Southern Indiana
   Writers Group

"The Absolution"
by Glenda Mills

The woman did not stir when he entered the room. For a moment, he thought he might be too late, but then he saw the cotton blanket rise and fall slightly. Carefully, he unpacked his stole, kissed it, and placed it around his neck. He put the bottle of holy oil on the table beside the bed. The good sisters had already placed a crucifix, two lit candles, a bottle of holy water and a spoon on the table in preparation for the final sacrament. Since it was obvious there would be no confession to hear, Father William took the holy water and sprinkled it on the woman. He used a spoon to gently place a small piece of host on her tongue, and laid his hands on her head in silence. Putting oil on his thumb, he anointed her forehead and hands.

"Daughter of God, through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."

He actually smiled as he began to put his things away. This hull would soon be reunited with her essence, and in that reunion she would find her voice, a voice more beautiful than any she could have known before. Death for her and for so many in this God-forsaken place was the only chance they had for life, untormented, free and eternal.

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned."

Her voice was low and raspy, barely more than a whisper, but it echoed in the silence of that small room like distant thunder on a sultry summer evening. Father William turned around on unsteady legs, trying not to spill the holy oil in his trembling hands. The woman hadn't moved. Her eyes were closed, her face toward the ceiling.

"A Matter of Morals"
by Joy Kirchgessner

Inside a tiny jail cell Matt Loyde lay face upward on the complimentary steel cot, hands cupped behind his head. His attention was on a roach crossing the ceiling. The very icon of filth, he thought to himself, just like she was, just like they all are. Whore, roach...what's the difference? Oh yes, Mom always preached, "Whores are blemishes on the face of the earth." After all, according to her one had lured Pop away. I remember when she caught me with a girlie magazine. She recited "The Ten Commandments" while she sliced a cross in the palm of my hand with a razor blade over the bathroom sink. Said she was "castin' out the demons." What was I...ten, eleven years old maybe. Still have a faint scar. He surveyed the compact cell walls. Spent many a day and night locked in a smaller room than this cell. The closet in the basement was Mom's favorite for punishment. That damp, dirty place where I was to "repent and think about my sins." What light there was filtered through the louvered door. Saw a lot of you big ugly brown bastards down there.

"Bones"
by T. Lee Harris

Levitz nodded and mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich: "Aside from the shreds of one of those fancy corset-things the lab guys already bagged up, the Coroner gave me a quick take. Female, mid twenties to mid thirties. No readily apparent cause of death, but that'll change soon as they get her the rest of the way dug out. The body was found when they were breakin' up the cement floor of the old coffeehouse. Lucky the demolition crew were using jackhammers; if it had been bulldozers, there probably wouldn't be much crime scene left. Been in the ground at least ten years--I'm wagering more like eighty, myself. Get a load of the pretty that was pinned to the corset." With that pronouncement, he tossed me a stack of instant Polaroids of the crime scene.

I examined the pictures while I sampled the soup. The soup was as good as advertized but the photos showed both a close-up of a Victorian- looking brooch and that Levitz wasn't as all-knowing as he liked to appear. I tossed the stack back onto the table stating: "1928."

Levitz choked and clapped a hand over his mouth to catch a spray of masticated sourdough. He swallowed hard and rasped: "Jee-zuz, Powell. You know the date of her death just by looking at a pin? What kind of voodoo do they teach you guys at Quantico?"

It was my turn to smile as I returned: "Not her date of death, she hasn't been dead near that long. 1928 is the company that made the brooch."

"The Blue Heron"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

Sue was the only employee in the small-town Post Office, and so was obliged-- required by government bureaucracy as well--to shut down at noon every day in order to have lunch. Since she'd rather walk than eat, here they were, all but jogging down the country road, following the creek. Two miles was all they had time (or energy) for, both of them almost 50.

Again they remarked on the news the night before, how some guy had got into a high-speed chase over a few traffic violations, and ended up shooting one of the policemen.

"His whole life, down the tubes for nuthin'," Sue commented, wagging her head over the stupidity of it.

"Um," Lisa agreed. "His family, his job-- pretty expensive panic attack-- Not to mention the poor policeman's family. Guy like that; wonder if they'll go with a psychiatric evaluation."

"Haven't caught him yet," Sue puffed, tennies plopping along, arms pumping to get the full range of cardiovascular stimulation.

"Loose Money and Change"
by Elizabeth J. Gross

Robert Stiner took the heavy brown suitcase from his Jaguar. Making quite sure the car doors were locked, nervously looking over his shoulder, he briskly walked to the Cuppa Joe Coffee House.

After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he spotted a booth by a front window, went to it and sat down. He could see his car from there. The neighborhood was bad; he was afraid his car would be stolen and today, of all days, the automobile was important.

Placing the suitcase between him and the wall, he scanned the room. Six loud-mouths sat at two tables pulled together. A short bald-headed man worked behind the counter and a younger hippie-type guy with a ponytail and an earring carried a tray of coffee and sandwiches to the unruly group.

