Survival

Palms sweating- heart pounding. I weigh the risks. My family needs food. They are going to starve up there if I don't bring something back. Sure, I could stay close to the nest- and forage what little scraps I could find along the path that the wild dogs haven't picked up for themselves yet. But the little one needs real nourishment... and that means going out and across. The dangers are great. I must use all my senses to stay alive. ...stay alive. That is the goal of everyday here. Every second. I can't trust anyone or anything in this jungle... NOW is the moment and I sprint out into the open! Time seems to speed up and stop altogether at the same time. I run- I dodge- I made it... Food is plentiful on this side. My child will eat tonight. I allow myself to feel triumphant for a few seconds before I turn around and plan my return trip. I hate crossing the streets in Bangkok.

Tea for Two OR Tea with Mom

A heavy midnight mug,

your mug, Mom, now mine, warms

my hands hugging its smooth

surface, the spicy, sweetness

of licorice tea wafting

the air, reaching at memories

of you. I hold it close

under my nose, breathe deeply

to invite your company:

At the stove where a tea kettle still steams,

you stand in a kitchen, cramped but colorful,

your silly grin, with lips pulled back

and top teeth exposed, hovers just above

your own fragrant and full mug of tea, affection

brimming your gray eyes, your laugh

trickles out before swallowing

the heated liquid to start the day.

Warmed by your visit,

I drink you in, savoring you

in small sips to prolong your stay,

wanting the memories to flow,

this cup of tea to keep brewing,

yet even when the last drop spills

onto my tongue, I hold the mug close,

try to inhale what is left of the

aroma that carried you to me,

still thirsting for another visit.

* I would love feedback, what you really like or what you think might make it better, on this poem. It is still in a pretty raw form--I don't feel like I'm done with it. Also, I can't decide what tense is more powerful or allows the reader to connect--speaking directly to my mom or talking about her--or which title is better.

.

Grace Kelly By Mika

Dave has always had a lot of girl friends. Not "girl friends" girl friends but girls who are just friends girl friends. Thirty-seven of them to be exact and he hates it.
He is the one they all call and tell him about the terrible men they're dating, and how come they can't find a nice guy like him! Whaa WHaa WHAA! It gets to the point that he wants to scream at them that he is right there for the dating, taking or marrying if any one of them will have him!
In his heart he knows what they really want. If they truly wanted a nice guy it would have been him. If they had really wanted a sensitive guy it would have been him. But no they all want the bad boys. The ones that treat them like disposable Tupperware. Good for one use or maybe leftovers but as soon as you lose the lid...you throw it away.
Dave has heard the line "you-are-such-a-great-guy-and-i-really-like-you-but-i- don't-feel-that-way-about-you-but-let's-stay-friends" so many times that he hears it in his sleep. He thinks to himself sometimes that the next girl he meets that he's even a little bit interested in he will treat like crap and maybe then she will stay and he won't be alone anymore... but he never does.
Because deep down Dave believes there is some nice girl out there who really does want a nice guy and not just a shoulder to cry on when some other guy treats her bad. A girl who looks at the bad boys and sees them for the users they are and not the fixer-uppers of the great man they could be if the right girl could just love them enough. Some nice girl that will want to be more than just his friend.
Dave and Grace met at the bakery on a lazy Sunday. They got there at the same time and he held the door for her. She smiled her thanks and they stood in line together. the place was popular and crowded. They exchanged polite chit-chat about the weather, how great this bakery is and numerous other little details while surreptitiously checking each others ring fingers for that telling band. Each smiling wider when discovering the other appears to be free.
Grace orders a banana nut muffin and a light toffee mocha and waits to the side for it be filled while Dave order his croissant and a Turkish blend tall black coffee. Both pay and shuffle about looking for a place to sit. Grace asks if he would like to sit with her and holds her breath for his answer. Dave smiles and suggests they get out of the crush and take their morning pastries to the nearby park. They spend the whole day together and fall in love over green grass and warm danish.
They make plans to meet up again tomorrow, both walking away on air and a little dazed at the good fortune that has finally found them. Dave pulls out his phone to call Grace, even though they have only separated not an hour ago, to see that she has already tried to call him! He returns her call and they talk on the phone for six more hours.
By 2:00 AM Dave knows he has found the one. They're both getting a little loopy so laughing a sweet goodbye with promises to see each other in less than five hours they hang up. Right before Dave falls into a blissfully dream of a nice girl named Grace he deletes thirty-seven useless contacts from his cell phone directory. #behindthemusic

Retribution Red

“Well, I’m ready to start the living room this week,” Tessa announced. Her husband, William, murmured something from behind his New York Times.

Tessa quietly continued, “I’d like your input on the color. I have some samples.”

