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The hot dogs would have been ready in 10 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The lemonade was already cold.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There were potato chips, three kinds!, on the table!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And corn on the cob.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He was bouncing the tennis ball, higher and higher, on the driveway. He wondered if he could bounce it onto the roof, then catch it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He could.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Once.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Twice.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The third time, he backed up to the edge of the driveway and caught the ball and he NEVER. LEFT. THE. YARD.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Just like the rules.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But the dog across the street ran out of its yard and the car that was coming to their barbecue, to their house, where there was lemonade and almost hot dogs and three kinds of potato chips! Swerved to miss the dog.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">You don’t expect, when things end, for them to begin again, so when they <i>do</i>, that can be more confusing than <i>hopeful</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">For one thing, not everything begins again. Just <i>some</i> things do.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He comes as often as he thinks he can: a powerful feeling inside him makes him want to come here, to peer out of the bushes and creep up to the house and touch the aluminum siding and look at the patio table where the rust is painted over by…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…and to look in the windows, sure, and to hold his hand by the doorknob, wanting to test it, wanting to see if it would open, if he could pull the door open and go inside and walk upstairs on the carpet, turn the corner and see the bedroom with the <i>Star Wars</i> comforter…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…and to be warm, and cozy, and have a nightlight, instead of the moon, and a bookshelf instead of a tree branch and books instead of pinecones and the cat instead of sometimes a fox or porcupine stumbling across him…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…but there is a part of him, too, that says <i>No</i>, and knows that none of that can ever happen, and those two parts pull at him and he never touches the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, he just looks: the barbecue day long gone and the leaves are a little yellow, again, is that two? Or three? Two or three… <i>fall</i> it was, the words are harder to think sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He hasn’t talked to anyone in so long!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He tries to think the words, now, in the late evening of a night in August, even though he doesn’t know it is August, he tries to think of words he might say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Mooon</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">,” he manages to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was not what he had been thinking. He tries again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Moon</i>,” he says again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He looks up at the moon, angrily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He closes his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He remembers the woman, sitting on the bed, crying. He remembers as hard as he can, thinking as ferociously as possible, and the only images he can call up are the woman crying on the bed as he watches through the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Moon</i>,” he whispers sadly to himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And then runs away again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*******************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was so dark at first and cold and it hurt!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*******************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This time, for sure, he will go up and knock. He has watched, from the back of the back yard, leaning against the large tree trunk, hands not feeling the cold, sharp edges of the bark, bare feet blue unfeeling in the snow, his eyes wide, as the car pulls in, slipping a little on the slight slope of the driveway in the icy sleetish snow that is falling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He has watched all day long, as …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">… as the lights were put up, ladders and bundles of wire and some cursing, sure, and a wreath on the door and breath in the air, clouds of breath blowing away in the bright sun twinkling off the blue cloudless sky and refracting down onto the thin crusty snow that fell last night, blue scarf and red hat and puffy mittens and ski vest and the plastic Santa waving from near the yardlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…as the car pulled out and the day clouded over, as the car came back, an hour (?) maybe later, as it swerved a little around and they got out and the tree tied to the top of the car was pulled down and taken in to the garage where once he had a bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His pants were tattered and torn and wet and cold and he stood there, watching lights in the house come on, in different rooms, each light not exactly like the others:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The family room: orange-y and soft, books and comfortable chairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The kitchen: yellow and clean: smelling like lemons and meatloaf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The living room: formal and white. <i>Don’t play in there that’s for company</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Through the back window he sees the dark bulk of the tree stood up, wiggling back and forth as it is put in its stand, he barely remembers this task, then he sees people moving back and forth, stringing things around, the tree is pulled a bit, it is pushed a bit, and after what must be a very long time but he hardly notices, the tree is brilliantly lit with colored lights that blink slowly on and off in hypnotic patterns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He stands all night behind his own tree trunk, staring at it. Just before dawn, he creeps across the backyard, which is otherwise untrammeled by anything since the snowfall ended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He does not know that snow will come again before they wake up, and they will not see the footprints, dragged and stumbled and staggered, across the yard to the side of the house, where a strand of lights from an evergreen bush is stolen and taken back through the backyard, through the woods, to a pond that is frozen over again, and hung raggedly on a small shrub.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Moon</i>,” he will say, wondering how he can get his lights to work, as he lays on his side and stares at them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is so dark and he cannot feel anything and he is in a box! A box! A box he is boxed up he pushes and scrabbles and claws and pushes more and scrambles and suddenly the box is <i>open</i> and he sits up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A dark room full of other boxes and shapes and things and no people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He remembers the tennis ball. The three kinds of potato chips. The car sound!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He looks around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is dark and nobody is here and this is not his home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He climbs down from the box and feels the floor, cold and tiled, as though it is something his feet are being told about from memory. He does not know it, but already things are receding from him, the tide of life pulling back to leave him stranded here, unable to rejoin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The door is unlocked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He pulls at the doorknob and opens it into a dark hallway. He is dressed up: he is wearing his Sunday-school clothes, the nice shoes and the nice pants and the clip-on tie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It doesn’t itch, for the first time, ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(In his mind, he knows this is wrong but pushes it aside. Complications are for when you are older, which he will never be.