Robert glanced out the window -- his car was still there. He looked at his watch: three o'clock -- forty-five minutes to go.

"Dying to Write"
by Ginny Fleming

"Javacise"
by Marla Bilbrey

Life's too short for bad coffee, especially when our country's anthem is now: "One nation, with liberty, large fries, and a coffee to go!" Plus, the only exercise most of us get is; "Javacise," you know, that burst of motion after spilling coffee in someone's lap, and the only REAL flying saucer is when the plate that was supposed to be under the cup goes flying across the room as a result. If we are not "Javacising," then we try to exercise by pushing our luck. Frank took it like a man and blamed it on his wife's "fowl" luck.

"Have a nice day!"

"No thanks. I have other plans."

"It's All In How You Look At It"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

We are all murderers, you know.

Even me.

It all began with my Aunt Rilda, when she was a teenager....

"Yankee Java"
by Marian Allen

She stepped into the coffee shop, cool in a white linen suit, a silver lamé clutch purse tucked under her arm. She paused just inside the door, crossed the room and slid into a booth.

The waiter, a slim young man dressed in casual chic, approached.

"What'll it be?"

"Cappuccino." She smiled suddenly, touched each end of the table, and said, "Put up a whole row of them, starting here and ending here."

The waiter smiled back and said, "We will begin with one."

Alone again, she fished smoking gear from her purse and lit a cigarette. The air in the coffee shop was already faintly blue with secondhand smoke -- there seemed something almost wholesome about pulling in a lungful of good, clean, fresh poison.

She squinted, releasing her smoke as if it were a mouthful of bitter words, and twitched her upper lip. Just like Humphrey Bogart.

"Blossom on the Water"
by Marian Allen

"A dragon," he said, his voice so calm he had to be trying hard to make it that way. I looked at him, then: His eyes were narrow slits, his nostrils were flared, and the corners of his mouth were drawn down tight. I could see his teeth glinting from between his lips and I'll tell you I was a little bit scared.

"No offense," I said, holding on to the broom and standing real still. This was my first run-in with a binge drunk and I didn't know what to do or say. "I didn't understand at first. There'd be a dragon in Cherokee Creek, if it was in China?"

Bud relaxed some, and so did I--some.

"More important than that," he said, "everyone would believe there was a dragon--even those who 'knew better.' He would have a name, and a personality and qualities, just like another townsperson, except he would be honored and sacrificed to."

"Sacrificed? Like...how?" The Aztecs had made a bad impression on me, and the word sacrifice called up very unpleasant associations.

"The Slaying of the Dragon"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

Ella hauled her thick black legs toward the sofa, barely lifting her feet from the floor because of the weight dragging at her hip sockets. "Like rowing a boat through mud," she mumbled, rocking a little to facilitate the momentum. Sweat stung her eyes and dampened the neckline of her old orange caftan as she focused in, headed for the splayed gold of dragon slung across the couch. Nothing mattered, not the week's worth of dirty dishes stacked on the counter behind her, or the laundry piled in the corner of the bedroom so that the door no longer opened all the way. It was her down time. --At least she'd remembered her medicine today.

"Buenos Noches"
by Marla Bilbrey

Near the mountain we have our garden. We call it a Man village. Man comes here, to scratch the ground to grow tiny rows of things to eat, yet we notice the rabbits get the vast majority of the foods. Man also scurries around, sticking small sticks into the ground to corral other small animals (I have figured out one by-product of raising cattle is calves). Durndest sight I have ever seen. It's interesting to watch them so intent on fattening themselves up on such fare as this. Some of us insist on eating Man that only eats vegetables, says it gives the meat a special flavor. Others, like me can tell no difference. Holocaust insists he can smell a Man cooking and tell if it was fed on all vegetables, meat, or both. One day, when I think of it, I will watch one particular Man that I know is a veggie eater only, cook it for Holocaust and see if he can tell. If he can, I'll swear he was wrong... but that's another story.

"The Dragon Incident"
by Elizabeth J. Gross

"Something else," Greg said, twisting around to face the two men. "Know anything about that property couple miles out on the highway that's for sale? Looks like a house burned there. Couple chimneys still standing." He saw Dean, the cook, stiffen and the other two look at each other.

No one said anything. Dean put tomato, lettuce and onion on top of the patty, lifted all with the spatula, laid it on one half of the bun. Smearing mayonnaise on the other half, he mashed it all down and put it on the counter in front of Greg. Then he asked:

"Why ya' wantin' to know? Not aiming to buy it, are ya'?"

"Thought I might. Anything wrong with the property?"

"Wellll, it ain't exactly prime real estate, if ya' ask me!" The Nudger said. "Wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole!"

Swallowing a bite, Greg asked, "Could I ask why?"

Dean placed Greg's coke on the counter. It was one of those little green bottles, foaming with tiny shards of ice on top.

