I am so stoked, all I can do is SQUEE around the house and online. I’ve edited and re-edited this post in the hopes that I got the words out and in the right order. Tonight was our bi-weekly D&D game but… I think I’m a bit too hyper and RAVENS crazy to pay too much attention to the HUGE level raising battle my character took part in (and without armor I might add). Sorry Kender, niraja and ed, thanks for dealing with me.

Saturday, we wake at “way too early A.M” and drive 3 hours North to Seattle for the packing party. I will take pictures and continue to wander around SQUEEING. I can’t wait to get my copies. I can’t wait to help fill everyone’s orders (I can sneek signatures into the books?). Next Wednesday they’re having a book signing at The Dreaming @ 6 p.m. in Seattle, WA. I’ll be making a day of it because driving from Portland to Seattle is a pain. Here’s hoping I can hang with Phil or Sandra or find something to occupy the time between arriving and the signing.

There may be one other opportunity for a signing in April, on either the 9th or 10th. I’m VERY interested in doing that one as well but kender and I need to see whether or not we’re busy that weekend.

I am totally excited and honored to be published with many of my favorite authors. These are people who will hopefully read my work in their copies. Now that the books are out, I plan to try and get the signatures of all the authors and artists who worked on the book. Thanks to everyone for your orders, support, and patience while the book’s been at the printers. I hope you all love it as much as we had fun putting it together.

By now the light from the sun is painting a picture-perfect sunset across the sky. I take a deep breath of clean, untainted air and continue my sweep. Everyone else begins to bark commands at one another and starts assembling the tents. I am instructed to look for firewood and reluctantly set out gathering small twigs and branches to serve as kindling.

Gathering bits and pieces of wood, no one notices me as I slip away into the forest. The trees act as a natural barrier between the distant voices of my company and I. Now left alone to my thoughts and the whistling quiet of the forest, I continue my sojourn. Beneath my feet the ground changes from the stiff hardness of dirt to a squishy, softer muck. Schlicp, schlicp go my boots and I realize that in my drift I have happened upon a tarn of water.

The lake is big and bottomless. Or so it seems. The dim light of the setting sun casts an unnatural glow across the lustrous top of the lake. The deep satin blue water soothes and seduces me. It calls out and I draw nearer, my body relaxing from all the strain taken throughout the work week.

Gazing into the clear water, the lake’s movement flows back and forth, caught in an endless exotic dance inviting me to watch. Peer closer. Peer into the swirling waters, they taunt, and perhaps you too can see into the past, future, and present. Feeling hypnotized by the lake, I wander about locating a place to root myself in trance. Another deep breath taken. From the reaction of my body towards the lake, I get the impression that this is what has drawn me into this weekend escapade; although it was my friend Becky who really talked me into it.

“It’s good for the soul,” she said. “It’ll help you relax and get away from all the stress at work.”

Nearing the shore my shoes are unceremoniously tossed off exposing my feet to the sandpapery feel of the ground beneath. Walking along the shoreline, my feet are massaged by the soft and rough sand, relieving them of all the tension that was twisted into them during the long and hard hike to the haven.

Collapsing, I look at the sky. The first evening stars make their nightly appearance and I can faintly recognize some of the constellations. A strong sense of serenity and peace enters my body, hugging it in a blanket of warmth. Strange, I feel as if I’ve been here before. Without warning, shapes begin to surface from the deep blue mirror and I return my sight back to the water.

Two large objects begin to swim parallel to the water’s surface and because of the evening light I can pass no judgment as to what these shapes really are. But they have sparked my curiosity and have taken hold of my imagination. My companions are long, about six feet in length, and take on an almost fishy appearance. But their skin is smooth!

That can’t be, my mind screams. There are no fish in freshwater lakes that big.

The strong smell of burning wood fills the air, and my stomach softly rumbles.

Yet, I am in no hurry to return to the campsite. Determined to find out what lurks beneath the water’s surface, I stay firmly planted at this spot. My eyes burn into the lake, intent on knowing what these images, playing against the water’s screen, are.

My body begins to sway with the waves. Moving closer to the shore’s edge I dangle my feet into the cool, silky water. The translucent form has reached out and in one swoop bound me in a inviting grasp. Voices now call out to me from the small glow of the campsite, off in the distance. I’m not paying them any attention. This is where I belong now. Looking away towards the glow I feel a light tug on my ankle from the water. An invitation, really, begging me to join with its freedom– deep into the basin of the Earth. The shapes in the water also speak out to me in the same way.