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He walks down the quiet hallway, wondering where everybody went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Where are Mom?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Where are Dad?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When is home?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">******************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">One day, there are flowers growing between the back yard and the tree trunk where he hides. One day, the yard is green and growing again and needs to be… mowed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow</i>,” he says quietly to himself, almost no air passing through his throat. He knows the word isn’t quite the one he wants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">One day, the yard has a picnic table in it again, and the tablecloth and it is the red-and-white checked one. That day there is a grill and there are hot dogs and there is lemonade and there are potato chips! He doesn’t know how many kinds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow</i>,” he says, as the backdoor opens, but it is…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">… he watches as the hot dogs are put on the grill, the heat shimmer rising above the grill, and as the hot dogs are pushed around. He watches from his tree, kneeling on knees that are now as much bone as they are flesh, knees that do not feel the knobby, rough roots that grind into them and wear away the ligaments that do not hold the knees together, anyway: whatever is keeping him here is not <i>ligaments</i>, not that he knows what ligaments are. He kneels and watches as cars pull up in front and people get out, as they walk around the backyard and are handed shiny wet cans of beers and sodas, as they drink large bright cheery glasses of yellow lemonade, as they take platefuls of potato chips and hot dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He crawls a bit forward, on his belly. A spider walks up a blade of grass and onto his hand and then onto his arm and then onto his face, all without him paying any attention. There are people and kids and kids and people, all in the backyard and he could go walk up to them if he wanted!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow</i>,” he whispers, knowing that it is not right, but it is close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He knows, too, that they would not turn to him with hugs and lemonade and tears and potato chips. The spider sits on his lips as he does not breath and just watches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow</i>,” he says, and then the backdoor opens and out walks:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow</i>,” he says louder, wishing he knew the real word!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She is tired and pale and has messed-up hair a little but is smiling and puffy faced and she carries a little bundle of blankets that she shows to everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">They all smile at it and hug her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">**************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The pond ripples when he throws the pinecones into it, which he does, over and over. He throws them in and then walks into the pond and gets them out and throws them in again. He is wet, he is dry, he is wet, he is dry, he is waist-deep in still water filled with murky mud and reflecting the light of the…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…<i>”Me</i>,” he says, sure that is not right but close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…he is on the side of the pond throwing pinecones in, he is next to the tree where he takes his finger out of what is left of his pocket and looks at it and then throws it into the pond, but then regrets that and wades in and feels around trying to find it but cannot, and spends the rest of the night staring up at the stars until the sun comes up and then he goes for a walk around the woods because he never sleeps, ever, and if you asked him, he would not be able to tell you that he does not sleep because he does not know, anymore, what sleep was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Me</i>,” he would say to you, if you ever got close enough to him to ask him anything. But he knows better, by now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Creeping creeping creeping up to the edge of the house up to the patio up to the chair the chair close enough carry it softly over to the edge of the window climb up on it he only has six fingers a pinky finger is missing now when did that happen he is looking just barely into the kitchen window and there are three at the kitchen table one of them is little, little little little smiling and throwing little round cereals<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios</i>,” he whispers,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Around and they are laughing and smiling and he looks at all three of them and settles on her and tries and tries and tries and comes up with:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Running back through the yard wanting to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">***************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The porcupine no longer is afraid of him. It might be the same one that was there the first night when he stopped walking. It ran away that time and he stopped at the edge of the pond, at the very edge of where he knew things, at the edge of where he had ever been, and sat down by the tree, watching the waddling porcupine scuttle off into the dark, afraid of him, and now it wasn’t anymore, it just wandered up to him and past him and off into the dark, not bothering with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He petted it, sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It didn’t hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was there, now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He petted it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios</i>,” he told it. That wasn’t right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Moon</i>,” he told it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">That wasn’t right, either. But it was closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">******************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There were train tracks not far away from the pond and the tree and sometimes he heard the sounds of the trains and finally this one day he heard the train coming and he got up and walked towards it, straight through the pond which came up only to his chest and he pushed through the sloggy parts and then through the woods which were mostly pine trees, soft brown needles matting the dirt path, pinecones dotting the ground here and there, the trunks of trees shooting straight up in the sparse moonlight, ten, eleven feet before branches started, and he heard and felt the rumbling of the train get deeper, stronger, more powerful as he got closer, felt that all before he saw it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He was two feet away from the colossal thunder of the massive hulks trundling by, the vibrations pulsating through him in a way that he had not imagined could happen anymore, his whole body finally vibrating with energy that had not been there in so long. He put his hands on his face and smiled, enjoying the simulation of what had once been real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Moon!”</i> he yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Me!”</i> he yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He watched his hands tremble, actually mimicking what he felt, the intensity of the pounding from the outside world serving as a simulacra of what it once must have been like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Mow!”</i> he yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He thought for the other one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios!</i>” he yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">From then on, whenever he heard the trains coming he ran, as much as he could run, legs that were barely legs anymore stumbling through brush and past fallen branches, arms waving wildly, held together by some dim magic that could never push him through this pale reflection of life into the real thing, head bobbing and jaw wagging. “<i>Moon Mow Me Cheerios!”