"Been up for sale for a while. No lookers, well, maybe a few, but no takers," Dean said.

"Looks like a piece of good property," Greg offered.

"Why's that?"

"Wellll," said Nudger, twirling an ash tray on the counter. "There was that dragon incident!"

"Sometimes Da Dragon Wins"
Ginny Fleming

Yurazz wiped beads of sweat from his foppish brow, "Pray, allow me to spit this out quickly, before you do any more pondering. Me thinks my heart, my achy-breaky heart, just can't take any more frights. Princess Jasmine and I are to be blessed with an heir. Soon we shall hear the flapping of tiny wings. The egg shall crack and we will be the proud parents of a baby dragon... or dragonette."

"Dragonette?" I couldn't stop myself. Really, I thought dragonette was something one splashed on salad.

Yurazz hissed though clenched teeth, "Yes, dragonette. Princess Jasmine grows weary Sitting-the-Egg. Naturally, she has cravings. She's told me she'd kill for some Grimlich," the blond man/dragon with the Prince Valiant haircut looked up at the storm clouds gathering around the Princess' turret window and sighed, "And I truly do believe she would. So, I'm bound for Eyedaho, and Grimlich is my mission. Are you with me, lads?"

"Slaying Summer's Dragon"
by Dirk D. Griffin

Delbert, a short stocky boy with black, unkempt hair, and reddish skin was the first to notice:

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, "you done got your head busted, McNabb!"

McNabb only managed a weak groan as the other children fell back, seeing the blood mixed in with Morton McNabb's reddish, long mane. Almost as one, the children gasped in fear and wonder at the bloodied bully.

Morton McNabb engendered no love among those who had the misfortune to serve time at Meinert Elementary School with him and his gang of bullies. The sight of him bloodied and beaten was almost pathetic; it was frightening in its own way. As he slowly regained himself, he rose to his full stature, nearly a foot taller than David. McNabb was nearly fourteen years old but, due to poor academic performance, was only in sixth grade. Once back on his feet, McNabb grabbed David. David struggled, but McNabb rammed his knee into David's stomach. He fell into a lump at McNabb's feet. David lay in helpless pain. McNabb kicked him with the steel-toed work boots he always wore and spat out, "You just wait Scharre, I'm gonna kill you for this."

"The Jade Dragon"
by T. Lee Harris

The aromas seeping out of the Jade Dragon started working on me before I could even see the sign over the door. That was going some: the sign was a neon masterpiece depicting a twisting Chinese dragon in vivid red, blue and green. Tonight, the neon beacon painted splashes of color over the wet pavement as I jogged through the rain toward the good smells.

The place was packed with dragons, most of them plastic, except for the one in the glass case behind the cash register. That was one venerable worm. Genuine white jade, a family treasure for better than 600 years, and the piece itself was thought to be much older than that. According to Harvey Leong, Prop., it was a sky dragon. Didn't mean much to me, but beaucoup to Harve. I asked once why the thing wasn't in a bank vault or on loan to a nice, safe museum and was told the dragon had to preside over the family doings it was tradition. Tradition, maybe, but not good security. I guess the best protection was that no one believed anything so valuable would be on such prominent display -- especially in a hole-in-the-wall eatery like the one bearing its name.

"The Hired Hand"
by Joy Kirchgessner

Hannah recognized her stepfather's inebriated voice, smelled the stench of his whiskey-laden breath in her imagination, but another man was with him and this man was staying the night.

She strained to see beyond the lantern's soft glow as it came off its perch on the wagon. Seemingly by itself--though she knew it was by someone's hand -- the light hovered first near one horse, then the other like some giant firefly.

"I'll put the horses away, boss. You go on in and get some sleep," suggested the stranger.

Despite the fact that she couldn't make him out, she knew her stepfather was headed for the house. The squeaky hinges of the kitchen door betrayed his entrance. He stumbled over something solid that scooted across the wooden floor.

"Son of a...," he growled in a half finished curse.

She traced him through the house by the sound of his footsteps and held her breath as he hesitated at the bottom of the staircase. With any luck he would sleep downstairs; sometimes he came up to Momma's room and made her cry--like the night before when he gave her a black eye. Momma had so far protected her from his physical abuse. Ron was always ill-tempered and growing worse. Hannah's friends at school had told her their parents talked about him. "He spends time at the local bar with lowbred women and brags that he'd just up and leave one day to go further west to seek his fortune in the gold mines." Her friends didn't know the half of it.

"Dragon's Lair"
by Glenda Mills

Evan bolted off toward the ferris wheel in search of a ticket booth.

By the time Ellen caught up with him, he was hopping impatiently from foot to foot beside a white stand with the word "tickets" flashing above it in yellow lights.

"Mom, over here. I found it."