Aeons of secrets flood into my mind from locked chambers deeply embedded in the dark corners of my brain. There is now a choice to be made. One path cast in the light with familiar voices and the other cast in the shadows of the water and the dark unknown.

Shedding my unwanted clothes I dive. The water’s delicate-touch fills every pore of my body, caressing my skin like a lover longing for the first embrace. Kicking out with two powerful fins my slender bottlenose acts compass to guide me towards my home hidden deep within the water. Never again will my body feel the touch of the sun, it’s unwanted kiss fades into the night as the stars twinkle high above. All my worries pass out from me, forgotten into the water. My job, friends lost behind me huddled around the campfire all depart from my mind as the memories from a primal past surface and consume me.

The two figures shimmy towards my changed form, squeaking in delight, as I return back to my pod having regained my true sense of identity.

The old lady drew near, stopping by each trash can to find something of value Jordan stepped out towards her. Her movements seemed almost ritualized in the pale glow of the night.

“Hey, lady, isn’t it time you went home. Ya know this area of town isn’t all that keen towards folk like you.”

Slowly the woman turned around to face him. Jordan could see that her face was young and wrinkled and her teeth appeared nonexistent in the moonlit sky. Her hair was long and tangled, almost in the fashion of punks he hung around with.

“I know young man, but ever since my husband died and I lost my social security pension, these streets are my home. To make my living I have had to resort to digging around in the bins to find what I like to call Old Forgottens’. ‘Cuz these are treasures, not worth anything to anyone else but have lots of value to me.”

It was this last line that caught Jordan by surprise. All his waking life he felt like the old woman’s “old Forgottens,” discarded by people, left to fend for himself. Only after his reawakening did he feel he fit in with the crowd.

“Don’t you have any family to go to? Savings accounts to draw money from. Anything?” He questioned, his cold stone heart going out to the woman.

“No, ” she began, sitting down on the dirty sidewalk. “That was all spent trying to keep my husband and myself out of debt, and when he died the rest went to paying off the funeral expenses. Now its just me and ol’ Nellie here, my trusty collection wagon.”

When she talked, Jordan saw the lifetime of experience and hardship pouring from her fawn colored eyes. She has had a hard life, he thought feeling something that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Sadness. Sadness for all the people that were left behind by the great United States of fucking America. Sadness, for all the people like her, having to defend their livelihood against creeps like him. People wanting something from them.

“Ma’am, ” he began, “isn’t there something I could do to help you out?”

She glared at him wondering if she could take his offer seriously or not. Then she arose, shaking off all the dirt from her tattered dress.

“Child,”she said,” there ain’t nothing you could do to help me. I am too old and too tired to continue on like this. It’s enough to wonder if the good lord has forsaken me and refuses to end the suffering that I’ve had to live with for the past few years. But unless you can put in a good word to the Lord to help me out then I guess there’s nothing you can really do to help me.”

Standing up, Jordan grinned a grin so fiendishly that the hair (or what was left of it) on the arms of the bag woman stood on end.

“Lady,” he called, “this is your lucky day. For I am an angel of your God and he has asked me to take you away from all of this.”

Then as laughter poured out of his mouth, he bared his fangs toward his dumbstruck prey. Then reaching out both of his arms he cradled the old woman in his arms. All forgiveness left his body as he bit down and drained the life from her body. Looking down at her dead corpse once more, he noticed that the woman did not appear scared but relieved that the suffering had ended.

As he turned to make sure that she was comfortable in her final resting area Jordan thought to himself, Just another nameless victim, wanting the escape that only death can provide.

Short black hair and tired grey-blue eyes are all I can remember of him now. Inhale deep, exhale and ritually place the paper over the flame, cleansing me of his torment. I want to be free, to begin anew. Where to begin? When will it all end?

The flame catches the torn edge, shrivelturns releasing the pains in my chest from real to memories later locked away. So many memories tied to him. The ring, the love, moving away from it all to escape. Always a new beginning, never a happy ending. Relationships never end well, some do; but were they really a relationship to begin with?

Fake. Probably not.