</i> he would yell in a slurred, ragged voice, and get there in time to stand as close to the wild stampede of iron ore, crude oil, boxcars full of sweaters, that raged and argued past him, the wind and noise and feel pulsating through him, nobody in the world seeing the tiny ragged figure of a little boy, fibrous arms raised to the sky, wild smile on his lips, eyes wide, gurgling his sentence over and over into the night, remembering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">***************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was his sister, although she never knew him and he never knew her, other than watching her walk in the backyard as a toddler, picking dandelions to make a bouquet. He didn’t know the word <i>sister</i> and instead when he saw her whispered to himself:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios</i>,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The things of the house being farther and farther back in time, and he struggled now and then to remember anything about them. Sometimes he would watch for hours in the dark before remembering how he could go and climb on a chair and look in the window. He was not any bigger, but<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Cheerios</i>” was bigger and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Moon?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">… was not the same, she was different-colored, and though he knew <i>moon</i> was not it, he didn’t any longer feel the frustration when he couldn’t think of things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He used to come more often but now he only came once in a while, to stand behind the tree trunk and look at them, usually in the early evening, when the twilight made it hard for everyone to see and he blended in, his skin the color of treebark now and his clothing almost a memory, too, he watched from behind his treetrunk for a while as the lights in the house came on and as <i>Cheerios</i> was brought inside by <i>Moon</i> who never left her alone in the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes the car would pull up in the driveway, headlights briefly flashing over the tree trunk where he hid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Once, the headlights had done that and then<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">… walking back the brush, to the tree, and he had gone and run farther back into the woods, pushing through a thorn bush into the thicket and hiding there, skin torn off without him even noticing, a fly on his nostril, and the tree trunk had been examined and the man had looked back into the woods with a questioning look and later had come out with a flashlight and had knelt down by the tree trunk and had pressed his fingers into the dirt, and then had stared into the night for a long, long time, before turning off the flashlight and going back inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He had sat in his thorny hideout until he was sure that nobody was still there and then got out quietly and walked back to the tree trunk and looked where the fingers had been pressed down and there was a footprint there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His footprint. He carefully put his toes into it to match. It was his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />Then he pressed his small fingers, which never grew, into the outline of the fingerprints that had been set down next to his footprint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">**********************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He could go underwater for as long as he wanted, but he did not like to do that. It made him feel the opposite of the train, made him feel <i>repressed</i>, a word he would never know. If you asked him how it felt to go under water, if you had talked to him, if he stayed around for you to find him, he would have told you <i>Mow</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />He used <i>mow</i> for all things that were not <i>Moon</i>. Or <i>Cheerios</i>. Or <i>Me.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Moon</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> and <i>Cheerios</i> were often in the backyard gathering fireflies. That night, he caught one of his own, holding it in his hands, watching the light flicker on and off, and looking up to where <i>Moon</i> and <i>Cheerios</i> were putting their own catches in a jar on the table that once had held three kinds of potato chips!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He thought once <i>Cheerios</i> looked at him. He held up the firefly for her to see, and then she looked away. He let his firefly go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">**********************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Me!”</i> he howled into the night as the train roared by, close enough to touch, and he willed his mind to not notice that she was less and less often in the yard now, that she was bigger than him and he was not any bigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Me!”</i> he whispered when the train was gone and he began the slow, quiet, muffled walk back to the pond, feet scuffling swaths through the pine needles, only now and then remembering that first frightened scamper from the box and the room to the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Me!”</i> he told himself, defiantly, picking up pinecones to throw in the pond over and over, as he sat, night after night after night by the tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And that is how it went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66LCzrim0RU6ADoioKEe3P3-F_u1_xfmDjevI5Cs3ggluPCC09oLCY-mttWQkNfVZEkKRBireYGdxxb80e2FXy6f2FfbK9zudAfkJ54U4B1CLkjF8j77xJ6Eoskc-Ena6OYT2/s1600/1018131823a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66LCzrim0RU6ADoioKEe3P3-F_u1_xfmDjevI5Cs3ggluPCC09oLCY-mttWQkNfVZEkKRBireYGdxxb80e2FXy6f2FfbK9zudAfkJ54U4B1CLkjF8j77xJ6Eoskc-Ena6OYT2/s640/1018131823a.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-3509869303509859452014-04-23T05:56:00.003-06:002014-04-23T05:56:53.491-06:00I'm gonna miss a day on A To ZBut I'll get caught up. Until then, here's a graph to keep you company:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYEYwmQC2G53-mGS_SIo10EjrrPfr844T7q_Lnmkokr1scplvwxigPB2kSn9lVWi-ssmKnxXkHqiwliFbW470-pLpc498WzkfOc7mDPUHE_lqByIUSw3KLbCzJ9XwytdHrf6ULA/s1600/fight+graph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYEYwmQC2G53-mGS_SIo10EjrrPfr844T7q_Lnmkokr1scplvwxigPB2kSn9lVWi-ssmKnxXkHqiwliFbW470-pLpc498WzkfOc7mDPUHE_lqByIUSw3KLbCzJ9XwytdHrf6ULA/s1600/fight+graph.jpg" height="496" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AVu8pXjTL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AVu8pXjTL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<i>Every day in April you can get one of my books free. Today's book is </i><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Up-So-Down-Briane-Pagel-ebook/dp/B00A2PB2RI"><b><span style="font-size: large;">UP SO DOWN</span></b></a></u>, the sad/happy story of a great/terrible year in the life of a brother and a sister. It's touching, or at least that's what people who have feelings and can relate to other people tell me. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Up-So-Down-Briane-Pagel-ebook/dp/B00A2PB2RI">CLICK HERE TO GET IT FOR FREE.</a>Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-13971772623244308592014-04-22T09:32:00.000-06:002014-04-22T09:32:15.262-06:00Science Versus Life (Infinite Monkeys)(A To Z Challenge)<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghh_2NsKIBb9839D0l_U7GeAOtOUe1AmKwXIdZsqtTn31OVavLByjtFLRS_3D_xPINzn-TMgYT8EpKxo7jkefje6LhxR5S_oYATjgotEZO2yxfzdAPVEYxzk_6w4wlNnd2gAEulA/s1600/0413141440a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghh_2NsKIBb9839D0l_U7GeAOtOUe1AmKwXIdZsqtTn31OVavLByjtFLRS_3D_xPINzn-TMgYT8EpKxo7jkefje6LhxR5S_oYATjgotEZO2yxfzdAPVEYxzk_6w4wlNnd2gAEulA/s1600/0413141440a.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Science Versus Life</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
So never stayed near the village, which worried his mother
no end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would walk through the forest, hour upon hour, not
hunting, not gathering, just walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“What do you do, all those hours?” she asked him, one day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I think,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So’s mother reported that to the elders: “He <i>thinks</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elders discussed this amongst themselves, quietly, in
order that So’s mother (who had, impertinently, remained in their view during
the talk) might not hear. Then, the
youngest of the elders turned to her with the results of the debate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What,” the youngest elder asked, “Does he think <i>about</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
So’s mother was not allowed to follow him into the woods.
