My4Sense

First Place Win for my Micro Story: FREE RIDE FOR LIFE

2026-04-11T09:47:00.001-04:00

I'm thrilled to have won first place in Globe Soup's Micro Contest. Word limit: 100. Theme: A ticket.

FREE RIDE FOR LIFE

Three months’ hard-earned allowance bought my season ticket to Hersheypark’s fairgrounds.

“Awesome, gurl.” The Gravitron’s drop-dead operator high-fived me. “Never seen a greenhorn not toss their cookies when the floor retracts.” He flipped me a wooden disc, “For luck.”

I caught the token, inscribed, “Free Ride for Life.”

***

The floor dropped out from under me again.

Cocooned in a recliner, cool chemo trickling into my vein, I fondled the patinaed token, my souvenir of a serendipitous youth, and closed my eyes to merry-go-round memories—

Your deft fingers, tossing me a lifetime of free rides—now wizened and interlacing mine.

BEST EVER PREFERMENTED PUMPERNICKLE-RYE BREAD

2025-01-14T21:26:00.001-05:00

INGREDIENTS

Organic Rye Flour

Organic Spelt Flour

Organic Whole Wheat Flour [I use Einkorn Organic Whole Wheat Flour when on sale.]

Organic Bread Flour [I use Einkorn A.P. flour when on sale.]

Spring Water

Dry Yeast

Pink Himalayan salt

Molasses

Caraway seeds

DIRECTIONS

Day 1--Preferment

COMBINE:

1 and 2/3 cups Spring Water

1/4 teaspoon Dry Yeast

2 cups Rye Flour

1 cups Spelt Flour

STIR for 100 strokes until the consistency of thick batter.

FERMENT for 24 hours in a non-reactive bowl, tightly sealed with cling film.

Day 2 – Bread Dough

STIR 1 Cup Spring Water and 1/4 teaspoon Dry Yeast into the Preferment

ADD:

2-3 Tablespoons Caraway seeds (optional)

2-4 Tablespoons Molasses (optional)

1 Cup Rye Flour

1 Cup Spelt flour

1 Tablespoon plus 1/4 teaspoon Salt

1 Cup Whole Wheat Flour

Begin adding the white bread flour a little at a time.

When batter becomes too difficult to stir, TRANSFER the shaggy mass of dough to a smooth clean surface.

ADD White bread flour 1 cup at a time.

KNEAD dough until smooth and elastic (about 8 minutes.) Form into a tight ball.

PLACE dough in a large oiled Glass Bowl, and turn to coat the entire ball of dough with oil. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap.

REFRIGERATE overnight or up to two nights.

Day 3 or Day 4 – Bake Day!

PREHEAT OVEN to 450 degrees Fahrenheit.

REMOVE the risen dough from the refrigerator. Allow to come to room temperature (about 2 to 4 hours.)

PUNCH the dough down and knead briefly.

SHAPE into loaves. Cut the dough in half and shape into balls. Form balls into the shape you desire (round, oblong.)

PLACE the loaves onto a baking sheet, oiled and dusted with flour.

DUST loaves with flour and cover with parchment paper and then a clean kitchen towel.

PROOF the loaves for about 20 to 40 minutes. (To test whether the dough is properly proofed, gently press a finger into the surface of the dough for two seconds. If the indentation rises only slightly and slowly, the bread is proofed. An indentation that springs back immediately means your bread needs extra proof time. An indentation that doesn’t spring back at all may mean the dough is over-proofed.)

One minute before baking, steam the oven by pouring 1/2 Cup of water in the bottom of the oven, or in a pan in the bottom of the oven.

SLICE about 1/8-inch cuts into the top of the loaves just before placing them in the oven.

Carefully place the pan in the oven on the center rack. (Use gloves)

BAKE for 20-30 minutes. Baking time depends upon your oven. The convection oven will cook faster.

REMOVE bread from the oven and thump the bottom of a loaf to test for doneness. The loaf sounds hollow when done.

COOL on Wire Racks.

When completely cooled, store in Ziploc bags on the countertop.

I rarely follow recipes to the letter, which is bad news for bakers. I mix and match this recipe according to what flours I have and the time of year. Notice that one loaf is herniated? It has been happening occasionally. I think I don't let it rise enough just before going in the oven. It still tastes awesomely bittersweet, like life and me, only better.

JANUARY SKY

2025-01-13T21:10:00.004-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR

MT. ARBEL'S SHADOWS

2024-07-07T09:43:00.001-04:00

My micro story tied for third place in Globe Soup's June 2024 Micro Contest. Theme: Mountains. I won twenty-five pounds sterling! That's thirty American dollars. I'm on my way to writing riches.

MT. ARBEL’S SHADOWS

Ham and I passed fragrant jujube trees on our approach to Mt. Arbel. Its cliff cast ancient shadows of Hellenistic battles, and Christ’s Great Commission. I was Ham's disciple, and he’d commissioned me to climb.

Halfway up, we scrabbled into a cave, where Jews had hidden from marauding Romans.

Ham huffed, forcing me into a hands-and-knees position. My palms bled. I reared like a stallion. Ham’s head struck a stalactite. He stumbled out of the cave’s mouth and tumbled over the cliffside.

I scrambled from the cavern and summited Mt. Arbel—its shadows dissolving into the blue Sea of Galilee.

My Micro-story, "Cut Off," Published in Literary Ezine

2024-05-22T16:15:00.000-04:00

I am thrilled to announce my micro-story, "Cut Off," was published by the Literary Ezine, 101 Words.

I credit my writing group, Globe Soup, for honing my short-story writing skills.

Write on.

PLASTIC PUMPKINS

2023-11-06T20:02:00.000-05:00

Globe Soup awarded my story a finalist nod in their Micro Contest. 100-words or less.

Theme: Halloween.

PLASTIC PUMPKINS

The year Night of the Living Dead premiered, my younger brother and I were a couple of hobos. Baggy pants, tattered jackets, shabby fedoras, ivory cheeks charcoal-rubbed. In chilly dense fog, we were lone trick-or-treaters; our plastic pumpkins jingling with goodies.

A flickering red speck accented a silhouette approaching from the rural roadside. We gave each other a what's that look.

“Run.”

Brother shivered, no way.

“Let’s race. Ready. Set. Go.”

He bolted. I tripped. Candy spilled from the plastic pumpkins into a puddle. A smoldering cigarette butt flew into the mix, hissing. Whiskey breath, smacking me in the face.