Yellow and red consume the paper, the beginning of the end. Anger and confusion, are all that’s left of three years devotion. Time to recast the wheel of fate and see where it leads me, I think. The paper slowly shrivels into a fetal position like a baby sleeping. Black charred scars are all that’s left of the feelings awaiting to be replaced by someone, something new, exciting– always better.

But will there be another? Do you really want to go through this again? Perhaps it’s better to end it here. Spill the seeds of life and snuff the flame. Darkness is the only escape from the madness living provides.

It all begins in another time, another place. He needed me just as much as I him. It started during the season of growth and knowledge. In the distance the schoolbell rings, and the ants race in. Classrooms fill the mind with trivial musings. Life provides the real learning: harsh, cold and painful experience. I in a degree of the senses, he in a program of the logical. Opposites attract they say, and like moths to the same flame were we.

Flames dance across the mirror, reflecting the daemon destroying the dreams of the heart. Cast in shadows, my chestnut hair hangs in my face. Dark skin darkens further beneath the brown depths of my eyes. Razorblade slashes the wrists, marks of a true artist, metalglint from the light reflecting the pain within. I tear another page from the journal as a melancholy satisfaction flows over me.

Melpomene is the artist’s mark, tragedy tortured torment. Blood and script the tools of my creation. And from out of this marriage what comes? Only the thought of When will I ever be whole? Fuck living the two lives of a madman. I want to be one, to have the normal life of others. But even that is stretching it too far, I suppose.

The flame dances in the dark of the room, mimicking the motions of a person insanity lost. Mimicking me. Depression and mania are the fuel that feeds my life. Extremities are my playground. From which life has sealed my fate. To take them away from me would water the flame that builds inside this stone cold heart. Shatter the desire, and spew me into a thousand tiny fragments of a puzzle.

This will be the end. I repeat this over and over like a mantra, half expecting to see it true. The smell of burning paper hangs thick, adding incense to ritual. But, I’m human and we lie. I know that one day I will rebound. Pick up the scattered pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and find someone new to provide the motif. The next masterpiece in creation.

Silently I breathe the flame out and look outside. A new beginning unfolds out as the clear black sky above, turns to grey.

I will not cry anymore. The rain, it cries enough.

My kit is a backpack filled with things I consider useful. Pens and blank books for authoring stories and making notes; books for inspiration and reading; my tarot deck for that surprise read or two; and my portable music player. I drag all this stuff into my bag every time I set out for my hikes. Today, with spring emerging from the snow, I added my camera in the bag. I was hoping to get a few good shots of the city.

My mind wanders, my brain processing the sights, smells and sounds of the street. People hurried to and from the sidewalk to stores. Some were seated in chairs and tables, chatting, reading or drinking tea and coffee. A few seated patrons hold chain or leather leashes in their hands. Fuzzy canine companions laying patiently at their masters’ feets waiting for them to finish their rest and continue leading them on their walk.

Laughter cries out from behind me. I turn my head, smiling as I watch the two women hug in welcoming embraces. My eyes continue watching the women, hoping to capture some details of their happiness so I can paint the scene later. Since I dare not appear so foward, I continue walking the other way; not paying attention to where I’m going or what or who may be in front of me. What happens next startles me, although I know better that it shouldn’t. I run smack dab into this woman.

A faint “Oof” escapes my lips. The tranquil world around me collapses in a single jolt.

She wears a long, red, button-down shirt and black jeans. Her blonde hair frizzes in curls. A small bag is clutched tightly in her hands. The bag is nothing special, mostly black, prolly just her purse.

She smiles, takes no real notice of me as I recenter myself and my kit on my back. Instead, she extends the bag forward. I blink.

“Here you go,” she says dropping the bag into my hands.

My mouth opens, poised to explain to the woman that I am not a theif and that I didn’t want her bag. She skips off, humming. I close my mouth and watch her skip away. I blink in disbelief, my mind not knowing what to do next. The musty smells of the bag waif into my nose. It’s like a combination of years of smoke and perfume have melded into the fabric. While the bag itself is not heavy, I can tell something does appear to be inside.

I spin around in place, hoping to catch the girl. But she’s long gone. The street behind me appears the same, empty with no trace of her. Even the two giggling women are gone, having disappeared into a store. I quickly begin walking to get out off the sidewalk and onto a bench. Plopping down, I set the bag next to me. My mind wanders again. Attempting to make sense of what just happened to me. Questions quickfire through my mind. What am I going to do with this bag? What is inside it? Why me? Is she going to want it back? Do I dare open it?