Instead, another villager was dispatched to determine what So was thinking
about, and the next morning, as the other villagers began preparing to fish or hunt
or gather plaintains, So walked out into the woods, followed by the spy, whose
name was Tinioc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tinioc reported back that evening. “I could not determine
what he was thinking about,” he told the elders, who told this to So’s mother,
who asked “Where did he go?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The river,” said Tinioc, and told how So had climbed out
onto a long branch of a tree that hung far out over the water, and there had
lain on his belly, occasionally trailing his hand in the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This mystified the elders, and the next day several of <i>them</i>, the stronger ones who could still walk far, went with
Tinioc and followed So themselves. That day, So did not go to the river tree,
but instead tracked through the jungle, pushing aside broad leaves, until he
reached an ant hill. There, he spent
several hours crouching on various sides of the hill, every now and then
putting down leaves, or twigs, or flower petals he would gather from around the
ant hill’s clearing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elders debated that, too, that night, with Tinioc
reporting back to So’s mother that they had not yet come to a decision of what
to do about this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“They have not,” Tinioc told her, “Even decided if they need
to decide anything about this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Day after day, more and more villagers followed So, always
trying to remain hidden, until on the fifth day there were more than twenty
villagers trailing through the jungle, a long line of silent hunters and
tillers and women creeping after him.
They watched So that day, and every day, as he climbed up trees and came
down with bird’s nests, or as he walked behind waterfalls, or peered at spider’s
webs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the seventh day, the elders met, as they had every night,
and determined that following So was getting them nowhere. They instead decided to have various members
of the village go and do the things they had observed So doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Tinioc, they ordered, would continue to follow So, and each day would report
back what So had done that day.
Meanwhile, other villagers would go climb the long tree branch, or wade
through the shallow marshes with a stick, poking at some of the harder to see
places, or scatter a nest of birds and watch them fly off in different
patterns, or even make their way to the sandy shores of the sea where sometimes
large boats could be seen sailing by, far off on the horizon. There, the elders told those villagers, you
will watch the boats but not wave, just as So does.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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These men and sometimes women reported back each day, too,
on what they had done and whether they had determined what it was So had <i>thought</i> about while he did those. Each time, the conclusion was the same:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“<i>I do not know what So
was thinking</i>,” the villager would report.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For over a month this continued, until finally the elders
decided that it was time to ask So, himself, even though they had felt this was
a dangerous thing to do. Who knows what such a strange boy would say, when
asked such a question! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The elders feared So’s answer. There was
a story in the village about the question that had begun the universe. It went like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i>Before
the universe had begun, the creator, who at that time was called nothing as
there was nothing to name, looked around and saw nothing but darkness all
around him, or her – there was no way to say whether the creator was a man or
woman at the time because there was nobody or nothing else to observe the
creator – and the creator, seeing the absence of everything but him, or her,
self, had asked:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i>“Where
is everything?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>That
simple question, the villagers knew, had brought about the entire universe, in
response to the creator’s question, and thus the power of questions, and their
answers, had been established at the same time as everything else that was.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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From that story, the elders had always taught the villagers this
message: <i>Be careful what questions you
ask, as one day there may be an answer that destroys everything</i>. And so the
villagers rarely asked any questions, at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, it was with no small degree of fear that the elders, sitting
in front of the central fire, faced So.
Around the edges of the clearing, the villagers gathered to watch the
questioning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So came forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is it you want to know, elders?” he asked. His face glowed red in the night, his eyes
calm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The youngest elder leaned forward, and said:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“We want to know what it is you think about, all day, every
day, as you do these things you do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So cocked his head at them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then ask,” he said, “the question.” For So had noticed that the elder had not in
fact phrased it as a question, at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The youngest elder took a deep breath, and said “What do you
think about, all day, every day, So?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I ask questions,” So told them. At their frightened looks, he went on: “I ask
why the river never runs out of water, and how the ants know which leaves to
eat and which will poison their young, why the birds go to sea to find food
when there is so much behind them in the forest, how the bugs learned to make
themselves look like flowers. I ask
where the large boats come from and where they go to, and who rides on
them. I wonder how the caves behind the
waterfall grew, and why the rocks in them shine so even though they have never
seen the sun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The list of So’s questions went on and on, until the moon
had set and the fire had nearly died out.