Wind Trees

2023-05-29T16:30:00.001-04:00

"Own Worst Enemy" Earns Finalist Nod

2023-05-29T15:56:00.002-04:00

Entered Globe Soup's May Micro Contest, one-hundred words or less. The theme assigned was "enemies." My poem earned a finalist nod. Thanks, Globe Soup!

Own Worst Enemy

Friends loaded.

My head in the toilet

spewing Tequila Sunrises.

I drove thru a red light at a four-lane intersection

side-swiping a steel utility pole.

Car totaled.

Mum said, “You’re your own worst enemy.”

Snorting rush on the dancefloor

drivel dribbling from misused maws.

Beds reeking of filthy feet and excrement.

You’re your own worst enemy.

Powdery snowflakes mounded on the kitchen counter.

My shoulders pinned, torso and pelvis crushing sofa cushions.

“Did you think this was free?”

You’re your own worst enemy.

Recovery by the Sea’s double-doors clunked shut.

“This way to your room, Miss—”

“Own-Worst-Enemy.”

Haiku: Log Dissection

2023-03-14T10:07:00.030-04:00

Glacier dissects log.
Feathers burn, freeze, fossilize.
Third eye inspects me.

Amelia's Run

2023-03-10T21:14:00.003-05:00

Amelia dodged the potholes of a heartless Minnesota spring, coasting past his address as if piloting a hearse. Rounding the corner, her faded, black Ford Taurus sped up the hill overlooking his property. She parked her makeshift crow’s nest and positioned her binoculars. Bingo. OCD routine intact, Don sauntered to his classic Volvo and wiped a flee-sized smudge from its hood before driving off.

******The memory of him, serving her coffee in bed, stung like a territorial hornet. His words tumbled into her mind, “Booked our usual weekend tee-times at Fox Run. Have a good day, honey.” She’d cringed at the gentle click of the door latch; then bolted from bed to spend the day milking every second of freedom like a famished kitten.

******Amelia edged her Taurus into the carport. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The familiar sound of tires grinding gravel triggered latent qualms and a cold sweat seeped from her armpits. Yet the instinct to retrieve her life burned. Making her way to the front door she tripped over the old oak’s knobby tree-flare root, as she’d done a thousand times.

******Her shaky hand met with an unlocked door. New lover? Already? She breached the entryway. A blanched woman in her sixties, wearing a dress with the logo, “Maid-in-America,” was washing dishes in the horseshoe kitchenette.

******“Oh, sorry. I used to live here. Don said I could come grab my stuff. Only be a minute.”

******Cleaning lady’s body stiffened into an unnatural pose, eyes glazed, like a Macy’s mannequin.

******Amelia was scrounging around the house like a thief when Don returned. With the tone of a novice drill-sergeant Don said, “Amelia. Leave. Now.” He swung the door wide open.

******She breezed through a fog of whiskey-and-weed breath, escaping to her car.

******A maelstrom of pride and despair paralyzed forward movement. Blue and red strobes suddenly flashed across pewter clouds hugging the horizon. Squad cars yelped towards the neighborhood, like killer whales triangulating their prey.

******What was once a quaint hamlet was now a blustering maze; and she, a rat, tethered to confusion and denial.

******Amelia’s nerves vibrated with the velocity of harp strings plucked by the devil. Her mind juggled the restraining order she’d just broken, hunting rifle in her trunk, plate-glass wall of the county jail cell, nail-chewing cell-mate mumbling rap, the hazardous affair with Don—a tight-lipped programmer by day, and a Charlie Parker wannabe by night.

******Her thirty-something-self had vowed to be leery of Don-like-dudes with a Napoleon complex. And who, instead of cultivating actual friends, collected drinking buddies and golf partners, as she collected vinyl. Nonetheless, desperate daiquiris in a tavern of loneliness, bred a Don relationship—and it stewed for months in a sweet-and-sour broth of contempt.

******Buckets of dimpled notions spun in Amelia’s brain, like golf balls churning in a ball-washer on a holiday weekend—Nineteenth hole of inflated egos…Fairway to court…Hitting fat legal fees…Reputation in the rough…Self-esteem, sliced into the bunker…Eagle Run Golf Club…Wolf Run Golf Club…Fox Run…Prison Run…Amelia…Run.

First published on Free Flash Fiction: https://freeflashfiction.com/fiction/amelias-run/

Sandy Rises: A micro-story to honor my quadriplegic cousin

2023-02-08T20:45:00.008-05:00

Sandy Rises

Sandy drifted from the bed into my arms.

“I can walk by myself.”

I’d dreamt of this moment since I was ten—my quadriplegic cousin, who’d babysat me before her accident—ambulatory again. The day we visited; she was dangling upside down from a hospital bed. I’d surreptitiously pinched her arm…testing.

Sandy took steps like a stilt-walker. I hovered, ready to catch her, certain she would fall. She took my hand, “Let’s dance.”

We sang and waltzed to Sinatra.

I glanced in the mirror. My lined eyes framed by thin, gray hair. Sandy’s face smooth, her hair raven.

My micro fiction entry earned finalist in Globe Soup's contest. A 100-word story with a beginning, middle and end? Good luck with that.

Haiku: Drunken Winter

2023-01-21T20:53:00.012-05:00

Winter knows dying?
"She’s a screamer," he said twice.
Snowflakes dance, I swerve.

Haiku: Winter Time

2023-01-20T20:25:00.006-05:00

Brittle winter thrives
ensconced in an Irish pub
Arresting the clock.

’Twas

2022-08-03T21:27:00.000-04:00

’Twas

’twas not he who

swayed shallow stares

in a devil’s lair

’twas not he

who lassoed lax limbs

flailing in winds of prairies wild

’twas not he

who raised a ruckus

dust, smoke and cracked mirrors

’twas not he

shadowing the dives of early morn

’twas she

A TOAST—SLEEP WELL TONIGHT

2022-06-16T20:57:00.002-04:00

A TOAST—SLEEP WELL TONIGHT

Here’s to sleeping well tonight

Rebels of indiscretions

Slay your rights and quell transgressions

Here’s to sleeping well tonight

Knights of yesteryears

Rally forth and fell the phantoms of the night

Love’s cousins wild and mighty

Meet me where reality dissolves

I rest my head on a pillow of camaraderie

The plight of awakening, ever present

I flail, scorn, wail in fright, but

Here’s to sleeping well tonight

FARMER’S MARKET FUN

2022-03-14T21:33:00.002-04:00

I pulled up the hood of my jacket and exited the car in a torrential downpour. As soon as I made it to the covered area, the rain let up. My Saturdays are busy and regimented. So, I was in a hurry to gather farm-fresh goodies and get going. But this Saturday, the parking lot was flooded. A breeze created waves in an asphalt lake. A child was waltzing through the deep puddle, clad in tall rubber boots. Is there anything more captivating than a child being a child? Exploring his world?