It’s the last question that stops my racing mind. She said it was for me. But what if I’m not supposed to open the bag. I want to open the bag, and see what’s inside. Curiosity grips me badly. But fear of what may be inside keeps me from doing it in public. Cancelling my hike, I vow to go home and open it there. I drag the kit off my back, open it and quickly shove this gift inside. My eyes drift back to the street, hoping that no one is watching.

My heart races and while the small sting of disappointment hits my heart, I’m more ready to get home and open the bag. I briskly walk back to my place. Despite how fast my legs carry me, this time I make sure I don’t run into anyone else on my way home. The apartment building comes into sight and I rush into the door, throwing it open with a resounding WOOSH, run up the stairs and fumble to get the door unlocked. Safely inside, I slam the door behind me and turn the lock.

My heart still pounds. I catch my breath before moving away from the door. My apartment is small and modest. It’s more of a studio and I can easily cross from my bed to the small kitchen, which consists of a single stove, small refridgerator and a small counter with a sink. I set my kit on the bed and take one more long, deep breath. I sit down and pull the kit towards me as my fingers open it. Carefully, I pull the bag out. I gently place the bag into my lap and stare at it. Again the struggle between opening it and turning it to the cops battles inside my head. This is a hard decision to make. Curiosity wins over rationality as it normally does for me and I open the bag.

A deep ripping sound comes from the bag as I accidently tear and expose the black silk lining. The inside lining of the bag appears a deeper color than the light black, smooth velvet exterior. I shove my hand inside the bag and draw out the only contents. A box. The box is small. No bigger than a match box. Red ribbons done in bows wrap the box. A small card dangles from the ribbons, attached to them by a red tread. Hand written letters, carefully drawn in old english calligraphy reads, “For You.” I giggle and smile at the gift.

My inner child gets the best of me and I carefully shake the box. The box clanks as the objects inside hit the walls. Something IS inside the box. And while a small part of me is relieved that there is more to this surprise than meets the eye; I was hoping that it could have been a prank. Again, I debate whether or not to leave the box wrapped. Part of me wants to stop right here and keep the object as is. The other half wants to see what is inside. I savior the image of the box awhile longer and then begin the slow process of opening the box to see what lays inside.

First, I untie the bow. Then I remove the ribbon completely from the box. The shiny fabric slides right off the packaging in one sweep. The card, with it’s note, stays on the ribbon. As I have always done with 23 years of previous gifts, I set the ribbon aside. Since there is no wrapping paper to rip into, the process of opening the box is shortened. Turning the box around in my hands I look for the latch to open the box. There is none. Instead there is a small crevase in the lid of the box. I close my eyes as my thumbs push back on the box’s top. The lid slides off easily.

Two seconds pass before I reopen my eyes. Chuckling, I dismiss the notions of exploding boxes from my mind. Obviously, there weren’t any inside THIS box.

My gaze drops to the opened box. Two small items are nestled inside. One is a small crystal heart. It’s smooth surface glints in the sunlight streaming in from the window. The other is a piece of paper folded in half. Not wanting to disturb the stone, I carefully extract the paper. Two pictographs are brushed onto it. I recognize them as Japanese kanji. A translation in English reads below it:

Be Here Now

Another smile creaps across my face. Peace fills my body as I reflect upon the gift, the words and the stone… and their gentle reminder to always remain
in the present.

Kelli, a girl with blonde hair. Last night I caught you and her dancing. Man, did you have me fooled, telling me you were studying. Next you’ll be telling me she never meant a thing to you ñ you only love me.

“Oh baby, I’ll never leave you” is that what you’ll say? Put that foot a few more inches deeper down your throat, Babe. Quit looking dumbstruck, you’ve done this before. Rumors have a way of spilling out when it comes to little midnight snacks. Stuttering broken promises won’t make it all better; it’s a little too late for that now, don’t you think? Thought you had me fooled? Until now, I believed that you were the one. Vacate my apartment, leave now. When this is over maybe I’ll look back and laugh. Xenophobia. You’re afraid of women, you’re afraid to commit and that women will get too close and find the real you posing behind the mask.”

Zither music plays in the background, a solemn melody about lost love found shattered in the dust.