When So was finally silent, the elders – stunned by the sheer number of
questions, and possible answers – were speechless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was up to So’s mother to ask the question everyone wanted
to know:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you,” she asked,
“Gotten any answers?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Answers! The villagers could not help but look to the sky to
see if perhaps the stars were winking out, even then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” said So, and every villager relaxed and let go of her,
or his, fear, until So went on:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
“Not yet.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-11729339950639286092014-04-22T07:27:00.001-06:002014-04-22T07:27:03.102-06:00ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVW YZ... a story (A to Z challenge)<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">X helped make humans immortal -- and one of those humans has helped make a million universes, all of which are now in danger...</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKlS9qqaYX2cQJ2r7Go7t2sTsnfezOq6RMbGyL4_ct8pdxzyt11YGb26NywJU26sskxBEDmeciMQwmboVz3wTJSya4U5VpBxSG6W8Vgl8OniVS4romdIWI3GZWTy4LshmNPSH9w/s1600/s+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKlS9qqaYX2cQJ2r7Go7t2sTsnfezOq6RMbGyL4_ct8pdxzyt11YGb26NywJU26sskxBEDmeciMQwmboVz3wTJSya4U5VpBxSG6W8Vgl8OniVS4romdIWI3GZWTy4LshmNPSH9w/s1600/s+picture.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
many worlds!</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">R, let me speak now: you rest. We must finish this
up and must decide what to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course we all recognized it: we had just heard
the voice itself, and now it was as though her laugh, her tears, her scorn and
lack of sanity and the rest of her psyche were embedded, woven, skeined through
the universe itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Which, of course, they were. Had she created Diana’s universe? It seems
unlikely – but as X’s mistake – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hold, X! For mistake it was!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As X’s mistake allowed the real and abstract to
intertwine, it allowed her sister’s creations to leap off the page, to become
more than hot-tempered wild dreams, to become real. From one universe with real and abstract had
spun a hundred, a thousand, a million universes, maybe more. Suddenly,
suddenly, everything ever dreamed of had become real, somewhere, and we were in
the middle of it, with Diana, but the majority of the universes, of the
existences, of the spirits, had sprung directly from a lifetime of the sister’s
writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Trapped on paper, stuck in her room, these worlds
lived only in her mind. She never believed they were not as real as the
room in which she sat – and she never believed they were not <i>more</i> real than the world that she saw
but never visited out of her window. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But though real to <i>her</i>, they were not to us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But X! You scoundrel: you changed that. Your sympathy, though well-placed, has led us
to this: a lifetime of derangement, sprung open and scattered around the
cosmos, each one of which has a different piece of the sister’s soul, and each
one of which is ending.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ending.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I see it in all your faces: you know it, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She cannot bear the strain of all these
realities. She cannot stand. Her mind is
snapping, and because of that all of the universes, all existence – so recently
sprung into being – will soon fold up and wither and die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As will she: When her mind dies, it may be that every world every
where dies with it so entwined she is with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Standing there in Diana’s room we only just realized
that, listening to L’s report of what L had gone through, enough worlds
flickering by like the pages of a book turning, and each of them with that
ever-growing, ever-more-frightening laugh on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Did someone say it was thunder? It is not, and we know it now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is what we have come to. We wasted vital time, some of us, chasing
through worlds looking for David. And now we…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">… and now we must ask X for a favor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">_______________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #66bb33; color: #333333; font-family: Nobile; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Each letter has had a turn to talk. Here's links to all of them. They're best, probably, if read in order but each is also more or less independent and they can be read in any order and result in the same story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #66bb33; color: #333333; font-family: Nobile; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #66bb33; color: #333333; font-family: Nobile; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">
<i style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z.html" style="background-color: #f8faff; color: #4d2eba; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; text-decoration: none;">A's story is</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z.html" style="background-color: #f8faff; color: #4d2eba; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; text-decoration: none;"> here</a><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> and <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_2.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">B's </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_2.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-c.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">C talks </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-c.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_3.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Here is </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_3.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">D</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_5.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">E's version of events </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_5.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">was here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_7.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">F was </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_7.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_8.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Also,</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_8.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> G</a>, <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_9.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">H spoke</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_9.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. Then<u> I</u>, then <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">J</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> </a>. Click </span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_12.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here for k</a>, and <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/the-alphabet-had-gathered-to-decide.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here for L</a>.</b></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f8faff; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b>Then there's<a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_15.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> M's story, here,</a> </b></span></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_16.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Then N</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_17.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">And O</a> <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_18.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">And P</a>, <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_19.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">and Q</a>, <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_21.html/">and R</a></b></span></i></div>