A tinge of jealousy struck me, as I turned to go. I stopped short and told myself, “For once, I’m going to enjoy this moment, even if my shoes get soaked. Maybe I could snap a picture of a child enjoying the giant puddle?” When I was his age, I loved dancing in the rain and splashing in puddles. The fond memory is still there, appearing in dreams—where arthritic limbs whirl free again.

I pivoted back to the asphalt-pond and asked the boy if I could take his picture. He stood like a statue, until I raised my arms and grinned. He mirrored my gesture, and I captured his joy with my smartphone camera. In a heartbeat, the moment passed.

Then a toddler caught my attention. He nibbled a treat, contemplating his future in concentric circles of joy.

These two children made my day. Showing the parents, the pics of their puddle-loving children, I hope, made theirs as well.

I returned home with a warm memory—proud of myself for taking time to 'stop and smell the roses'—not to mention, a colorful bounty of tasty greens, tomatoes and honey.

ADVENT'S SHADOW——MY GLOBE SOUP CONTEST ENTRY

2022-02-04T15:51:00.004-05:00

Wow. I was long-listed in Globe Soup's 7 Day Challenge for the second time. It was the first time I'd written in my assigned genre (historical fiction), and I am thrilled from my eyebrows to my toenails! Thank you, Globe Soup peeps! Congrats to winner, Dr. Bethan Charles, for her edgy sci-fi piece. Loved it.

Here is the link for contest winners: Globe Soup 7 Day Contest Winners

Here is the piece I wrote in only seven days—

Assigned Genre: HISTORICAL FICTION

THEME: A CHRISTMAS LIKE NO OTHER

ADVENT’S SHADOW

The 4^th Century port city of Myra, Lycia, was a brutal place for Christians, but Bishop Nicholas was undaunted by threats and persecutions. The bishop was in his study, leaning over the open window, his gnarled knuckles locked onto the sill like vice grips. His curly gray beard whipped like a widow’s scarf in the high winds, refracting his thoughts to his beloved parents who had died too long ago. The view from the study window overlooked the cliff above the bay and the Mediterranean Sea’s briny mineral scent clung to his nostrils. The bishop stepped back and struggled to shut the window door. He sat in meditation, preparing to absorb the barrage of prayers that would soon invade his conscious and electrify every cell in his body until it became a phantom limb. His reputation of performing virtuous, miraculous acts was well-known and endangered souls occasionally prayed to him directly.

Myra’s craggy coastline coveted vessels, lying in wait to masticate their keels as if it were an orca stalking seals. Nature was pitiless and without malicious intent, when its razor-sharp teeth severed the throats of men tossed into its mouth. The metallic flavor of bleeding men would be regurgitated into the abyss without a care. As the tempestuous sea whooshed the fishing smack towards imminent doom, its crew of twelve prayed for salvation. Their gullets raw from hacking up salty sea spray, they prayed first to God and then to Bishop Nicholas. Many of the fishermen had seen a comrade’s head crushed by a falling mast. Or their shipmate’s neck strangled by a snapped halyard. The gurgling fear of slowly drowning, entangled in a fishing net, added piercing volume to the sailors’ pleas.

Bishop Nicholas’s chest throbbed in response to the sailors’ hellbent prayers. His lips parted with a long slow exhalation, as Eldar and his mates’ screams for help penetrated deep into his awareness.

“Bishop Nicholas, we know God performs miracles through you…save us, save us for our unborn children. God have mercy on our souls.”

A haze of light engulfed Nicholas when a candle spontaneously ignited from an adjacent wall sconce. Echoing Jesus’s supplication posture, Nicholas beseeched God’s intervention on behalf of the sailors in fatal peril—

Sea mist stung his eyes and his boots slid across the slick wooden boat deck. Nicholas lashed himself to the railing near Eldar, utilizing his woolen omophorion as a tether. Drenched, his beard glazed with saltwater, Nicholas prayed for salvation while helping to push the boat into deeper waters with sculling oars. His calming essence, directing the path of the storm back into the clouds of thunder, where he disappeared.

Beneath clearing skies, the boat drifted to shore and the weary, confused sailors disembarked on pairs of legs as wobbly as those of a newborn colt.

A crowd gathered as Eldar led his fellows into town. Eldar said, “Listen to our story. Our ship was headed for disaster. Your Bishop Nicholas, to whom we prayed, appeared on the deck of our boat. He shouted prayers and aided our navigation out of the treacherous bay. He quieted the storm. Was there not a tempest less than two hours past? Your bishop is a wonderworker. I shall take a collection for the church and deliver it at first light.”

The following morning, Eldar entered the church. Standing before him in the church nave, was Bishop Nicholas. Eldar dropped to his knees, kissed the feet of his savior and said, “We would have been ripped to shreds without your presence aboard.”

Nicholas assured Eldar that he’d been in his study the day of the storm; yet, had heard the prayers of Eldar and his comrades. “It was God who manifested my bilocation to your ship, through the power of our prayers to Him. It was not my doing.” Indeed, his omophorion was clean and dry. The bishop appeared rested and peaceful.

Eldar said, “Bishop Nicholas, could it be, I wonder…if Christ Jesus then, is God who bilocated? Is that why some say Christ Jesus and God are one and the same? And Jesus is not merely God’s adopted son?”

Nicholas chuckled. He patted Eldar’s shoulder, bidding him to rise. “Eldar. I was imprisoned for punching that heretic Arius in the face for proposing Jesus was a separate being from God. You are very clever. I’ll consider your approach at the next Council of Nicea.”

“I am in your service, Bishop Nicholas. I renounce all but the one true God.”

Eldar spent the rest of his days fishing and serving the bishop and his church, until Nicholas insisted, he marry. The widower next door had a daughter. Vesile had been curious about Eldar, watching him go to and from the ocean with his stinky loads, always humming or praying aloud to God, as if they were brothers.

“Why do you pray so?” Vesile said as they walked a portion of the path together.