“Tessa, Tesssss. . . a, how many times do I have to tell you, I really don’t care what color you paint the living room. I can’t understand why you haven’t employed an interior decorator to deal with all this—or, at the very least, hired a professional painter.”

“Oh, but I do love to paint, and I do a good job if I say so myself. Here, here are some color samples.”

William threw each sample on the floor as he read its label, his voice full of ridicule, “Sky Blue, Sea Foam, Buttercup, Nearly Beige, Touch of Taupe, Soft White, Tawny Tan, Daylight Blush, Gentle White, Winter’s Day, Subtle Sage, Sublime Sunrise . . . . Good grief, Tessa, just paint the blasted room.”

“It would mean a lot to me if you took some interest in these projects, Dear.”

“Enough!” William bellowed.

“Please William, could we just sit down together for a few minutes and . . . .”

William got up from his recliner and stormed out of the room.

Two days later, Tessa smiled mischievously as she popped off the lid of the fresh can of paint, stirred it briskly, and dipped her brush in the quart of Pulsing Red.

Ms Bowaite’s Monologue

Well, let me tell you, it was a sign from Heaven. That’s right, a sign sent to me from above. Sunday the sermon was all about service, and the message made my whole body tingle. But that’s not all; the next day, that Heaven-sent guidance was underscored for me when I was doing my regular Bible study. I close my eyes and open the Bible, then I put my finger down on the page, and that’s where I start reading. Well, what do you know! My finger hit on Revelations 2:19. I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy patience . . . .So that clinched it. I was being called to go forth and serve!

I immediately thought about our food bank. I could go there, maybe hand out cans to the poor or organize the inventory or something. So I got on the phone. Right away! You can’t keep Heaven waiting, after all. I talked to Shirley on the phone. She was a pleasant young woman and very eager for my help—another confirmation of this Divine calling. But when she said she needed help the most on Wednesday afternoons, my heart sank; that’s my manicure day; it has been for years. But I rose to the occasion and said I’d be there at 1:00 sharp and work until 4:00 every Wednesday.

So, I had to call my manicurist, Delores. That was hard; Delores is very particular. I carefully explained why I would need to see her on a different day from now on. I told her about my calling. She didn’t seem that interested but said I could come on Thursday mornings at 9:30. Nine-thirty she said! Nine-thirty in the morning! But what could I do but graciously accept her willingness to work me into her busy schedule?

I showed up at the food bank on Wednesday; I even got there a little early. Shirley is a bit plain and her hair was unkempt that day, but she greeted me very warmly, I must say. I asked her how I should address her; she looked puzzled at first, but then replied,”Oh, Shirley is fine. “

“And you?” she asked.

“Ms Bowaite,” I replied in my most cordial tone.

The place was depressing: just a counter, a few old, mismatched chairs and a big warehouse-type room with shelves and bins, not a thought to interior design or feng shui. No wonder the people who shuffled in for food during my shift looked so despondent. I couldn’t imagine why someone didn’t fix the place up or, better yet, fine a more suitable building.

Oh, and speaking of the patrons, I have to admit that I was shocked to see men come in who had not shaved in days and who (please excuse my frankness) had probably not showered in days either. And there were women, very young women, who dragged two or three small children in with them. For heaven’s sake, do women these days not know about morals, or at least birth control? (Oh, I do hope I am not being offensive by being so blunt as I relate my story to you). I have to add that I was also surprised to see fat women come to a food bank! They obviously have plenty of food. Don’t even get me started telling you about the quivering flesh as they raised their arms -- and the tank tops that showcased them! But, of course, Judge not.

Anyway, my first task was to put new cans onto shelves. There was a makeshift organizational system: green beans here, peaches there. Later, a load of potatoes came in. They were straight from some farm and were as dirty as you can imagine. Shirley asked if I would start washing them. I told her I would be happy to until 4:00. Someone dug up some rubber gloves for me. They looked like they had been worn by countless other helpers. I didn’t know which was worse, putting my hands into heaven-only-knows-what gloves or washing the filthy potatoes without gloves. I opted for the gloves and sighed with relief that I’d be seeing Delores tomorrow. After all this manual labor, hopefully she would not berate me for my obvious lack of attention to my nails.

So then I was shown where I could wash the potatoes and where the drying racks for them were. You can’t imagine the dirt that rolled off as I carefully washed each potato. Things were going along pretty well, I guess, until about 3:30, then disaster struck: I picked up a stinking, putrid, disgusting rotting potato out of the burlap bag. Oh the smell! I nearly (excuse my language) threw up! Trying to sound relatively calm, I called Shirley over and told her about my terrible discovery. Shirley wrinkled her nose ever so slightly and told me there are often some rotten potatoes in with the others. (She was implying there may be more! Can you imagine?) She calmly showed me a garbage bin with a plastic liner and told me that’s where the bad ones go. Well, at that point, I looked at the clock and was so relieved to see it was finally 3:50. I could start getting ready to go. Saved from the stench of the potatoes!