</div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-24214427237377835092014-04-21T06:11:00.002-06:002014-04-21T06:19:29.595-06:00Resolutions To The Story (A to Z Challenge) (250=1)<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Resolutions To The Story.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDix4T9KXW79kQGpqdZWYh0YpigLp90SEf6DtsAinIQQSHrLG3GNr0lLp9xE1EXUGGqWurgWYX00t4OsibxUU1dRmVYM_WvYLM_nMi7hK8TCo0wPoN99dWG4BwUM0ynvfACJGoXg/s1600/0411141915b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDix4T9KXW79kQGpqdZWYh0YpigLp90SEf6DtsAinIQQSHrLG3GNr0lLp9xE1EXUGGqWurgWYX00t4OsibxUU1dRmVYM_WvYLM_nMi7hK8TCo0wPoN99dWG4BwUM0ynvfACJGoXg/s1600/0411141915b.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></b></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So she shot him and walked away, leaving the stupid ring,
the hot cocoa packets, and all $13 lying on his chest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br />
******</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their first child was born six months after the wedding, a
development that was unexpected only by those who failed to perceive the slight
bulge underneath her dress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
******<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” she said, but added, “But keep trying. Someday, I may
say yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br />
******</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” he echoes her question – not asking himself, the
questioning in his voice merely wondering why <i>she</i> needs a reason beyond love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because it’s the only way they’ll let you onto the ship
with me when it comes,” he tells her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stares at his face to see if he’s joking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
He’s clearly not, but that doesn’t
prove anything to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
“Prove it,” she says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
In the end, it took him showing
her to his landing craft and pointing out the small glimmer of the mothership’s
engines that seemed to limn the moon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
Her wedding dress was a
spacesuit.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
******<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 2 a.m. when she awoke, the television late-night news
softly telling of a train wreck somewhere, the wine glass knocked over on the end
table, her phone devoid of any attempt to call her. He hadn’t come over, and she never saw him again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
******<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are you writing?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Things that could’ve been,” she laughs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I see them?” he wonders.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not the way I can,” she tells him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
_____________________________________________________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a 250=1 story -- a story that's exactly 250 words long, including the title. But not including the picture, because everyone knows that's worth 1,000 words. So actually this is a 1,250 word story, and you are getting a LOT of extra value here. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2006/09/babies.html">Here's a list of lots more stories like that.</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AVu8pXjTL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AVu8pXjTL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>FREE BOOK!</b> Every day in April is free book day, and today's FREE book is <b>Up So Down</b>, the story of a brother and a sister in the year after the mysterious death of the sister's fiance, and the changes in their lives. It's been compared (favorably) to Anne Tyler. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Up-So-Down-Briane-Pagel-ebook/dp/B00A2PB2RI">CLICK HERE to get it for FREE!</a></div>
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Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-44244933570181846612014-04-21T05:44:00.000-06:002014-04-21T05:45:14.795-06:00ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVW YZ... a story (A to Z Challenge)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
X dared to help humans achieve some immortality -- and that has led to the realization of all previously-imaginary things, and the further descent into madness of the woman who created most of it. Now, the letters of the alphabet tremble and wonder what they can do to avoid destruction.</div>
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This is a serialized story; links to the other parts are at the end. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYG0bTir9cUcZqEqwD5N74gqKbxkkLKDF0mzccTw3mnFTVNU6mEyFoPF3s3tuS3m-dPKWGcOm3YgZVyqkf6HajmGNgYft6BPOGtbneCIwjgGagxuqa8mPQbvzPE7aA8XspQ3sAQ/s1600/r+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYG0bTir9cUcZqEqwD5N74gqKbxkkLKDF0mzccTw3mnFTVNU6mEyFoPF3s3tuS3m-dPKWGcOm3YgZVyqkf6HajmGNgYft6BPOGtbneCIwjgGagxuqa8mPQbvzPE7aA8XspQ3sAQ/s1600/r+picture.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ragnarok</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
is upon us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We stand here talking when we should be acting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No, be quiet, A. You and your faction, C, you
others: keep quiet. Whatever support you had from me at the start is now gone,
as I recognize reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The reality is this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We need X.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Having allowed the creation of a god, we now find we need that god
to help us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was with the others when they went with Diana, you
know that, and I saw her sister’s ravings, and I was one of the few, the very
few, who realized what was happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">X had – has – crossed reality with the abstract, and
with that, all of imagination became real, and so much of what had been imagination had been
created solely by her, Diana’s mad sister.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When first she vanished, we were stunned. Such a
thing did not happen, Diana’s face said, and I found myself looking from Q, who
had shied away, to L, who almost immediately turned and went in the direction
the sister had headed when she had disappeared from our view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nobody went with L. The others of us stayed with
Diana; we were scattered, now, among the room and among the worlds. The papers slowly fell, their rain ending,
until the room was still again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>Where did she
go?</i>” Diana asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That is the question, I told her, and I saw a few of
the other letters nodding. I found
myself looking at the papers around us, the scribbled writings few had ever
read, some of them beautiful, some of them agonizing, none of them mundane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Think</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">,
I told myself, and then told the others.