The sun blinded Eldar and he squinted. When he faced Vesile, the Son of God was in her cobalt eyes. He lost his voice in her gaze. And his hands in a tangled mass of shimmering black.

Eldar’s and Vesile’s tête-à-têtes became more frequent and intense. After Nicholas had secretly given Vesile’s father the money for her dowery, they married.

With a pure gaze, Bishop Nicholas lifted his voice to his third-ever Christmas congregation, “The Roman Emperor Constantine chose December 25, 336, to celebrate Christ’s birth for the first time. Christmas. Pagans had celebrated the ‘Unconquered Sun’ on December 25^th. In choosing the same date, the Church of Rome has successfully supplanted the pagan celebration. Let us give thanks, and pray to our Lord, who is with us, always.”

It was his last Christmas. Bishop Nicholas died December 6, 343.

The breezy December air flowing from the Mediterranean scoured Vesile’s disturbing thoughts as she awoke from yet another wraithlike dream. She’d grown up in a turbulent town by the sea. Poor. Hard working. Mother dead. Sisters to care for. Religious rules more daunting than life itself. But Christmas, despite her confinement and the reign of terror enveloping the world—she hoped would be a Revelation.

The labor pains were relentless. After thirty hours of labor, Vesile slipped in and out of consciousness. She was a wet rag that had been used to cleanse scores of filthy souls. Strange mutterings sliced through her painful moaning.

Vesile’s water broke on December 25^th; a full moon directly overhead, among a halo of stars, with planet Neptune hiding in the shadows. Nicholas, who had died months earlier, was aiding the passage of her baby through the birth canal, sliding the fetus out in a gush of icky burgundy. Before she succumbed to exhaustion, Nicholas draped the infant over her belly and said, “You and the Virgin Mary are now one.”

The sun was eclipsed for three hours as Vesile slept. The baby, his skin still covered in the creamy vernix caseosa, was nestled between Vesile and Eldar on the floor mattress and half-swaddled in a purple blanket. They named him Mustafa—One chosen by God. They would call him, “Tafa.”

Vesile awoke with Tafa suckling at her breast. Illumination from the world’s first Advent candle cast a shadow of mother and child upon the wall. Vesile’s tears flowed over the drying vernix pasted to Tafa’s skin, and trickled over his shoulders and down his back—a map to heaven? Or hell? She couldn’t tell. Her imagination reeled and pitched in concert with the churning curse of her heart—and then, she knew.

THE END

GRAY DAY

2021-11-26T15:54:00.003-05:00

I’m thrilled to shout from the treetops my story, “Gray Day,” made the Long List in Globe Soup’s 7 Day Writing Challenge Contest. Globe Soup is a highly respected writing community that offers both free and paid writing contests and challenges that are judged anonymously. I’ve rarely entered my work in contests. This year, as I fruitlessly scoured the planet for my one true friend, aka a literary agent for my debut novel, ECHO THE BIRD’S CALL, I decided to enter a smattering of contests for the hell of it. I budgeted a few bucks and entered my work in legitimate publisher-sponsored contests. The fees started at around $3.00. A pittance you say? Well, a fee for every submission adds up mighty fast, pal. I splurged on a few ten and fifteen-dollar entry fees as well. Turned out, entering my work in contests was just another form of rejection—only now I was paying for the “privilege.”

Throughout my months and months of researching the traditional path to publication, I discovered Readsy.com. Their YouTube channel is stellar. The Readsy.com blog curates legitimate contests, which is how I discovered GlobeSoup.net and their free 7 Day Challenge with a 500-pounds-sterling prize for the winner. That’s $667.16 American-dollars, according to today’s exchange rate. Globe Soup’s Facebook group, of which I am a card-carrying member, offers critiques and other goodies. I applied to their 7 Day Writing Challenge #2 and lost in the Crime Genre I was assigned. Undeterred, I entered their 7 Day Writing Challenge #3 and was assigned to the Romance Genre. Today I discovered I was long-listed, which put me in the top 11% of entrants. (I did the math. They had nearly 1000 entries, of which 110 entrants were either finalists, honorable mentions or long-listed.) The long list honor is akin to fourth place, which I consider a huge success, especially since I actually wrote the 944-word story in seven days. Validation at last. I’m a writer!

I know you’re dying to read my story, so here it is. Enjoy!

GRAY DAY

The man of my dreams was sharing a suite with me and my best friend, Kat. The seminar rooms were overbooked, and his room wouldn’t be ready for another night. Two nights with Anthony, the Adonis, snoring in the same room as me, was more than I could bear. He was in his bunk, fiddling with his phone under the covers. Kat was already asleep.

I plopped onto his bed. “What’re you up to, roomie?” I coyly fidgeted with the covers, hoping it wasn’t porn; because, the last dude I fell for, couldn’t escape that addiction, which had crippled our relationship.

He handed me the phone and showed me what he’d been researching. Pilot stuff. He was a pilot? “What kind of phone is this?” I asked.

“iPhone 9.”

“It’s too big. I want one I can operate one-handed.” I stretched out at the bottom of his bed and we lay talking until we drifted into sleep. But how could I sleep in such close proximity to a man whose presence kept me wide awake with anticipation? I felt his breathing, his movements, his arm reaching towards me, his hand holding mine beneath the covers as he slept. I couldn’t quiet the snare drum in my chest for what seemed like hours.

The next morning, the Nevada sun was a desert yellow in a cloudless blue sky, and we all headed to the sessions we’d signed up for. Kat and Anthony were taking the same session and locked arms like mates. Over their shoulders they chimed, “Bye Anna.”

I nearly collapsed from what felt like a blow to my solar plexus. My feet carried me into the tide of people flowing into a large, shell-shaped, multi-tiered seminar room. I passed a frumpy man, with a week’s worth of whiskers on his face and curly, gray hair. I nearly snubbed him, after the casual disregard I’d just received from Kat and Anthony. I did a double-take. This man’s face was kind and handsome, despite his resigned expression of invisibility. I turned to him. He immediately sensed my heartache and offered me his arm. His touch was personal, gentle, giving, and invited an immediate trust. I collapsed into his body like a broken child. He led me down to the front of the room and found us seats. I was on the verge of crying, when he folded me into his torso, hugging me like a father.

“Kiss me,” I said to Gray. He kissed me ever so lightly.