I was exhausted from the hours of hard work. Ah, but three whole hours of service! As I was leaving, Shirley thanked me for my help and said she’d see me again next week. But already I was trying to work up the courage to ask Delores if I could have back my Wednesday afternoons with her. I’m sure she’ll be surly about my wanting to change back again, but Wednesday afternoons work so well for me, and I hate the smell of rotting potatoes

The Legacy

Once lost, it is lost forever! That was my father’s unrelenting mantra. “Michael,” he’d say solemnly, “one must always be honest; integrity is the cornerstone of civilization. Remember, if you lose someone’s trust or respect, it is lost forever.”

My first memory of hearing the expression happened when I was six. As I went into the house for dinner, my father saw that I had been crying. “What is it, son?” he asked kindly.

“I was playing marbles with Jeff, and he lied to me, I sobbed. “He said if I won two games, he’d give me his orange cat’s eye, but he didn’t, Dad; he lied. He lied!

My father gently put his arm on my trembling shoulder. “Could there be a misunderstanding, Michael?” he asked gently.

“No, Dad, he just said he changed his mind and that he’d never give his favorite marble to anyone.”

I could feel my Dad tense, and his voice sounded firm and angry. “You can never trust Jeff again! He has proven himself to be dishonest and once that trust is lost, it is lost forever!”

When I was ten, our Pastor taught a powerful sermon on forgiveness. He sharply thumped the pulpit with his fist; every head rose from slumber, and everyone listened attentively. Then Pastor Mike got quiet, and we all leaned forward, straining to hear his message. By the time the sermon was over, I think all of us in the Congregation were eager to forgive our neighbor and anyone else we happened upon.

My Dad did not attend Church with us, so that afternoon I told him about the sermon. He seemed a little annoyed and said that, yes, it’s o-k to forgive some things, but if someone proves themselves to be untrustworthy, that’s that! Period! Once trust is lost, it is lost forever. He said that if I always remembered that, I’d save myself a lot of grief down the road. Even at ten, I could recognize that Dad’s advice was totally opposite from Pastor Mike’s sermon. This discrepancy puzzled me and was a source of worry for quite a while. Nevertheless, because of my deep love and admiration for Dad, his position on the subject eventually eclipsed Pastor Mike’s inspiring sermon.

Years later, when I was a Junior in High School, I worked with my Dad in his auto repair shop. This gave me the opportunity to witness many instances of his integrity. One time, for example, he fired a mechanic named Henry because he had fixed a woman’s brakes when there really wasn’t anything wrong with them. When I looked puzzled at Dad, he simply stated, “I can’t trust him any longer, son. He’s lost my trust, and once lost, it is lost forever.” Dad’s business did very well because people knew they could trust Dad when it came to car repairs and fairness.

Dad and I shared a close bond. I loved and appreciated Mom, too, but I shared so many experiences with Dad that we came to rely on each other and treasure our time together. Dad was always supportive of me as I explored new hobbies and tried out a variety of sports. I had started thinking about college and was considering what I should major in. Dad’s main input was, of course, “I’ll support you in any decision; just remember to focus on integrity in whatever you do. Remember, if people lose their trust in you, once it’s lost, it’s lost forever.”

Dad kept his shop open late on Wednesdays for people who couldn’t come in during regular hours. He’d take both a sack lunch and a sack dinner. When he came though the door at 8:30 on Wednesday nights, he practically fell into bed. One Wednesday, Mom had made Dad’s favorite cinnamon rolls so I decided to take him some before closing. When I arrived, there was only one car in the lot besides his. I walked in the side door and saw the light on in Dad’s glass-enclosed office. He obviously didn’t see me as I watched him, intertwined and disheveled, with Bonnie Jean, our neighbor from down the street. They were kissing . . . hard . . . deep . . . heavy. . . .

I had trusted and respected my Dad completely, but at that moment I walked away from him and never truly connected with him again. Dad had done a thorough job teaching me about trust: Once lost, it is lost forever.

Challenge: Behind the Music

When listening to music, I will often find myself trying to figure out the story that inspired the song. I thought this would make a fun challenge. Pick a song and write a story that you feel captures it. Make the title of the song (with artist) as the title, so we can listen to the song that inspired you! #challenges #behindthemusic

Jason's tongue stuck out in fierce concentration. As head engineer of the death star it was his job to make sure everything fit the way it should. He glanced down at his digital Spongebob watch to see it was almost four pm.

The general would be in to check on his calibrations, give him a snack and home work reminders soon. Just a few more hours and the massive gray menacer of worlds would be ready for destruction. Too bad there was a spelling test tomorrow, otherwise he might have been able to talk the general into a deadline extension. Who needed words like “ daffodil” or “bouquet” anyway? Now thermonuclear reactor was a word worth knowing and spelling!