We read then, through our minds, the worlds that had been created by the
sister, remembering and reading and realizing that now, those worlds were not
merely the dreams of a shut-in but had themselves become real and were
multiplying, multiplying, multiplying beyond belief, driven by the energy that
crackled in every cell of her sister’s mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is bad, I said to the others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>David</i>…”
Diana said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There is no time for David,” I told her. I could feel the trembling already, then, the
same shaking and rumbling that we have all felt now and that grows more and
more tremulous, more and more threatening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>David… has
always had the ability to talk to her</i>,” Diana said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">L suddenly stumbled back into the dim view afforded
by the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So
many</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">,”
L said…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">… L, where are you now? Do you hide? Have you
learned caution? Come here, L, show
them, show them your visage, the remainder of the realms you roamed after the
sister…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">… <i>So many</i>,
L told us, and we all stared at him as the words on the papers – words we
helped make! – soaked into us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>My sister
dreams of worlds</i>,” Diana said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“And now those worlds are real,” I finished for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>And she is
lost in them</i>,” but that was not the only part of it we needed to know. L had seen, and L told us what we did not yet
know but soon would: that Diana’s sister was in <i>all</i> of them, she was everywhere, and that wherever one went…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>Listen…</i>”
L said to us then, there in the dark room, and we all paused, and heard it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Off in the distance, almost too quiet, too far, too
low registered to hear, <i>almost</i>, and
we all shuddered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was Diana’s sister, laughing through tears of
pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Each letter has had a turn to talk. Here's links to all of them. They're best, probably, if read in order but each is also more or less independent and they can be read in any order and result in the same story.</span></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z.html" style="background-color: #f8faff; color: #4d2eba; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; text-decoration: none;">A's story is</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z.html" style="background-color: #f8faff; color: #4d2eba; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; text-decoration: none;"> here</a><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> and <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_2.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">B's </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_2.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-c.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">C talks </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-c.html" style="color: #4d2eba; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_3.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Here is </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_3.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">D</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_5.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">E's version of events </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_5.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">was here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_7.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">F was </a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_7.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_8.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Also,</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_8.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> G</a>, <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_9.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">H spoke</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_9.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here</a>. Then<u> I</u>, then <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">J</a><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> </a>. Click </span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_12.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here for k</a>, and <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/the-alphabet-had-gathered-to-decide.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">here for L</a>.</b></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f8faff; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b>Then there's<a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_15.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;"> M's story, here,</a> </b></span></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="background-color: #f8faff; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><br /><a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_16.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">Then N</a>. <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_17.html" style="color: #993322; text-decoration: none;">And O</a> <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_18.html">And P</a>, <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2014/04/abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvw-yz-story-to-z_19.html">and Q</a>,</b></span></i></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-48747132262402300332014-04-19T09:01:00.000-06:002014-04-19T09:07:00.817-06:00Questions (250=1)(A To Z Challenge)<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Questions.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYD6fBFlteU7AD0JERFlHNaRayEPXkkgWSmRdyRfCAaoAzSyiw7HznYO-80dyQWcYtfRAVk927RcfxSA8II2pzV3mXgHEl2OeLM6z6MiUD8TOGaQjwbCtp28xJe0Tj0EOtRhbkg/s1600/0220141137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYD6fBFlteU7AD0JERFlHNaRayEPXkkgWSmRdyRfCAaoAzSyiw7HznYO-80dyQWcYtfRAVk927RcfxSA8II2pzV3mXgHEl2OeLM6z6MiUD8TOGaQjwbCtp28xJe0Tj0EOtRhbkg/s1600/0220141137.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a>Can you shut off the alarm clock?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you have to play the news so loudly?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Are you going to sleep all day?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Won’t you be late for work?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Didn’t you make yourself some breakfast?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Did you hear the sound the car is making?<o:p></o:p></div>
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What time do you think you’ll be home?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you suppose you could stop and pick up some bread after
work?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why don’t you watch where you’re going?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why are you late?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Can you take his call? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Didn’t you know the meeting was starting?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did you jam up the copier?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What am I supposed to do with this?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you consider this acceptable?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you want to go to lunch today?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you mind if we try that new restaurant?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever been here before?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are you going to order?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you want to try a little bite of mine?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Should we get a glass of wine?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would just one drink be so bad?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do we have to go back to the office just yet?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you know how cute you are when you smile like that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can’t you make up a sales call or something you had to go
to?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Should we take separate cars?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you know where that hotel is?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are you nervous?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you like what you see?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does that feel good?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where are you going?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are you doing home already?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are those for me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s wrong?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Did you forget the bread?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
__________________________________________________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a 250=1 story, which means it's <i>exactly</i> 250 words long, including the title. I've written a lot of them and you should read them all, which you can do <a href="http://www.troublewithroy.com/2006/09/babies.html">by clicking this to go to a list of them.</a> DOING SO MAY WELL SAVE THE UNIVERSE. I mean, that's possible, right? </div>
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Other notes!</div>
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<b>FREE BOOKS! Every day in April I'm giving away free books</b>, and the current freebie is <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Scariest Things, You CAN'T Imagine</b>,</span> a collection of short horror stories that will blow you away. (Not literally). Stories like "Astrid Forever," about a guy who's dead wife keeps visiting him with one request: <i>love me</i>. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Scariest-Things-Cant-Imagine-ebook/dp/B0040V4BCS">GET IT BY CLICKING HERE. </a> </div>
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<b>Are you a writer?</b> I want to pay you for what you write. Click the "We Pay For Stories" tab up top there. </div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25097758.post-23445657972009459002014-04-19T08:31:00.000-06:002014-04-19T09:08:22.593-06:00ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVW YZ... a story. (A to Z Challenge)<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>QUIET,</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkUB6NIzsN7j8dPa2ShGcJFZXz3tnV6yEbMbX9UEIfs94AcyNvlvLSEVLwuGqCNWpFnEXsQwO-Fbv7EwzHmFd5inPdwc00NxycvtM-k12Nyf_EkdWFTS84db-dSIUysjL3-kurw/s1600/q+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXkUB6NIzsN7j8dPa2ShGcJFZXz3tnV6yEbMbX9UEIfs94AcyNvlvLSEVLwuGqCNWpFnEXsQwO-Fbv7EwzHmFd5inPdwc00NxycvtM-k12Nyf_EkdWFTS84db-dSIUysjL3-kurw/s1600/q+picture.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must speak, and as I am unaccustomed to doing so on my
own, I must ask that you refrain from interrupting me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are here to decide, after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have come back together to determine first, if there is
anything to do, and secondly, what we should do, of our options.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I fear our time is running out, dear friends,
often-lovers, sometimes-enemies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fear our time comes, in the way of all things mortal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all know what O first surmised, now, of course: we, too,
may die, and we know not what awaits us once this existence fades away into
another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you hear the thunder?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Do you see the lightning?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
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I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Do you know of the other worlds we have seen?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You do not – not all of you, as not all of you came with us
to the mad sister’s house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shall we not blame her, as much as we blame X?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see you getting restless, bear with me. Remember: I rarely
do this on my own. Bear with me! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We debate, yes, but there must be plans before action and
debate before plans and so we must debate, and debate quickly, but part of that
must be that you <i>must</i> know what
happened, there in the dark room of the mad sister.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You must… <i>u </i>must.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
U?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Will you not meet my eyes, even now?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There: again: The peal and roll of the end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I will be quick.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am awake</i>, she
said to us, and those who heard her voice in that moment shuddered. <i>I am
awake</i>, she said, and it seemed to me that it meant more than simply the
state of not being asleep. It meant far,
far more than that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What must it be like, to know that dreams are real and fear
them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope never to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am awake</i>, she
told us and Diana started forward, her shape, her body, seeming then formless
and indistinct as she passed from our world into the world she used to inhabit.