The room’s lights extinguished for the presentation, and we were left in momentary darkness. “No. kiss me. Like a lover. A real kiss.” And he did. And it was wonderful. Soothing. Made me feel sexy and appreciated like a goddess. I’d never get enough of a kiss like that. A surreal trust like that was nothing but a fairytale. Right?

The next time I ran into Anthony, he was standing like an army general in front of me, chuckling. We joked around and before we parted, he’d said, “Someday, I’m going to marry you, Anna.” His statement confused me, thrilled me to the core. A man, such as he, was clearly accustomed to getting anything he wanted. Movie star handsome. Smart. Confident. Sexy. What the hell did he want with me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gray, with dashed hope plastered over his face. His posture, dejected. My gut wrenched for Gray, yet also yearned for Anthony in a way I’d been dreaming of my whole life.

A few days later, I asked Anthony, “What do you make of Gray?” We were sitting at the top of a stairway leading to the beach. No answer. He gazed at me and then the ocean.

So, I asked a different question, “What should I make of you?”

Without a word, he tucked me into his body like a loyal partner does, until my muscles relaxed and my breathing slowed.

Gray was perched on a knoll down the beach, staring into the ocean. It made my heart ache, to see him so alone. I longed to wash away his sadness, like the woman in the original Star Trek episode, “The Empath.” I stood. “Excuse me, Anthony. I’ll meet you at the café in an hour.” I walked down the steps and over to Gray. Anthony was watching us at first, then turned to go.

“Gray? I—’

“My dear, Anna. You look so much like my beloved wife, Anthony’s mother, who died of cancer when he was only seven. That is why I kissed you…reluctantly…yet, wantonly. Do you understand? I’m happy for you and Anthony. You are marrying him? Yes?”

“But why? Why haven’t either of you said anything until now? I’m done.” I stormed off.

Driving to the airport in a brief and sudden downpour, Kat said, “You know, Anna, I think Anthony loves you, but…he’s got a lotta growing up to do, and I’m not talking age.”

Kat and I dissected each other’s encounters with Anthony all the way to the airport. Kat admitted her attraction to him. But instead of being jealous, I was relieved. Freed, even. How could that be?

We returned the rental car and proceeded to the departure gate.

Kat placed her hand on my shoulder, “Anna? You may want to change your flight.”

I looked in the direction in which she was gesturing. An infinite compassion coursed through me as if I’d been shot with an EpiPen. I gave Kat a warm, confident hug and strode over to my new life—that would soon include a loving man who would never break my heart, ever again.

BOOK REVIEW: MY NOISY CANCER COMEBACK: RUNNING AT THE MOUTH WHILE RUNNING FOR MY LIFE—by Fitz Koehler

2020-10-30T21:46:00.012-04:00

Book titles are important, as writers know. My writer’s brain was curious about the story behind the “noisy” in Fitz Koehler’s, My Noisy Cancer Comeback: Running at the Mouth While Running For My Life. Her cancer comeback was noisy because she dealt with her ordeal the same as she dealt with life. Fitz has a zest for life, passion for her race-announcing career, and enthusiasm for her tribe of racers. Race announcing? Is that a job? Indeed. When Fitz announces during a race event with her colleague, Rudy Novotny, their moniker is Team Noisy.

Fitz Koehler’s memoir of breast cancer hell chronicles her heroic stomp through nauseating chemotherapy, surgery and potentially skin-burning radiation. Fitz tells her harrowing tale with levity. I was belly-laughing by page forty-three. My husband appeared from his mancave, “You sound like you’re having fun out here. What’s so funny?”

“It’s Fitz’s cancer memoir.” I proceeded to read aloud the cranky MRI lady excerpt that simultaneously had me in stitches while being flabbergasted that Fitz was so poorly treated during her initial MRI appointment.

The train wreck that cancer inflicts on its prey packs an emotional wallop of terror. Crying tears of sadness, pain, and frustration are inevitable. Sobbing is the human body’s release valve. The powerhouse Fitz, who was in fantastic health when diagnosed, was not immune from cancer’s onslaught and she wailed.

Patients diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses experience the grief stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Denial is an interesting coping mechanism. Fitz touches on how weird denial feels amid a cancer battle. One day she’s on stage entertaining and informing thousands of runners and spectators. The next day, she’s pumped full of poison, flirting with despair and trying to eat with deadened tastebuds that caused all food to taste like black dirt. The ambitious disparities she put herself through, in the name of sanity during an insane time, impressed the hell out of me.

Despite the emotional turmoil and energy drain, Fitz stuck to her plan. She launched into assault mode—bobbing, weaving, and blocking cancer’s tricky sweeps with her plucky attitude while maintaining her demanding schedule as wife, mother, and race announcer. She did not miss even one of her twenty-two race events across the country and credits those adrenaline-inducing events with boosting her resolve to move forward. Her approach was akin to Norman Cousins, who developed a laugh-therapy routine to heal his illness. Cousins, like Fitz, was also an incurable optimist.

However, Fitz’s optimistic demeanor also took many hits:

· She had three mini-goals during treatment[i] and none were attained. For example, she ended up in the hospital for a transfusion of ‘grody bags of stranger blood.’

· As most women can attest, it’s all about the hair. Fitz loved her long blond locks. Although she’d come to terms with her baldness, Fitz burst into tears when a guy said to her, “Hey buddy…Oh! You’re a ma’am! Sorry!” I chuckled at Fitz’s expense, having been addressed as “sir” throughout my entire life—hey dudes—I’m a girl![ii]

· Fitz’s remarks regarding what not to say to cancer patients were violated when a few folks greeted her with phrases like, “My mom died of breast cancer last year.” (I wanted to go back in time and slap the crap out of those clueless morons for Fitz, having endured similar stupidities.)

Fitz Koehler is the embodiment of how exercise, proper nutrition, gutsy attitude, and nurturing environments are crucial factors to surviving life-threatening bouts, such as breast cancer. She challenges her readers to prioritize their health and fitness. She stresses the immense value of facing trauma as a champion, rather than a victim.

Had she not been in top shape before her ravaging cancer treatments, Fitz posits she’d have been homebound instead of crisscrossing the country doing the job she loves amidst the people she inspires and admires. Love was a main theme in her book. It was clear to me that her love and connection with people and life propelled her to success. Beating breast cancer may be her greatest personal victory—and we are grateful she’s noisily back.

[i] Avoid hospitalization, keep eyelashes, and maintain muscles.