This is what a lit degree gets you- a shitty job and a four-pack-a day habit. It seems like coughing is the only thing I’ve accomplished since graduation. If I’d known what the damn things would do to me, I’d have chosen another vice! I’ve seen all my dreams and aspirations left in the dust. Just wanted a good, reliable job that kept me out of bankruptcy. Twenty years and half a lifetime’s worth of coughing, here I am, the maintenance supervisor for a rundown apartment complex.

Supervising this place means you’ve gotta be there to help tenants twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Each and every tenant has a complaint about their residence. For example, the lady in apartment 410 complains about a problem with the heater. This means going into the basement. I hate going down there. It’s dark and damp, with unidentifiable noises calling out from everywhere. Someone would think I’ve watched too many horror movies as a kid. Basements give me the creeps. I avoid going down into them at all costs. But, after fifty or so complaints and a threat to call the city, I decided to check it out.

With toolbox in hand, I take a deep breath and languidly venture down into uncharted territory. The flashlight provides me with little light so anything to be seen has to be close. Never did it occur to me that lightbulbs would make a good investment.

The storage area lays in disarray. All I can see is the chaotic pattern of boxes, varying in size and shape, along with tattered furniture covered in dustbags. Each item is carefully labeled with the tenant’s name and its memory laden contents. Faceted into each wall are three small windows covered with sheets. What little light does enter the room covers everything with an unnatural glow. Overhead, the labyrinth of pipework, copper and pvc, networks across the ceiling like cobwebs created by spiders.

I inhale a deep breath of musty, antiquidated air and begin to cough. You’d think the doctors and scientists would have come up with a cure by now. Ah, there it is, the criminal in question. I put the toolbox down and quickly give the patient a once over. Everything seems to be in working order. I don’t get it, what’s wrong?

CRASH

The noise hits me sending a flashback of memories through my mind. All the horror shows I’ve ever seen, from Jason to Michael, come flooding into my hyperactive imagination. Slowly I turn my body scanning the room. The urge to bolt from the basement screams from every inch of my body. Curiosity has gotten the better of me. I have to find the cause of the noise.

That’s when I see her. Tucked away behind storage boxes hiding in a niche in the wall, next to some boxes. Scared her out of hiding. Scared me. I have to struggle to keep from choking on the phlegm arising into my throat. What transpired here during these few precious moments are enough to last me through the rest of my life. Her lessons (if one can call them lessons- taught by a child so young) are etched into my memories never to be forgotten. A student trying to survive in the school of hardknocks.

I point the flashlight beam directly into her face.

“What in the fuck are you doing down here?” I exclaim. “This is no place for a child to be playing around. There’s a lot of dangerous things down here. You could get hurt.”

Nothing. Only two blank eyes staring back at my face.

“Where are your parents,” I continue, choking back another round of phlegm.

Looking away from my eyes, she whispers, “It’s not my fault. Daddy never wanted me and Mommy got beat up by a badman in funny clothes, and I don’t want anyone else to take care of me.”

My God, I say under my breath, and so young.

After a long and awkward pause, I venture, “What do you mean a badman?”

“The badman my Mommy works for. He beats her whenever she don’t give him enough money. I got scared and left. She never notices me anyway.”

I throw out a couple more questions, “What’s your name, kid? Where do you live?”

“My name’s Katryn, and I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Smart kid, I think and continue, “Well, you’re going to have to talk to me. Especially if you want my help. Now…”

“I don’t need your help,” she says defiantly. “This is my home now. I am never really alone. I’ve got Sam and my dreams, they keep me company. Nobody else wants me.”

As she spoke I caught a flicker of sadness pass in her eyes. She’s afraid of living like this, in the streets. She misses her parents, and wants to go home. Pride and fear keep her from coming out. She doesn’t trust me.

“Don’t you miss your Mommy?”

Pause.

“Nobody wants me,” she whispers again, struggling to hide the tears. “Once the police found me and tried to put me away but I stopped them. They won’t bother me or Sam anymore. This is my home.”

I shake my head at the mention of this being her home. This isn’t any place for a child to grow up. Frustrated, not knowing what to say next, I look at her. Cutest little thing. From the dim light, I can tell she is no older than twelve or thirteen. It’s hard to believe that one so young falls to the denizens of the street.

Dark brown eyes sadly peer out through shaggy, unkempt raven black hair which hangs in her face like heavy leaves clinging to a weeping willow. Her thin, frail frame shows the bones through her tattered and worn clothes. Clothes so old that the colors which once adorned them have almost been cried out. She doesn’t wear shoes.