Jason shook a length of sandy hair that had drifted into his eyes out of the way. The Spongebob on his wrist giggled an alarm and right on cue the general gave a tap on his door and walked in.

“ Hey, that's looking real good Jason!” She brushes the floppy hair further up his forehead and kisses the crown of his head too fast for him to duck it. Jason shrugs like its no big deal but inside he is glowing from the praise.

“ Five more minutes and then its homework time.” Jason sucks his lower lip in and tries not to whine. “Ah come on mom.”

“ You know the rules.” she says not budging and inch.

“Please please pleeeze.” he chants in vain already knowing the answer.

The general gives a sigh and bends ever so slightly.

“ If you can do all ten of the spelling words three times each with no mistakes you can have more lego time.”

Jason sighs gustily. World domination would have to wait for another day. He set the tray of gray, white and black pieces aside knowing when he was beat. He hoped that next time there wouldn't be any parts left over.

Casualties

Alyssa stood quietly beside her father in the bustling Minneapolis airport watching her mother in the distance as she prepared to run the security gauntlet. “Bye-bye, Laura,” six year old Alyssa called to her mother as loudly as she dared. Her mother paused for a moment and blew her daughter a kiss before continuing to remove her red Giuseppe Zanotti heels for the conveyor bin. The airport monitor indicated that her flight would depart right on schedule, and Laura’s racing thoughts were already transporting her ahead in time to her dream-come-true arrival in Paris.

David and Laura’s divorce wrapped up three weeks earlier. It had not been a messy divorce, the kind where the injured parties ensnare friends and strangers and hold them captive while they catalog their grievances over and over. The couple was too civilized for tasteless revelations of their private life. Nor was their divorce a particularly friendly one, the kind where the couple remains so amiable that everyone wonders just what had gone wrong. David and Laura had never even really been friends and shared the notion that friendships are for school children.

Their parting had been more of a drifting away from one another, and neither David nor Laura had even considered reaching for a lifeline; instead, they were buoyed along as the current of discontent gently took them toward different shores. David was searching for a wife who would compliment and complement him. He longed for a woman who would idolize him and make him her top priority, while at the same time maintaining her charm and intelligence. When she entered a social gathering, there would be a break in the conversational din. And everyone would know that she was his.

Laura’s dreams were of becoming a shrewd and impressive business woman in the world of fashion. Shortly before the divorce was final, she was offered a position with Adeline Andre’ Haute Couture. She accepted the offer with no consideration of family ties or responsibilities.

Now, as David and Alyssa reached the car in the airport parking garage, Alyssa was squeezing back the tears that had started as she first watched her mother disappear in the lines of fellow travelers. Her Father noticed her contorted face and patted her arm with a dismissive, “There, there,” and ushered her into the car.

Alyssa Monique Burke had come to her parents unexpectedly; but they liked her. She was beautiful and intelligent and gave them credibility as a family: “And do you have any children?”

“An adorable little girl,” they would reply proudly.

As they begin driving, Alyssa looked at her Father and asked hesitantly, “David, can I go to a pet store to buy something nice for Treater?”

“May I, Alyssa. May I.”

“Yes, Sir. May I go to the pet store to buy a toy for Treater?”

David scoffed, “A toy for a dog? Nonsense. You know I have to drop you off at home with Mrs. Robinson and get back to the office. I’ll be working long hours to get ready for the New Your conference. Don’t you remember?”

“Maybe Mrs. Robinson could take me tomorrow when she picks me up after school.”

“I don’t pay Mrs. Robinson to chauffer you around.

“Yes, Sir,” Alyssa whispered. Then silence prevailed.

As soon as the divorce had been finalized, it occurred to them that a decision must be made as to where Alyssa would grow up: Paris or Minneapolis? They had delayed this decision because it seemed inconsequential at the time. They concluded that Alyssa should make the decision as to which parent she would live with. “Either way is fine,” they told her magnanimously. After two weeks of Alyssa’s “fretting,” their patience wore thin. “We really must have a decision,” they insisted. Laura would be leaving in a week

Alyssa had finally decided she would go with her mother. Sometimes her mother brushed her hair for her and read a bedtime story now and then. And sometimes her mother smiled at her and held her hand for a moment. However, the day before she announced her decision, her father brought a petite, quiet dog to his house. Alyssa immediately named him Treater, and there was love at first sight between the two. And thus, the week before her mother was to leave, Alyssa was the happiest she had ever been. Treater nestled with her, welcomed her home, played with her and lavished appreciation and affection. They both thrived. Alyssa could not bear to leave Treater and told her parents she would be staying with her father.

When Alyssa and her Father got home from the airport, she immediately ran for Treater before Mrs. Robinson even had time to remind her to take off her shoes. Her heartache at losing her mother was tempered with knowing she finally had an affectionate ally.