The headache that had been threatening was now firmly established. Ellen closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the darkness would help. She wanted to go home and lie down, but home was hundreds of miles from the Monroe County Fairgrounds. For the past two weeks, she had spent every available minute at the hospital, sitting at her mother's bedside, watching her die little by little. Evan had been cooped up at his aunt's house, surrounded by people he knew only as signatures on Christmas cards. They both needed a break, and the fair had seemed a good opportunity to take their minds off things for awhile. At least it was working for Evan.

"Mom, hey Mom." The hopping had turned into an all-out dance.

"I'm coming. Settle down, for Pete's sake. The rides aren't going anywhere."

She purchased a book of tickets and headed into the midway, struggling to keep up with Evan as he darted in and out of the crowd at a seemingly impossible pace. He rounded the corner between the carousel and the Tilt-O-Whirl and stopped. He just stood there, looking straight ahead. As Ellen made her way toward him, she saw it, the object of her son's awe, and she stopped too.

In front of them was a huge, green dragon; its metallic skin glared and glistened in the sun's rays. The beast had piercing red eyes and orange and red flames shooting from its mouth. Its serpentine tail lay coiled around its dagger claws. Within its belly, people writhed in black cars, jerked and twisted first one way then another at a speed that blurred their faces as they raced past. Their screams mixed with the electronic growls and roars of the dragon, giving it a surreal dimension that sent a shiver down Ellen's sweaty neck. She hadn't thought about The Dragon's Lair in years.

"The Quest for the Elusive Pineapple Salad Recipe"
by Bonnie Abraham

Mother had hundreds of cookbooks and cooking magazines. Her recipe box, which was large to begin with, overflowed into a letter rack which, in turn, overflowed onto the shelf. Like most good cooks, however, for Mother recipes were nebulous things. If you picked up one of her recipe cards and followed it exactly, expecting to get her results, you would be sadly disappointed. This is because Mother almost always changed the recipe and the changes were written only in her memory.

Some recipes were so nebulous that they existed only in her memory. These unwritten ones didn't even have measurements. I never did get measurable quantities for the salad dressing she made. She used it in ham salad, potato salad, chicken salad, macaroni salad, even plain lettuce salad. Actually, she never made it the same way twice. Sometimes she used dried mustard in it, sometimes celery seed. Sometimes she added vinegar and sometimes she didn't. When I asked how much milk or how much sugar she would say, "I don't know - I just keep putting in until it looks right." Since the dressing was something you could keep tasting and adding to, I finally gave up on getting exact amounts.

After I moved away from home, my quest for Mother's recipes became more urgent. She wasn't right there for me to ask, "Does this look right" or "Do you think this needs more. . ." I needed the security of measurable amounts. One afternoon, when I was home for a visit, I got out a recipe card and a pencil and started grilling Mother for the recipe for pineapple salad. It was an old family recipe and a special favorite of mine. I wasn't going to take "I don't know" for an answer.

"Everybody Knows I Can't Cook"
by Jane E. Jones

Fay opened her door to insistent pounding and jumped back as Lucy stormed in.

"I swear I'm going to murder Mona. I'll put rat poison in her low-cal cappuccino!" Lucy declared and burst into tears.

Fay's next-door neighbor, Anne, rolled her eyes. "I'll talk to you later," she mumbled and beat a hasty retreat out the back door.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know Anne was here."

"Oh, don't worry about her. What's the matter? What's your beloved sister-in-law done this time?" Fay asked, offering her a handful of napkins.

"She's volunteered me to prepare the dinner for the Historic Society's Rook tournament. Thirty-some people, and I'm supposed to feed them a complete meal. She did it on purpose - she knows I can't cook!" That last came out as a wail.

"Honey, EVERYBODY knows you can't cook," Fay assured her. "Just order pizza and forget it."

"No. I'm not going to let her get away with this. I'm going to fix that meal if it kills us all. At least she'll have to eat it too."

"Gorillas Might Sing"
by Ginny Fleming

"Babe, we're in the money now." The rictus of a smile not quite touching his eyes stretched across his face. Mason removed the zip-closed clear plastic bag from its safe haven taped to his hairless chest. He read the six winning numbers from the small pink lottery ticket. "Boy, the gorillas were really going to sing this morning... Don't you remember? I swore I'd hire a troop of actors dressed like gorillas to deliver my resignation from my job. Yeah, I actually did it. I finally found a singing telegram agency that would send out a dozen singing gorillas. This morning at nine-sharp, my boss Mr. O'Grady, is going to open his office door to the Wilson Gorilla Revue. It'll make the news, Pammy."

Still, she sat silent.

"Yep. Finally going to have the life we've always dreamed of. A live-aboard yacht in the Bahamas... No pressures, no problem. I was even going to make it up to you about the big hurt. You know, after we made the decision. Okay, after I made the decision to get... the abortion. Then... Then, when we wanted kids, you couldn't get pregnant. Anyway, now that we have the money, I was going to hire the best doctors in the world and get us pregnant. One way or another we were going to have a baby. Or a whole boatload of the little buggers." Mason gazed into his wife's normal-looking eye waiting for her response, but she remained silent. The last few years, Pam refused to discuss the matter, saying words and words about it wouldn't solve the problem.