How long has she been away from her home? I grow angry. How can our society allow this to happen. To anyone. This could’ve easily been me. I am torn between offering to help her get away from all this and leaving her there to fend for herself. Nobody wants their life to be like this. But, who wants to help them? No one wants to take on the responsibility for people like her. If the situation were reverse, would someone do the same for me?

She owns few possessions. A faded yellow blanket (supplied with holes eaten by rats) is her only protection from the harsh cold. The blanket is carefully laid in a heap on the concrete carpet. Her most treasured prize of all is a love-worn brown teddy bear. A bear without its button eyes is her sole companion. Altogether an image not too pleasing to the eye.

Remembering that I placed a sandwich in my toolbox, I take it out and offer it to her. Pausing at the gesture, not knowing whether to trust me or not, she slowly reaches out to take the plastic-wrapped sandwich. Our hands touch and in that brief instant our lives joined.

Then she says something that I will never forget, “I can see death on you. It stains your colors.”

Slightly taken back, and a little surprised I reply, “What did you say?”

“The death, your cough. You should be more careful of what you put inside you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was it a joke? Some childish vision, dreamt up by this homeless vagabond. It makes me uneasy. She makes me uneasy. She’s not natural, my gut screams to me. I need to get away.

“Uh… sure Katryn. Whatever you say. Hey look here’s twenty bucks. I know it’s not a whole lot, but it’s all I’ve got. Why don’t you go and get a decent meal, maybe go to a shelter. Living down here isn’t the greatest of places.”

She declined to accept the money. The desire to survive on her own conflicts with the need for help. Shrugging, I put the money back. Still wish she would have taken it. It’s the least I could do to help, without getting in too deep. I take one last look at her before heading back up into reality’s playground.

Later on, I go back downstairs, just to check up on her. Nothing. Maybe she found her way out. Maybe my talking with her helped her to escape the horrors of life in the gutter. She taught me a lot about life in that moment we spent together. Unspoken words can mean a lot to one who’s down and out. Companionship and comfort is denied and alien to them, and must be offered on our behalf. It will always be her eyes, silent and sad, filled with expression, constantly wandering- looking for escape, that I will always remember. She gave me something that no money could ever buy.

Then I realized I hadn’t coughed in several hours.

He strolled down the street. Most of the houses were one or two stories tall. It was a newer development, so most of the trees were still yearlings and not yet as high as the first story houses. Some of the houses looked the same with their uniform design and uniform colors. They were all made of wood. The monster sniffed the air. Then he turned and found what he was looking for.

It was the house next to the barking dog. It was a two-story home, stained brown with green trim. The lawn had no trees and allowed the monster to come and go without too much of a trace. Sniffing the air once more, the monster double-checked to make sure his prey was still unaware of his presence. Licking his chops, he then bent down and peered into every window of the house searching for his snack.

No one inside or outside sees the giant bending down peering into the home with a giant red eye. The first floor was empty. There was no one in the living room where the papasan chairs and soft were white, complete with matching black pillows. The kitchen, spotless and empty, was large enough to double as a dining area. In one window, the monster saw huge shelves filled with books. A fire was dying in the fireplace suggesting that someone inside was recently awake. But not now, all was quiet in the house.

The second level was just as quiet. Two girls sleeping in their bunk bed, dreaming perhaps of boys they wanted to date. The monster spots Jason Jenkins in his bed, the third window from the left. Still asleep, his body breathing rhythmically. Completely unaware of what is about to happen to him. His wife, luckily for her, is away visiting relatives.

Sizing up the roof, the monster traces its molding, looking for a weak spot. And he finds it near the room Jason sleeps in. Grabbing under the roof with his left hand he
gets a good hold onto the roof. Placing his other hand on the backside of the roof, straight across, he straddles the right side of the building. Taking a deep breath and summoning all of his strength, the monster peels back the roof like a tuna can.

This startles Jason. A green arm reaches in for him, stealing him away from his family like a child reaching in a box of corn flakes to remove the prize decoder ring. He is only given a few seconds to react. Not fully awake or comprehending the reality of his situation, a muffled meep is all that escapes his mouth.

His children awake now, find their father gone and the roof torn off the house. Miraculously they escaped unharmed.