David looked down at the cheerful little dog. My allergies have flared up again the past few days, he thought. It must be that mutt. Obviously it would have to be returned tomorrow.

More Than An Absent Mind

This recent generation has certainly made my calling more challenging in some ways, but in others so much simpler.  I cannot tell you what my real name is, but I have been known by many names over time.   I cannot decide which is my favorite, perhaps "Imp".  Imp is a simple yet pleasant sounding name.   Much better than Menehune, Leprechaun, Fairy or the dozens of other names that have been used for such as I.  I have heard the stories and seen the images some have created to explain us, they are just imagination.  By irrevocable law we must remain elusive and invisible.  The children must never see or hear us in order for the test to be successful.

The test is the reason. The purpose of the time here.  Most do not realize it, for all are still children.  Sometimes your little ones seem to have a better grasp on what they are to accomplish.  It is sad to watch as you mature, you become confused as to who you are and why you are here.  There are "others" here who are determined to distract and confuse.  You agreed to the test.   Many preparations were made.  It is not like the tests in your schools.  You are examined on your knowledge but also on your responses.  Your responses to adversity. That is where I come in, Adversity 101.  Knowledge is a different department.

There are many of us here.  We each have a specialty, although we are all bound by the same rules.  When we create an adversity we must document the response immediately and then continue to monitor the rippling effects that are caused.  The adversities that we create are simple to track the purpose is known but the ones that you children create are difficult because many times purpose is lacking and they are the result of influence from the "others" who are trying to create chaos that will lead to failure of the test.  Unfortunately they are a very large and difficult group, but necessary to the whole test.  I mean, how can you have a test if there are no wrong answers. We have very simple guidelines.  We are never to give an adversity that the children are not able to handle.  We must understand that some adversities are given to strengthen the children for the future.  Help is only given when it is asked for.  We do not give grades but there are rewards for making the correct response.

I work in the minor test department.  I guess it is somewhat like the pop quiz that you have in your schools.   I work on the small day to day tests.  You children do not even realize that these small events are tests. For instance, I might hide the right shoe or left sock.  It may seem like that is not much of a test, but there are many variables that can make it a real test such as, stress levels, degree of happiness, and time restraints.  These can all have very serious effects on the response given.  I have witnessed little ones suffer fear and serious damage to their self esteem when their caretaker's response is rage over a lost shoe.  I have even witnessed some little ones being physically hurt!  A most distressing part of my calling!

There are documented many good responses too.  The "others" are not as successful as many in the world would have you believe.  Just today, a young mother was searching for an important document she needed that would save her struggling family a lot of money. She was frantically searching her home for the "missing" document.  I do not limit my tests to only shoes and socks.  I cannot say where it was, trade secrets and all, but her response was a joy to observe!  In tears, she dropped to her knees and with all sincerity asked Father for help.  At times like this there is a special light  that we can actually see.  It is glorious to behold!   Her need was so great that Father gave special permission for immediate help.  As she knelt there, with head bowed, I silently put the needed document next to her hand, sticking out of the sofa cushion.  I can be very stealthy when it is needed.   Imagine her response when she opened her eyes and saw the document right there!  She again "gave light" that brought joy to all our hearts and actually warmed the world, as she immediately acknowledged Father's help and gave thanks to Him.

Obviously her car keys will have to be returned before tomorrow!

A Regular Guy

He’s just a regular guy. Two arms, two legs, a face that at least his wife thinks is cute, a really thick tussle of unruly hair on top, and his dear departed Dad’s sophisticated sense of humor. He hates writing. His highest ambition is to be on “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?”

The Fifth Day

He was unprepared for the enormity of the task, but how could he be really? This was his first time. He had been drafted onto the team, but as one of their last choices, and on a probationary basis no less. Sure he completed all the necessary schooling but his grades were unremarkable. It was luck to have made the team in the first place and now it looked like that luck had run dry. He had to rely on his skills and raw talents now, and those wells didn’t seem to be any too deep either. 

Still, the team was in the second seat and he was proud to wear the uniform, even if for a season. They were good for good reason; they were relentless in their training and preparations. First there were the endless planning meetings, then the endless preparations as well as the countless practices, rehearsals and drills followed by even more meetings, preparations, practices, rehearsals and drills. Morale was high and they were stoked; as ready as any team could be for any championship game. 

How could this have happened anyways? If only he had more time maybe he could fix it, but that really wasn’t possible was it? They had 24-hours period and there would be, in fact there could be no exceptions. Failure on that account would be catastrophic, a disaster beyond biblical proportions. He knew it as well as anyone. 