"It was really going to happen for us, Pammy. But, look at us now. Here we sit in a car in a thick woods, rammed against a big rock and wedged between trees at both doors. And here I am trapped behind the wheel. And look at you--- you're dead! Can't take you anywhere, can I? Forget I said that, Pammy. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just that it's a really big downer you being dead and all."

"It's Who You Know"
by Glenda Mills

Ruth walked silently through the streets of Jerusalem, her footsteps as heavy and labored as the beating of her heart. The bustle of the marketplace, the barking voices of the vendors, the mingled smells of fresh breads and sweet cakes, the bumps and shoves of passers-by, was an afterthought, a sea of consciousness which surrounded her and the raft of pain on which she was adrift.

"Crucify him! Crucify him!" The shouts of the people pounded in her ears as strongly now as they had last week. Then, she had stood among the crowd, unable to speak, overcome by the hate around her and the Teacher's bloodied, swollen face in front of her.

"Stone her! Stone her!" Those were the words her accusers had hurled at her when she was brought before the Teacher. Later, looking on him, bruised and beaten, she knew the fear he felt, to stand before a judge while those around you demanded your death. A single tear fell onto the dusty road beside her right foot and was immediately swallowed up by the parched earth.

"Accept the Cup"
by Elizabeth J. Gross

"Did your daughter, Leah, call from Jerusalem last night?"

The elder woman's face darkened. "No. Still no word. Levi says she is busy, but I believe the mail isn't getting through. Her last letter said she would call on the telephone the fifteenth of August, at seven in the evening. It never came. And now, it's October. Each night, we wait. I believe, also, the government is blocking calls from Palestine."

Having participated in a version of this story daily, Anne nodded her head. "Maybe you should seriously consider going to Palestine, yourself. Levi still will not immigrate?"

Greta shook her head. "No. He insists we're safe. Everything will be all right. After all, he is a veteran of the last war. He has medals to prove his bravery and loyalty. No one will harm us, he says. Besides, most countries, like your America, have filled their Jewish quotas."

"But you think you should go? Maybe, you should apply for your papers."

"Yes." Pain was on her face. "They relocated my sister and her family, and we have not heard a word from them. Levi says Jacob is not a veteran, so, he hasn't any protection. I don't believe any of us have protection. We're marked," she said pointing to the Star of David stitched to her coat.

"Dog Star"
by Marian Allen

I'll begin with the dogs--in medias Rex, as it were. There were two of us--three, if you count Sparkle--four, if you count the puppy--but there were two of us on the scene.

Direct your attention, if you will, to Fiona. Cairn Terrier, twenty pounds of dark intensity, muscles and nerves of steel, wrapped in yards of gray shag. Observe her gleaming eyeteeth, her glittering eye. Do not attempt to extract that plastic action figurine from between her paws. She is not cuddling it, and she will not welcome your intervention. Fiona is my elder by three years, and I am five.

My name is Cyrano. I am, to an observable degree, Irish Setter. To her credit, Fiona, who is pedigreed and papered, purchased from a licensed breeder, has never made me feel my unmapped lineage.

The third dog in this adventure, the one we've never met, is a black Labrador retriever called Sparkle. Sparkle is the editor of "Sparkle's Bark," a newsletter to which I subscribe over the World Wide Woof. Every night, she sends out an issue filled with jokes, tips, and recipes....

So, when we found the Thing in the woods, it was only natural that I appealed to Sparkle for advice.

"Killing with Kindness"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

He lifted his eyes and his hand with equal difficulty in his effort to greet us as we were introduced. His weight was against him. He was puddled into a chair as though he might never get out of it, and spoke a word or two between breaths.

"Emphysema," his wife declared. Her voice was round and full; she had to be half his age, vibrant and self-possessed.

During dinner, she was very attentive to her husband, constantly putting her hand on his shoulder, pressing food on him-on all of us.

And it was good, too, in the tradition of good-old, down-home cooking, lots of gravy and mashed-potatoes, hot rolls and bread, a thick, orange casserole of macaroni and cheese, chicken and dumplings, and a pot of green beans with strips of bacon floating on top.

She had cooked all this for us, and her niece was very proud. Anne, so observant in land-values, yet apparently so blind in cause and effect, diet and health. We sat in lawn chairs in the unmowed grass, and the birds sang in the trees while the old man whuffled in-between bites. I suffered for him, my breath working in measured pulls, all of us aware, but studiously keeping other topics afloat. The dog was too heavy even to grab for any morsels we dropped. Its panting was whistley and tight.

"It's Just Hash"
by Mary Gehant-Lagunez

The phone rang. Ellie answered - a woman, asking for Mr. Cartwright. Mrs. Cartwright picked up the phone beside her bed, heard her ask for Mr., and said, This is Mrs. Cartwright, could I help you? But the woman - whoever she was - just hung up. That's not right, Ellie thought. She went in to the bedroom.