[ii] I burst into commiserative laughter; because I too, a card-carrying female, have been called sir. Last month, at the fishmonger where I am a loyal customer, the guy said, “Sir…oh, sorry, ma’am. What can I get you?” That was the second time in one day I was addressed as “sir.” I had styled my hair and was wearing my new push-up bra.

HOMEMADE PORK LIVERWURST RECIPE

2020-10-15T20:53:00.011-04:00

I had a nostalgic hankering for liverwurst that would not leave me alone—me and dad, eating liverwurst sandwiches on rye bread with ketchup and a dill pickle. Sweet, creamy, pinkish, porky, salty deliciousness. I gotta have it—

I couldn’t find liverwurst, a.k.a. Braunschweiger, in most Florida grocery stores. When I finally did find it, I read the ingredients. Very unappetizing. I wanted an organic product as well. Not in this jurisdiction. Why not make it myself? How hard can it be? It’s simply liver and whatever the “wurst” part was, right?

Off to the Internet to learn about liverwursting.

Making liverwurst from scratch is a more complicated process than I imagined. No pork fat to be found. Most recipes call for grinding a fresh pork butt. Why not use ground pork? It has lots of fat globules and it’s already minced. Using ground pork also saves me from buying a meat grinder and grinding pork butt.

More decisions must be made: use raw ingredients or cooked? I opted for the raw method, thinking it was more authentic and German. It’s not.

Glove up and let the experiment begin.

As you may have guessed, liquefied liver is gnarly.

One jar burst during cooking.

Food safety guidelines insist pork be cooked to between 145-160 degrees Fahrenheit, depending on the cut of meat. Since I don't have a meat thermometer, I was afraid to eat the end product for two days. (See note.)

I was determined to take one for the team. I got my affairs in order and gave myself a pep talk: "Eckkehard the German Butcher tasted his raw pork and he's still here. I eat raw fish in sushi....I'm going in."

I gingerly tasted the liverwurst. It turned out better than I’d expected. I had made sublime liverwurst to die for. I slathered it on my homemade sourdough caraway rye bread with a dollop of tomato paste, instead of ketchup, and was transported to my childhood—dad sitting across the table from me and chowing down on a liverwurst sandwich and dill pickles, amidst giggles and burps.

Here is the recipe I concocted, after hours of research, including the botches and fixes—

HOMEMADE PORK LIVERWURST RECIPE

Ingredients

1 pound organic local pork liver

1 pound organic local ground pork

1 large yellow onion, finely diced

3 tablespoons homemade Kefir milk

3 tablespoons Japanese Sake

1 teaspoon fine white pepper

1 teaspoon pink Himalayan salt

½ teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons paprika

1 teaspoon cumin

1 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 teaspoon allspice

Directions

Put ground pork in food processor and puree. Cut pork liver into pieces (it’s very tough, so use a sharp knife and discard any sinewy bits.) Add liver to food processor. Add the spices, milk, sake and onion. Puree into a smooth paste.

[The fun part: here is where you would pump the mixture into a casing. I didn’t have casings. I used jars instead of casing. I also used parchment paper as a “pseudo-casing,” in case the jars exploded. (One did.)]

[MY SEMI-BOTCHED PROCESS] Add two-thirds of the meat mixture to one-quart canning jars. Place the rest of the meat mixture on parchment paper in a small casserole dish and seal the mixture in the parchment as best you can.

Bring a large pot of water to a simmer. Place a rack in the bottom of the pot and put the jars on the rack.

For the casserole dish, cover with foil and place in a shallow baking pan filled with water halfway up the side of the dish. Bake in a preheated 175-degree Fahrenheit oven.

[MY FIX] When one jar burst, I removed the unbroken jar and put it into the baking pan along with the casserole dish.

Bake for 2 and ½ hours.

Cool immediately. I placed the surviving jar and casserole in the fridge and surrounded them with ice packs.

Cool overnight before serving.

NOTE: I only ate the liverwurst that was cooked in the parchment casserole dish. I suggest this is the better method over the jars simmering in a pot. Safer and more appetizing too. The stuff in the jar separated and still looked gnarly, although it smelled fine.

I used the jarred liverwurst in a meatball recipe. I added the entire jar contents to one pound of organic, lean ground beef and made my usual meatball recipe, sans the salt and onions, which were already in the liverwurst. The meatballs were very light and I added them to a tomato sauce that became a ragu. The remaining meatballs I stored separately for sandwiches. Awesomeness!

BOOK REVIEW: BORROWING LIFE—How Scientists, Surgeons, and a War Hero Made the First Successful Organ Transplant a Reality

2020-08-06T13:53:00.004-04:00

THE BRILLIANCE EMANATING FROM THE PAGES OF BORROWING LIFE NECESSITATED MY PROTECTIVE READING ATTIRE

I’ll never be or pee the same again after reading Shelley Fraser Mickle’s book tracking the first successful organ transplant—a kidney. That famous kidney flooded the surgical room floor with the transplant patient’s pee before Dr. Joseph Murray had even finished rerouting it to the bladder.

Not interested in scientific minutia you say? Me neither, until BORROWING LIFE—How Scientists, Surgeons, and a War Hero Made the First Successful Organ Transplant a Reality. Shelley treats the medical science share of the equation like pieces of the humanity puzzle, exquisitely snapping those pieces into place for us—and presto—medical science springs to life.

The people in Borrowing Life are akin to characters in a novel. Brought together by individual scientific and medical pursuits and motivated by their obsessive curiosity and exceptional intellect, men and women crossed borders and boundaries to cure, hope and love. Rather than fame or money, their ambitions were driven by their empathy for the awful human condition, whether caused by war, accident or disease.

You could write books on every person in Borrowing Life, which spans decades. In the face of overwhelming failures, the doctors, nurses, patients and scientists bonded to create the magic of saving human lives. I want to know more about Joe, Franny, Peter, Charles, Jean, Miriam and Bobby and meet these exceptional folks for lunch. Shelley also highlights the relationship factor too, introducing us to the wives supporting those on the front lines while rearing their families.

Flames consuming his comrades inside their engulfed plane, how does WWII pilot Charles Woods escape a burning cockpit, sit nearby and converse with onlookers after his face and hands had just been burned off? How does a burn victim, on the precipice of death, survive dozens of cadaver skin grafts not expected to work, but they did work? Those initial successes ignited the imaginations of treating physicians Francis Moore and Joseph Murray and they were hellbent on transplanting internal organs without rejection, despite mountains of evidence to the contrary. Manipulating the immune system was the key, and British scientist Peter Medawar experimented on cows, mice, chickens and dogs to fashion the key.