He was getting tired now, but this was no time to let up. There would be plenty of opportunity for rest later, especially if he was cut. Although he had worked tirelessly the last 23 hours and 59 minutes with out a break or chat around the cooler, he had caught glimpses of many of the team’s products as they came off the line. Even at a blush, he could tell they were masterpieces. Take your breath away beautiful! Visions of form and function, strength, speed, endless variety, flawless design, true biological wonders. The preparations had payed off! How then could this have happened? Was it an error in the inventory, or a mistake in the distribution? Did he get punked? Or could something more nefarious be going on? Theft or sabotage were unthinkable, and yet here it was. 

There were so many products, perhaps he could hide it, slip it into some remote corner where nobody would ever notice. But how could you hide anything from the boss? He seemed to know everything; must have eyes in the back of his head. No, it would be found out, there was no getting around that. Indubitably it would be the subject of a number of investigations, followed by more studies and then endless pontifications by the pundits. It would be shown on every channel every fifteen minutes, over and over again from every angle in an endless cycle for days or maybe even weeks. He would be the subject of their laughter, their scorn, their abject disappointment.

What was he supposed to do with these? There were only seconds left before the first rays of sunlight cracked the dawn on Day 6. No time left for any refinements at all really, he would just have to slap them together. There it is, just in the nick of time. It would have to be good enough. Might as well give it a name to fit, how about “platypus.” If he does manage to survive this fiasco and stay on the team, he hopes next time there won’t be any parts left over. 

Doug

The Loving Husband

He had it all.  He was a blue blood and his breeding was impeccable.  The estate was magnificent and his wants and needs were pleasantly fulfilled.  He was a bit absent minded and a good sort of fellow.  He tended to putter and never really excelled at any one thing. Everyone adored Lord Richard.  He was kind and charitable to everyone.  His household staff held him in high esteem and looked after him as they would an adored child.  Of course in everyone's life something has to happen to challenge their perfect world and for Lord Richard it was when he learned that his estate was becoming financially burdened and his annuity was showing a shortfall, something had to be done.  He could not sell his land because it was entailed and he was  already living a very simple, yet noble lifestyle.  So he did what any blue blooded Englishman would do, he decided to take a wife that could solve his dilemma.

He immediately embarked on a visit to the "delinquent daughter" of Great Britain and ventured into the high society of the United States.  Socialites were clamoring to meet the handsome English Lord, how they loved his accent and prudish ways.  He was the talk of the town and everyone felt privileged to entertain him.  Parties were held nightly in his honor and everyone who was anyone were vying to outdo the other.  Lord Richard by nature was an introvert and parties exhausted him, he was rather stunned at the crassness of the Americans and found their accents a bit grating on the nerves.  However, one must do what one must do for blood and country and all.

 When she entered the room all the men stopped and stared and all the women glared with hatred and envy.  She floated across the room as though her feet were not touching the floor.  Her perfume was intoxicating,  her green eyes sparkled as she smiled with the most perfect teeth Lord Richard had ever seen.  She was bathed in silk and diamonds as she reached out her hand to introduce herself, "Charrmed to meet ya, I'm shore" said she.  It was the most disturbing sound he had ever heard!  How can such an enchanting creature have a voice so hellish?

Her name was Brenda Schwartz-Miller-DeLano.  As her title implied, her "bloodline" was one of poor, rich, and richer.  Brenda was known to her friends as "Bunny", someone once explained with a wink, that rabbits have sex until they pass out.  She was born  a poor American Jew from the lower east side of New York.  She decided she wanted the typical Jewish-American Princess dream on the day she started working at Tiffany's of New York. Everyday she watched the rich and famous come and go.  She secretly coveted the merchandise and whenever she could she offered to model any item some wealthy man was considering for his wife or lover.   She dreamed of decking herself out in diamonds and dancing the night away at one of their fancy parties on the arm of some wealthy man.

 Her dream began on a cold spring day when Ben Miller came in to buy his daughter a graduation gift.  He was short and bald and had bad breath. When he laid eyes on Brenda his breath was thankfully taken away.  He immediately imagined the perfect plan.  He would take this lovely girl to his daughter's graduation party and completely enrage and humiliate his recently ex-wife.  He was not shy and came right out with his proposal.  Of course he had to seal the deal with the first of many little trinkets to make Brenda sparkle.  Ben was not disappointed when his wife turned every shade of green and blue upon their arrival.  Ben was so pleased that he quickly sealed the deal with a quickie wedding in Las Vegas.  He was so excited he forgot to sign the pre-nup and when Bunny was done he didn't pass out, he died with a smile on his face.