"Did she give you her name, Ellie? I didn't recognize her voice." Mrs. Cartwright spoke barely above a whisper, it was so hard for her to say much.

"No, ma'am, she didn't. I don't recall hearing that lady before. If Mrs. Evans calls, she always says who she is, gives me a message for Mr. Cartwright." (Mrs. Evans was his secretary.)

Mrs. Cartwright sighed, closed her eyes. Ellie didn't like seeing her look so sad, so alone.

The apartment door opened. Ellie went out to the living room and found Mr. Cartwright hanging up his coat. His briefcase was on the hall table, and he was bringing out a small suitcase from the closet.

"Did anyone call, Ellie?" he asked.

"Some lady did, but she didn't say who she was or leave a message or anything. Hung up when Mrs. Cartwright answered."

He didn't look happy about that. But he didn't go in to ask his wife anything, either. Just took out his cell phone and stepped out on the balcony to make a call. Why go out there? Something's not right, Ellie thought.

"Last Meal and Testament"
by Dirk Griffin

I always begin by washing everything as well as I can. Since I began cooking, I've never believed good food could come from a badly kept kitchen. Today I take extra care in the cleaning of the sinks, counters, and stove. As an anniversary, I want everything to be the best.

First the chickens, two of them cut into quarters and left to soak in wine, freshly squeezed lemon, garlic, and onion, with sage, rosemary, and thyme finely ground and sprinkled over the lot with pepper and salt. I clean the area where the chicken was cut and begin on the vegetables. I sever the ends from the six small white onions, peel away the outer layer revealing the bright clean inner-walls and place them aside.

I didn't always cook. My wife, Sarah, with great difficulty, would frown through many a culinary exploration on my part. I didn't grow up in a house where food was revered. And though I've grown to love good food, rich in spices and cooked to brim with flavor, I didn't always understand or appreciate it. My mother always seemed to follow the scorched earth policy when cooking, like a crazed general burning everything in his wake as he retreats. I believe I was actually in my twenties when I found out meat could be served without a blackened outer crust. I thought food well done and done for was the same as done well.

"Dinner Disguised"
by Carole Wyatt

The evening breeze carried the smell of wood smoke and cooking meat. At least someone is eating tonight, Rachel mused as her shrunken belly managed a slight growl.

This spying business hadn't turned out the way she planned at all. It all seemed like a glorious adventure just a few months ago when her cousin Beau suggested she would be a model courier. It hadn't seemed odd to Rachel that Beau would ask a female to assist the Cause. Oh no, all she saw was an opportunity for adventure. A chance to get out of the twelve petticoats she usually wore and sitting around rolling bandages. It wasn't something she could explain to her mother that a future of being well groomed and unfailingly polite didn't appeal. That was the only future for a genteel young woman of impeccable breeding. It wasn't that she didn't want to get married, she did. Lately she was afraid the war wouldn't leave her much to marry. Instead of worrying about what might be, she wanted to get out and do something. The courier plan was perfect for a girl with time on her hands. Beau even provided the ideal excuse, visiting his family in Savannah.

Rachel silently slipped nearer to the fire lured by the aroma of cooking meat, without any actual thought about her actions. Horrified that her bodily needs almost led her into the fatal mistake. Stepping out of the moonlight, she stopped abruptly, cracking a twig under her foot. Would it really be so bad if whoever was cooking saw her? That was the hunger speaking, she knew it; still, what would they see? A young boy, no more than twelve, dressed as a farmhand. Neither Yank nor Rebel would perceive her as a threat. That was the genius behind her disguise. When she was stopped, and she had been a few heart-stopping times, she became the idiot farm boy.

An old-timer with a prominent beard stirred something in a kettle. It was hard to tell what color his uniform was in the flickering firelight. Normal times, he would be too old to be in the army at all. Rachel had almost convinced herself that the idiot boy act was the way to go, when the old timer peered in her direction.

"Ar ya going to stay thar all night ? Or ar ya going to come out and et a bite?"

"Don't Die With Your Mouth Full"
by T. Lee Harris

I decided to take the opportunity to do as I had been instructed by the Crown Prince and look around. Look around. Yeah, sure. Why did everyone always assume I knew what I was doing? Nefer-Djenou-Bastet and I wandered aimlessly for some minutes until I realized we were in the section with the granaries. The place was near deserted because we weren't supposed to record the grain for a few more days. As a result of this, the tour of this area had been cursory. I stood back and looked at the huge hive-shaped mudbrick buildings with awe. They were simple structures, but they were the lifeline of the whole nation. No surprise that the recording of their contents figured so prominently in the Heb-Sed Festival.

Neffi launched from my shoulder and made for one of the empty ones. It had been recently repaired in anticipation of being used for the Census. Several days from now, Master Khenemetamun-pa-sheri and I would be atop it recording the grain being put into it a basketful at a time.