Turning the last pages of Borrowing Life my eyes popped and my jaw dropped to the floor like a cartoon character when I learned the fates of those involved.

Borrowing Life is a diary of urgency told via the vanguards who sacrificed their time, talent and energy to both alleviate the inevitable pain associated with physical and emotional mutilations, and to extend the lives of individuals suffering the effects of late stage kidney disease. Kidney transplant surgery laid the foundation for all other organ transplants we now take for granted.

I’ve read Shelley’s heartwarming memoir, The Polio Hole, as well as her thrilling account of a triple crown winner in American Pharoah, including why the horse’s name was misspelled. I was enchanted by her award-winning novels, Queen of October and Replacing Dad. Shelly has mastered the brilliance of elegant simplicity in both fiction and non-fiction.

Considering America’s current landscape of both racial/social and viral pandemics, we are living our “time of war.” Borrowing Life is a startling reminder that every generation confronts horrors with either grace and dignity or anger and fear. It’s a choice of morality and courage.

Thank you, Shelley Fraser Mickle, for showing us the power of dedicated, relentless team work and individual integrity through a fascinating real-life heroes’ tale of the miraculous.

Birth Day

2020-06-08T16:37:00.004-04:00

I was born yesterday, June 4, 2020, yawning close to midnight. I’m nine pounds, two ounces, twenty-two inches. People latch on to details, especially when they’re beneficial. Swaddled in animal pattern jammies, I shut my eyes.

Mum writhed all day, amid songs of joy and sighs of trepidation, before introducing me into a viral world defined by Covid-19. I’m compelled to solve the human-condition equation with mathematic precision like Isaac Newton.

I have a fleeting desire to return to the safety and warmth of the womb, but I’m certain it’s on lockdown. No wonder I took so long to pop into existence with all the craziness out here. Sorry, mom. I have a feeling I’ll be saying that a lot—sorry, mom.

I digress.

Anyway, I’m super cute. Exhausted like my mom, I sleep peacefully for what seems like an eternity after my dad’s honied breath and cooing lull me into a coma and I relax into his fuzzy beard and long dark hair. I hope he and mom slept too. They need it more than me, probably.

All in all, it was a superb first day joining life in the Badger State, a beautiful day. Oh, I have a name. It’s William. The name has family significance, and I’m fine with the moniker, as long as no one calls me Billy-boy or Wee-Willy. Bill would be fine, or Will. William I am. I think there’s a rapper named "will. i. am.” He likes black-eyed peas…no…his band is a pop group called “Black Eyed Peas.” I’m getting confused. How do I know these things? I’m still shedding the heavens, or whatever this ethereal stuff sticking to my psyche and my skin is that feels utterly sublime. I hope life feels this good. Little-by-little earthly existence sucks me into its fold, and I’m losing my grip on universality.

What is “feeling” anyway? I guess I’ll need a vocabulary and philosophy while I’m visiting. How hard can that be? Time will tell. Oh no. I’m already spewing clichés. Damn. Note to small self—be original.

Although my parents are smiling, my gut tells me they have depths of sadness behind their lovely faces. Maybe I can fix that with my magic? I want them to be happy. They’re gazing at me with such intensity. Their flowing voices, like rolling rivers, comfort me. They’re already great parents. Hi mom. Hi dad. I love you both very much. On the radio, Louis Armstrong is singing “What a Wonderful World.” I’m swaying in mum's arms—dad embracing us in a dance.

HAWK WALK

2020-03-28T21:10:00.000-04:00

On my walk this noon, I was startled by a hawk being dive-bombed by eight black crows. Despite the barrage, Hawk refused to move from her spot at the base of an old oak tree, her squirrel-catch in her talons.

I couldn’t stand it. I was already pissed off I hadn’t swum in days, and was in a foul, depressed mood. (Only fellow water-babies would understand how a beached dolphin like me feels.)

I marched over to the tree, shouted at the crows and waved them off. At first, they ignored me; but then moved to the branches, crowing loudly. Only fifteen feet from Hawk, I gave her a wave, like an old friend, before returning to the paved path to begin my walk. But the crows immediately dive-bombed again, so I returned, waved them off, and stood my post. Hawk stared at me like I was either a lunatic or her dinner guest. I wondered why Hawk refused to fly away—it’s the closest I’ve ever been to a wild hawk. Eventually, the crows flew to trees further and further away, until they disappeared over hundred-foot-high tree tops.

I distanced myself about fifty yards from Hawk, hoping she’d eat that damned squirrel and fly off with her catch. She ripped into her prey. I took it as a good sign, and walked the perimeter trail. When I circled back, Hawk was nibbling her prey.

“Can’t you eat any faster?” I asked her. “Of course not.” I answered for her. The coast appeared clear, so I exited the park and headed for home, telling a neighbor about Hawk. In a moment, we heard the crows, and I trucked back to the tree where Hawk was again being dive-bombed by the crows. I waved them off more easily this time, but they only flew to a tree a few feet away, and stopped crowing. Silence. Those crafty crows were waiting me out.

I was Hawk’s sentry, while she ate lunch. I was thirsty and hungry too, missing breakfast, but T.S. for a sentry. To pass the time, I performed squats and lunges. Mountain poise. Paraded back and forth on the path. Okay, Hawk. Hurry it up. I gotta go.

Finally, over an hour into my attempt at nurturing nature, Hawk, squirrel remains in her talons, flew into a tree on the forest edge. Naturally, I had to go say goodbye to her, especially since she flew in the direction of the crows. There she was, perched on a branch above the paved walking path. “You ate that whole squirrel already?” I asked her.

Hawk hopped one foot to the left, picked up the squirrel in her talons, and offered it to me, nearly dropping it onto the ground.

“No thank you, Hawk. You finish it.”

Hawk ripped into the squirrel.

“I didn’t mean to rush you.” I backed away. “Bye Hawk.”

Back in my nest, I made a turkey sandwich and ripped into it—my teeth like a hawk’s beak—the turkey tasting nothing like raw squirrel. But how would I know?

HUMOR WRITING WITH SHELLEY FRASER MICKLE

2020-02-14T16:57:00.002-05:00

SHELLEY FRASER MICKLE (wearing the hat)
PHOTO by Rob Weitzel

Award-winning writer and former NPR commentator, Shelley Fraser Mickle, was hosting a Humor Writing Workshop at the library for free, down the street from me, after lunch, once a week; and all my excuses for saying no to such an event—wrong place, cost, wrong time of day, growling stomach—had been removed by the administrator.