Her dream continued with Mr. DeLano.  He was a man of many talents.  He prided himself on having a piece of many pies.  He started out a small time mobster but soon realized, as many of his friends were ending up in the pen, that he wanted to go legit.  So politics became his new passion.  He did well, and soon he was rubbing shoulders with all the big wigs.  With his hands in many pockets he was considering a run for the Senate.
Brenda was his biggest supporter and she was always there at the parties and rally's waving her flag.   When the soon to be Senator was feeling a little lonely after his wife checked into Betty Ford she was there to give him a little comfort.  They didn't notice the reporter hiding in the lobby.  He decided to make an honest woman of her and they married as fast as the divorce was final.   There were attempts to hush it all up, but unlike Donald Trump, he did not have a great hairdo or obnoxious TV show and they were unsuccessful.  His political career waning, he looked up a few old friends and business was soon booming again, unfortunately, so was his car.  The poor widow was duly compensated for her loss by his life insurance and some "hidden"assets.  Brenda needed to start anew.  Somewhere her "assets" could remain hidden from certain friends and one special "Uncle" by the name of Sam.

And so, two people, from very different places, with needs that the other could fulfill, met on a hot summer night.   Lord Richard was a practical man and he knew in time he could grow to love the sound of her voice and if not, perhaps she would run out of things to say.  He was not so sure about her calling him "Dickie"and decided that once they were settled he would have a little chat with her about it.

Lady Brenda, that was a nice bonus to the whole set up.  Yes, she saw the whole thing as just an arrangement.  Lord Richard was a handsome man, and for that she was relieved.  He was boring as the day was long and seemed simple minded and easy to please.  She was sure she could keep him happy and find plenty to keep herself occupied.  He told her to plan the nuptials.  She was determined to give Charles and Diana a run for their money.  It was to be a lavash affair!  All of her American friends and rivals were thrilled, mostly to see her far removed from the competition.  In all the preparations, Richard's Solicitors took care of the legal needs of the union.  To be a Lady required patents and papers and there was talk of entailments, insurance, duties, family jewels, household staff!  Her head was spinning!

The wedding was all she had hoped for.  Lord and Lady Mountbaum left to honeymoon on a grand tour of Europe.  They stayed at the best hotels and dined with royalty and presidents, for Lady Brenda the time flew by but to Lord Richard his greatest relief was when they finally arrived at the estate.  The household staff were all expectantly lined up to greet the new Lady of the Manor.  Each gave a small curtsey or bow as they were introduced, Lady Brenda smiled sweetly and eyed each, wondering why there were so many!  When she entered the grand entrance hall she was suddenly made aware that she just might be out of her element, so to speak.

It went about as well as the time Mrs. Obama tried to hug the Queen.  Lady Brenda was quickly getting tired of being mistress of the manor.  She just wanted to be plain old Bunny and have some laughs.    Her one joy was to take her red corvette, the only thing she insisted on bringing with her, for a drive down to the village to cut loose with some locals at the pub.  She did love the English countryside and learned quickly to drive the narrow winding roads as fast as she could.  Everyone knew she was coming when they heard the squealing tires and the bass beat shaking all the windows and scaring children and farm animals.  Her one little challenge was to remember what side of the road to drive on.  Many a local farmer or milk man told stories of crazy Lady Brenda in her American hot rod.

So life just carried on.  Lord Richard had what he needed and that was his estate secure and running well.  He went back to his simple puttering and just smiled quietly as his wife took her daily trips to who knew where.  He did not seem to really care that she was not discreet and every one was to polite to say anything to him.  He did enjoy the peace and quiet when she was not about.  Nobody of any consequence paid her any attention.  There were plenty of men out to have a good time and some who hoped for more.   Lord Richard saw to it that Brenda had all that she could ever need.  Cash was considered rather common and crass so she was given accounts at all the shops.  Suddenly she realizing what an entailment was.  She was determined more than ever to do as she pleased and to hell with appearances.  Poor Lord Richard, that is what everyone thought.

One day Brenda cornered Lord Richard in the garages. He was puttering around with a few of his favorite old classic cars.  "Dickie dear, I cannot for the life of me find one mechanic that will fix my car!  I insist you take some time from these heaps you love so much and fix my car yourself!  I need the brakes done and the fluids all checked, oh you know what to do!  I am going up to take a nap.  I have some engagements to attend this evening and I won't be home until quite late!", she then turned in a  huff and was gone before he even got past the sound of her calling him that dreadful name!

It took him two hours to figure out how to remove the tires.  He puttered all day and well past supper and tea.  He was feeling rather proud of himself when he was finally done.  It was a beast of a machine!  He was just about to exit the garages when Brenda came flying by, grabbing the keys and saying "Thanks love, don't wait up!"  She nearly ran him down as she barreled down the drive and around the corner without slowing as she nearly ran the caretakers son down!

Lord Richard was sitting in the drawing room with a warm brandy and his favorite pipe when the constable was shown in.  He was told of her tragic accident.  She was on the wrong side of the road and her brakes seemed to have failed as she missed the turn but not the tree.  You know, the old oak at the bottom of the hill.  So sad.  Perhaps you could salvage the car sir.