I suddenly realized Neffi was on top of it now. He pawed at the mudbricks, then looked down at me. "Yeow!"

"Come down from there! What are you trying to do?"

He scratched at the sun-baked brick vigorously. "YEEEEOOOOWWW!"

I mounted the ladder and grabbed for him. He danced out of my grasp and started digging on the other side of the hatch. "What is wrong with you? That granary is empty!"

"YEEEEOWWW!"

"Leave it!"

We played tag around the top of the granary for several minutes with Neffi attacking the hatch and me diving for him until I finally shouted. "Fine! It's empty! I'll prove it!" I snatched the handle of the unsealed hatch and pulled.

The odor that hit me wasn't the aroma of past grain harvests, but I recognized it, anyway. It was one I had been hoping not to encounter again. I hastily dropped the lid back into place and crouched, gulping air, until Neffi's face pushed into mine. That cat has smug down pat. "Okay. So it isn't all that empty."

"Rambling On"
by Joy Kirchgessner

Here I am again, bringing up the rear. I am supposed to have a short story finished by the 30th and it is now the 29th. If I don't get it finished I won't be included in the book. You know we writers are not paid for these stories; we just love the sheer agony of a self- imposed deadline. Keeps us in practice for that wonderful day when our talents are discovered and we have that best seller line stamped across the top of our book that everyone in the whole world knows about and just can't put down. But I digress.

You see, I always seem to have a time problem, not enough of it. I work days from 8:30 in the morning to whenever, and then when I get home the maid hasn't cleaned the house or been out for groceries or cooked dinner. Maybe it's because I am the maid.

"Wanting the Fish"
by T. Lee Harris

The fish were laughing at me. They gathered in the shadow of my papyrus boat, waiting for the next entertainment. I situated my feet on the sides of the canoe, and gripped the spear firmly -- which must've twitched the attached cord, because it suddenly jerked backwards. Turning, I disengaged the cord from the teeth and claws of the large, playfully growling cat. "Neffi! Get off!" Rippling spotted fur in satisfaction, he sauntered to the back of the boat and flattened himself over the bundled stems where he watched the gathered fish, tail lashing. "Nefer-Djenou-Bastet! You have got to be the most unhelpful animal in the two lands. I'll never catch a fish if you keep doing that."

It took some effort to put the cord right, but at last, I was standing again, spear poised, reviewing the morning's instructions: Hold it firmly, but not too tightly, let the shaft be an extension of your arm, and most of all, want that fish!

"Rabbits in Heaven"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

I lie down for a nap, for some reason thinking about heaven, wondering what it will be like...and wake to a field full of rabbits. They pose, noses quivering, in all the prettiness of their kind, unconcerned by spirit intruders.

There is plenty for them to eat. They pallumph casually in the sunshine, the watching and listening signaled by their sentries inclined more toward wind in the grass, and flower nods, and sun-paths that streak into the woods, than to caution. Even bird shadow doesn't disturb them. Shadows here are only quiet, restful places to gaze out from.

I make a bunny chart on the yellow note-pad I brought with me....

"Fish and Visitors"
by Marian Allen

Brittany was four. She hated her name and she loved her Mommy and Daddy. Her best friends at pre-school changed at least once a week, but her best friends at home were always Lavern, the stuffed armadillo, and John Randolph. John Randolph was an inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex two feet taller than Brittany. ...

"I was in the kitchen, under the table, eating those crumbly things with chocolate in them, and I heard one of the ladies I don't know tell Mommy that Aunt Britta's a man-eater, and always was, and she'd better keep an eye on Daddy!" She was really worried, almost scared. Those red, red lips. ...

Brittany explained it to John Randolph. "You just have to be careful. You have to think about what you're doing, and act like you've got a little sense. Then the man-eater won't hurt you."

"How much little sense is enough, though?" asked Lavern. "Does your Daddy have enough?"

"Probably," said Brittany, but she wasn't sure.

"Pendy Takes a Rider"
by Bonnie L. Abraham

The mule, who had been standing with his back to the door, looking out the small window, turned and snorted softly, stretching his neck until his nose was just in reach of Gambion's hand.

"You're enjoying the blue sky, too, are you?" Gambion slid his hand gently over the soft muzzle, then reached up and scratched between the tall, pointed ears.

Just a little higher.

The boy shook his head, as though ridding his hair of some crawly thing. Strange. Thought I heard something.

Stall's not too bad. Rather have a good scratch with a currycomb, if you don't mind.

Gambion jerked his hand back, causing the mule to start.

"Sorry, boy." He reached out again, and patted the animal on the neck. "I'm just feeling a little strange."

S'all right. As long as you go get that currycomb.

"Dixie"
by Carole Wyatt

"Don't worry honey, it's not another dog," Daddy assured her with a twinkle in his eye.