Even though I was excited to finally meet a mentor, I arrived unprepared for the work-portion of the workshop. Shelley assigned homework.

To get our creative funny-bone juices flowing, Shelley suggested six topics for us to pick from:

1) Any experience you’ve had in the past week.

2) Teach something.

3) Most embarrassing moment.

4) Why I’m sure I’m going to hell.

5) An interview is taking an unexpected turn. (Shelley’s favorite.)

6) Why I’m an unhappy individual.

Initially, I toyed with writing about the most embarrassing moment. However, that would involve blood and other messy excretions. Possibly inappropriate in mixed company unless everyone was a gynecologist or gastroenterologist. Thus, I chose an experience from the past week: our first session in Shelley’s humor workshop, which was also a bit embarrassing. Maybe I’ll get extra credit? I completed my homework and handed it in.

My essay gave Shelley a chuckle. Was I on my way to becoming the next Erma Bombeck or Tina Fey? You be the judge—

THE AVIAN FLU

I waltzed into the library’s meeting room, my shiny gray hair bouncing along with my innards. I was a lost grade-schooler on the first day of class. Luckily, I recognized the librarian, Sammy, who was setting up chairs and tables in a seminar style.

There were four tables and eight chairs. “Oh, we need tables? I thought there would only be chairs. Doesn’t seem to be adequate seating.” My face flushed.

Sammy eyed me over the rim of her glasses. “Well, it is a writing class, so I’m setting up for note-taking. I’ll bring out more seating as needed.”

“Note-taking? I didn’t consider taking notes. I thought it was a speech. I’ll just listen.” I hope this doesn’t mean Shelley’s going to assign homework. Can she do that?

Sammy gave a pathetic shrug.

My sailing-off-course brain came about. “Sammy? May I have a chair off to the side? I can’t sit for long periods. I’d like to be able to stand at some point.”

Sammy dutifully complied and placed a chair in the back corner. Was I the disruptive pupil? I half expected Sammy to pop a pointed dunce cap on my head. What kind of writer would attend a writing class without paper and pen? Sammy must’ve thought me an idiot.

I side-winded from the room in search of note paper. At least I carried a pen. The librarian offered me scratch paper and pointed to a half-letter-sized notepad.

“May I take the pad?” I asked.

“Just tear off a couple of sheets.”

“Of course.” I tore off three sheets. “May I bring a book from the shelves to the meeting room?”

“Yes.”

I scurried to the bookshelves for an oversized book to use as a lap-desk in my corner chair in the meeting room, with perfectly good tables. Why did I have to be different? After handling several large, heavy books about comics, I chose a book on maps. Perfect. A neutral-subject book I could skim while awaiting class to begin.

When I returned to the room, Sammy had added tables—the first four were now occupied by people with pens and notebooks. Serious people who had done this before. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d attended a seminar, but it had been ages. Well, at least I had three sheets of half-letter-sized paper. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need more—and suddenly, I was back in grade school, nudging my classmate, “Hey, Becky, can I borrow a piece of paper?”

Shelley’s charismatic command of the class had us all paying attention and laughing with her as she regaled us with stories.

By the end of class, I’d used all three sheets of paper. Instead of filing my notes in a folder to be never read again, I typed them on my new iMac and penned a first draft of my assignment. Had I graduated from grade school and morphed into my straight-A student sister who was East High’s class valedictorian?

Perhaps not; however, I didn’t want to be the boy in Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird, who waited until the last minute to do his homework and freaked out. For once in my lackadaisical student career, I wanted top marks. I wanted to impress my mentor.

The following week, Shelley began class with, “I’d like you to read your story to the class—”

But that’s public speaking! I can’t read in front of people! I was freaking out just like the kid in Bird by Bird—my birdbrain chirping the Murder scene from Hitchcock’s Psycho—Jhree Jhree, Jhree, Jhree—

Class dismissed, due to the avian flu.

THE END

P.S. This post, and my Avian Flu story, were edited March 2026.

CRAZY KIND

2019-11-10T09:01:00.015-05:00

Time for an original poem. (You're welcome.)

CRAZY KIND

Crazy flew the coop again this month.

Uncaged, she’s well-armed with shenanigans.

And me, with my pea-shooter.

Controlling her is preposterous.

I'd sooner surf a cyclone.

For years, I’ve allowed Crazy to haunt me, unreservedly,

almost feeling sorry for her.

She’s visited countless others

but they shun her, so she sticks with me.

I’m her only friend.

She’s in an awful rage this time.

Her eyes are wild, unfocused. Did someone drug her?

I’m helpless and lonely—why? Do I miss her pizzazz?

I don’t know. I can’t think, because today she’s driving me crazy.

When I cold-shoulder Crazy, she greedily devours

first me

and then my family.

Although we run and hide from Crazy

she finds us.

She’s everywhere—like the Holy Ghost.

I try and be nice to her

but nice doesn’t cut it with Crazy.

She throws her head back

like a bucking stallion

laughing in my face.

The laughing in my face

unhinges me.

It’s my cue

to catch her off guard.

Although, she’s gargantuan, sneaky

and gets meaner if she whiffs me stalking her.

I must beguile.

I could never harm her.

She doesn’t hurt me intentionally.

Like the snake

in The Farmer and the Viper fable,

it’s her nature to poison and consume.

It takes all my paltry human powers

to cajole Crazy.

She’s leery. A wounded stray.

I offer her treats.

Insatiable, she snatches my pleasures

retreats to a corner

noshes on my goodies

grunts in contentment.

Her claws of madness, retracted.

I entice her like a lover

And prepare a soft warm bunk

in the security of a cubby.

Crazy cocks her head at me.

“It’s alright, Crazy. You’re safe here. I’ll patrol the perimeter. You rest.”

Crazy loops me

but doesn’t scratch or bite this time.

She crouches on the bunk, burrowing beneath its covers.

“Sleep well, Crazy.”

She snores like a gosling.

Crazy can sleep forever—she’s Rip Van Winkle.

I shut the door on Crazy with a sigh.

Phew. Crazy is exhausting.

A tough round this time.

She almost got the better of me.

I still have a few tricks she doesn’t know about though.

So long, Crazy.

I may miss your drama

you’re an admirable foe—

but I’ve got vital work to do.

Fear not, Crazy

the business of life will again conjure you.