Lord Richard hoped that the next time he wouldn't have any left over parts.

Hunger

The too familiar rhythm sounds at my door, brass knocking against brass in a quick 1, 2, 3, 4, pause and 1 more, louder. I don’t need to peep through the hole to know who is on the other side. I can see her flawlessly arranged brown curls dangling over her shoulders, trendy silver filigree earrings, peach lipstick on her full lips, mascara-ed eyelashes fluttering over her brown eyes. She is gorgeous and always perfectly put together, despite that she has two young boys at home. She is what I am not: beautiful and a mother.

Flanna and her family had moved in three months ago. I had only had time to consider welcoming her before she was at my doorstep with fresh baked peanut butter cookies introducing herself and telling me all about her family. And since then she has been on my doorstep a couple of times a week, sometimes to borrow a cup of sugar, sometimes to share some exciting news, but most often to ask if I would watch her boys, Sam and Andrew.

I consider not opening the door, pretending I don’t hear her. I have never been very good at saying what I really feel. I had said yes to Flanna so many times, and had been happy to do so at first. But now her requests have become too frequent, and asked in a way as if I have nothing better to do. When she came just two days ago asking if I’d like to watch her kids, I so politely accepted with a wide smile, although I was seething inside as I avoided genuine words and something like hunger in her eyes, maybe even pity. But I made a decision when I closed the door. Next time, I would speak the words I really want to speak, the words I need to say--not the words she wants to hear. I have gone over in my head so many times the right words to say. Inside my door now I assure myself. I can say it; I can. I open the door smoothly and before I can even greet her, she hastily starts talking.

“Carrie! Hi! Would you like to…W-ow!” Flanna is staring at me now, as if she is trying to figure something out. I forget I have not properly gotten dressed today—one of the perks of my job at home—and think she must be horrified at my appearance: the baggy heather gray sweats, the yellow t-shirt with bleach stains, no make-up and my barely brushed short black hair. She slowly proceeds, but rather than a disparaging remark she slowly says, “You look great today!” She sounds unsure herself of the compliment.

I have never considered myself very attractive and the lack of compliments has only confirmed that to me. “Thanks,” I clip at her. I’m not going to let a flattering remark soften my resolve. “Did you need something?” I ask hurriedly and purse my lips together in a hard line.

“Oh, well…I thought maybe you might be bored and I was wondering if you wanted to watch Sam and Andrew?”, Flanna asks too cheerfully.

I suck a deep breath into my nose I hope she cannot see or hear, and I speak with resolution.

“Flanna, I happen to be busy. I have a job. I am not just sitting around at home doing nothing but wishing I could babysit your kids so that you can run off and get your nails done.”

“Oh!” Flanna gets out with a shocked look, her mouth still in the shape of an “o”, her brow scrunched. “I didn’t think….”she sputters. “I just thought….well, I thought you enjoyed my kids, and since you don’t have any...”

I stop her. “Flanna, I happen to enjoy many things, like reading, gardening, photography, yoga. I have plenty to fill my time without the extra sessions of charity babysitting.” It was cruel, and filled with lies even. The truth was I did enjoy time with her kids, and they enjoyed the time with me. When they were with me I knew I satisfied their starving appetite for attention; I shrunk at each unbroken request of “Look at me, Mommy!” that arrived over the fence from their yard beside ours. And what is more, since I had found out I could not have children five months ago, I had not taken time to enjoy myself. That is until this morning.

Overcome by the need to escape my powerlessness and my grief, I hastily grabbed the dusty, white linen copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy that had been sitting on my nightstand for these many months and sunk in my coffee colored leather couch to read. It was only a small thing, and I should have been working, but it felt good to love myself even just a little. I got to work after a few chapters, but if I felt the cloud of mourning coming, rather than descend into my emptiness I grabbed the book again and read until I felt plump with peace.

“Well, don’t you want kids? I mean, do you even like them?”, Flanna asks irritated and anxious.

The heat is rising in my face. And the words begin to slip out in anger and hurt before I can stop them.

“I can’t have kids, Flanna!” It comes out with permanence, louder than I intended. I had not shared that with anybody but my husband and parents, and I had not intended to share it now, with her. I guess I was hoping it would make her feel bad. But I don’t want her pity. I want to scrape from her ears those sour words and keep them secured to my tongue.

“I have to go,” I say with an urgency. I close the door firmly and spin around, only to discover an unfamiliar person framed before me in the simple black rectangular entry mirror. I edge closer, remembering what Flanna had said, that I looked great. Despite my hideous clothes, reflecting back is a face I had not seen there in many months. The skin that was insipid before, as if it had been starved for oxygen, now breathes color. And my dark hair cropped around my face accents the flush skin. It is the loveliest shade of pink I have ever seen!