Diana fell upon her sister’s bed,
kneeling next to it, trying to clasp her sister’s hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Where!</i>” Diana
demanded. It was not a question!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Where!Í”</i> her mad
sister shrieked, suddenly, sitting up with a violent jerk and casting aside the
bedclothes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were still in the shadows of the room, we letters, and
the room was scarcely lit at all by the slightly-brighter night outside. It seemed to me then that the room was full
of shadows of differing depths: the absolute dark of the gloom, the brighter
shades of Diana, and the solid obsidian of her sister bursting forth from the
white of the sheets that had covered her. Only her eyes were truly visible, and
they were crazed with visions that seemed to glow forth from inside her mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>EVERYWHERE!</i>” her
sister howled, the insanity carried on every note of her voice, somehow
enunciating each letter in that word as though she both sung them and spat them
out at the same time. This was not a
human way of talking. Who knows when she
had last been fully human?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You cannot create without imbuing in your creations
something of yourself. This we know, for
when humans created us and when they create with us, we carry bits of them
back, but what if you create things no being should know?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if you create infinities incomprehensible to the mortal
mind? What if the expanses you imagine in your fevered dreams are populated by
gods and monsters? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
What if the gods cannot be distinguished from the monsters?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is, after all, what we debate here: Who is a god, and
who is a monster?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, if we determine that, what can we do to them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She appeared monstrous to us then, towering over Diana –
though the sister herself was small, frail, even, she loomed and her sad rage
somehow made her larger than the room, made her a part of the dark night
itself, contained within the room and stretching out of it at the same time,
the way dark inside the room is a part of the dark outside of the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>How…</i>” her mad
sister said, her voice faltering then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Diana looked up at her, meeting her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>How have you come
back?</i>” her sister asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>I do not know</i>,”
Diana told her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Is it possible to
come back?</i>” her sister asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>It is, it seems</i>,”
Diana responded. She reached her hand
up, towards her sister’s, and her sister dropped to her knees on the bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Where am I?”</i> her
sister asked, quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>You are here, in your
room, dear sister,” </i>Diana whispered, gently. “<i>You
are here, and I am here, and I need to ask you something.</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her sister closed her eyes, put her head in her hands, and
then opened them again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all fell back, for her eyes carried within them all the
infinities of every creation everywhere. They were hollow pits, falling through
universe after universe after universe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>WHERE AM I?”</i> her
sister wailed. She threw up her hands,
and Diana, incorporeal and untouchable, flinched away nonetheless, and at that
the sister’s torments grew louder and more unbearable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were those of us who fled, then, and came back here,
but I stayed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stayed!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And U. You stayed, as
well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will you not forgive me? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will you not stand by my side, to determine whether we can
do anything to alter what is happening?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will you not huddle together with me as the destruction
grows closer, as we learn whether we are to have a fate, at all, and what that
fate might be?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stayed, and U stayed, and a few others, and we witnessed
the mad sister stand suddenly upright again, and begin dashing around the
room. From the shelves she pulled books,
and grabbed from them her frantic writings.
She opened these, flung them around, she opened drawers and brought more
out from behind clothing. She prised up
a floorboard and a rolled up sheaf of scribblings followed. The room appeared to be filled with flock
after flock of birds, her instability infecting the entire area as she spun and
whirled, the entire time saying, over and over <i>Where am I Where am I Where am I</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she stopped moving: the papers swirled around her
and began to fall, no longer stirred by her dance, the dance that parodied are
own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she stopped, and she stared directly at us with
those eyes, those eyes that contained within them everything, ever, and she saw
<i>us</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked right at me, and I confess it; I was afraid!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was afraid!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ducked. I ducked
away and tried to hide and I left my U, my beloved U, my truest companion,
alone there under her gaze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
U, I am sorry! I will never be able to make it up to you but
I shall spend whatever time we have left, trying! Will you not please look at me once?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of you must know, must know… what happened next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sister charged at us, hands clenching at whatever paper
scraps she could grasp. She ran through us and disappeared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Where am I”</i> was
the last thing we heard from her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We did not come back here, not right away. Perhaps we waited too long? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We did not come back here.
Instead, we followed Diana.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Perhaps that delay has now cost us everything.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01616494058636881575noreply@blogger.com3