The police arrive later, aroused by a call from a hysterical neighbor, finding the roof of the house laying in the street.

Scratching his head, the detective in charge whistles, ìNever seen anything like it in my entire life.î

Another cop nods in agreement and says, ìYep. Looks like a freak tornado ripped through and tore the roof clear off. Took it and Mr. Jenkins with it.î

A strong gust of wind comes in from the west, blowing the caps off a few of the policemenís heads. High up in the atmosphere, a satisfied monster walks away trying to figure out the way back home.

Sitting on top of the stove rests a water jug. It is made of chrome metal and isn’t used for watering flowers. It’s not a pot, so you can’t cook pasta in it. The spout at the end of its long arm has a whistle hole, so steam can escape. And it has a lid. Inside your mind a solution for your thirst brews.

First you need to make sure you have enough herbal packets. So you go over to the cabinet and remove a 6 inch long by 2 inch high box painted with natural scenes and text that says “Celestial Seasonings.” Already the aroma of flowers, fruits, and herbs wafts into your nose.

You’re mouth begins to water. Today must be your lucky day because you see one bag left in the box.

Then you reach up into the cupboard and remove your favorite mug. It is white and has a squiggly cat drawn on it. His hair is all raised up and above it the word Stress is written in italics. This mug was a high school graduation gift from your mother. Smiling, you drop the muslin bag of herbs into the mug.

Next you reach over and grab the pot, removing its lid, and place it under the sink faucet. You fill it till it’s almost full with water and replace the lid. Then you replace it back on the stove and turn the burner on high. As the pot heats up your mind begins to wander, thinking about the tasty solution and snuggling up besides the fireplace. The pot suddenly draws you back into reality with its whistling eruption. You remove the pot and turn the heat off. Then you pour the water into the mug.

The muslin bag drifts lazily on top of the water. Holding the bag by one corner you steep it so that all the aroma from the bad is transferred into the water. Five minutes later, after the mug has cooled down and the bad has steeped properly, you cautiously take the first sip. With just one sip your thirst has been quenched and you feel a little more relaxed.

Sheryl never believed in the lottery. She thought it was a waste of money. But he did it just the same, like clockwork, every Monday night.

“You know these lotteries are just a scam,”she told Jack Richardson while washing his balding gray hair. “The city of Dallas does it to make more money. No one every really wins them.”

“Well, dear, you never know when it just might happen,” Jack responded while pointing to a blue towel. Soap had gotten in his eye.

Tuesday night was the lottery drawing. The Richardsons always ate their dinner in front of the television on their television trays to see the news. During the 6:40 new break, Mary Decks appeared on their screen. She was the lottery announcer. Instantly recognizing the numbers she had called out, Jack stood up and began whooping.

“Betsy, you know what this means?” he said while looking over at his wife who was smiling and clasping her hands, “Now we can do all those things we’ve been talking about doing in the past few years.”

Jack walked into the kitchen to verify that he had the winning ticket. The lottery people only gave winners a three day grace period to prove that they held the winning numbers. Staring at the refrigerator, where he always pinned the ticket, he saw that the ticket was missing. Worried, they started searching for it Wednesday morning. Even his daughter and her family drove all the way from Carrollton to help them search for it. It was nowhere to be found.

“Dad,” his daughter said, “what about calling Sheryl? She knows this place better than any of us. Perhaps she moved it while cleaning up the house?”

Smiling, Jack replied, “Good idea,” as he rushed over to the telephone. Sheryl picked up just after the third ring.

“Hello,” she said in her sing-song voice.

“Sheryl, Jack Richardson calling.”

“Oh hiya Mr. Richardson. What can I do for you?”

“We have a problem here. Did you see Tuesday’s lottery ticket when you were here last,” he said after clearing his throat.

“Sure did,” Sheryl said. Jack relaxed a little. “I threw it away after cleaning up. Oh, I know it was the wrong thing to do, Mr. Richardson; but, I really hate seeing you waste your dollars on a pipe dream like the lottery.”

Jack couldn’t believe his ears, “You. Threw. It. Away,” was all he got out before collapsing to the floor.

His family gathered around him in disbelief. “Doesn’t she know it was the winning ticket,” his granddaughter Leslie said tears rolling down her cheeks.

Gazing at the little girl while cradling her dead father, Julie replied, “No sweetie. I guess she didn’t.’

“Hello are you still there,” echoed from the receiver.