"Then what?" Momma queried as she slowly walked down the split concrete steps afraid of what she might find in the back seat. A weak neigh drifted out of the open car window.

"Not a horse!" Momma's face was red as she aimed an accusing stare.

Daddy opened the car door and lifted out a scrawny, piebald pony that could barely stand on its own. Its head was down as if trying to balance. Ribs stood out from its mud-spattered coat as it wheezed.

"Jimmy," Momma exclaimed in frustration. "You were supposed to get work today, not dog food!"

"The Music of Trickling Water"
by Joy Kirchgessner

On a sunny, summer day, in a back yard around a shallow, rippling garden pool designed especially to attract birds, the little feathered wonders gathered to refresh themselves. The human owners of this oasis built a glassed-in patio to watch the activity and surrounded the pool with avian friendly trees envisioning a feng shui-like beauty and tranquility. But realistically, nature has a pecking order.

Earl and Roy, being lowly sparrows, were waiting last in a long line at the pool. Hot, dirty and exhausted, they perched in a weeping mulberry and passed the time chitter-chattering to each other. Earl was a mated bird; Roy was younger and had not yet found a partner.

"I just can't figure it out. I keep in shape, keep myself groomed, and try to bathe regularly," aiming the last statement in ineffectual protest at a female robin who was taking her sweet time in the pool. She was smugly splashing about and savoring her right of domination. She stretched her wing languorously.

Earl heckled her, "Don't you have a nest to sit on somewhere? Those eggs must be getting cold by now." Then he said to Roy, "If we could get the princess out of there, the line might move a little faster."

"Lightning Bugs"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

I love lightning bugs. When the very last shades of sunset become more mist than color, and the long grass is wet with dew, soft light rises in random flares all over the yard. Children are drawn to the momentary radiance, play at capturing it till the moon turns them into sylphs and sprites.

"Monkey Can't Buy Me Love"
by Ginny Fleming

The summer of my twelfth year, I was truly, madly, deeply in love. The boy was ungrateful and unaware of my preteen passion and yet I worshipped the very concrete he walked on. His name provoked silver bells in my head, Disney bluebirds in the air and happy butterflies in my stomach-- put mildly: I believed I'd die without this gorgeous hunk of masculine beauty in my life.

To my young eyes, JT was a dark-haired Adonis. ...

Then, as cruel Fate would have it, I was wrenched away from my summer love by a forced vacation in Florida (a visit to my aunt's house in Daytona) with only the sun and the beach to occupy my time. Bummer. Two weeks away from my Prince. What, oh, what to do? ...

That's where I found him. Joe. Joe, the spider monkey. A pound and a half of brown-eyed mischief and fun, accompanied by two ounces of monkey-doo approximately every half-hour. ...

While moping dejectedly about my Dad's foul mood (constant, since I'd acquired Joe), it occurred to me that Joe might be a useful instrument in my pursuit of JT. So, it came to pass, on a bright sunny morning, at the summer days' wane, Joe and I traveled the ten blocks or so to Grandma's house, a journey gleefully necessitating passing my true love's castle.

"Blessing of Saint Francis"
by Glenda Mills

October 4th was one of Joseph Francis Jerome Shane's favorite days. It was the feast day for St. Francis of Assisi, a man who had found God most profoundly in the splendor, complexity, and beauty of nature. Because of his spirituality, October 4th was also the day for the blessing of animals. Father Joe had spent the cool, crisp morning in the parking lot of St. Clare's, laying hands on cats, dogs, hamsters, fish bowls, lizards, and one very large snake, asking God, through the intercession of St. Francis, to keep them safe and healthy. Now he was on the road, making rounds to the farms to bless the horses, cows, goats, pigs, and sheep.

By the time he pulled into the Worton place, he'd had enough glasses of sweet tea and lemonade to float the Ark. He'd eaten pie, cake, cookies, one breakfast, and a couple of lunches. He was glad this was his last stop. Being cordial was upsetting his stomach. His front seat was already crowded with various jellies and jams, jars of vegetables, and a loaf of homemade bread.

Matthew Worton came running down the driveway to meet Father's car. Matt was wearing his favorite Spiderman T-shirt and denim shorts. He had his mother's chestnut hair and his dad's green eyes. He was short for his six years, thin, and tan from playing outdoors all summer.

"Father Joe! Father Joe!" The boy was shouting before the priest was even out of his car.

"Hi, Matt. Is your mom in the house?"

"Yeah, but I need you to come to the barn with me right now. It's real important. My puppy's sick."

"Queen"
by Jane E. Jones

Queen was found at the stockyards, on her way to the dog food factory, in the early 1940's. She was a sixteen-hand, Standardbred mare with a habit of rearing and throwing herself over backwards whenever something didn't suit her.

My dad bought her for $25.00 and brought her home to our farm near Salem. Eventually, he convinced her that the rearing and falling over backwards was a bad idea, mostly by letting her do it repeatedly, and then making her do what she didn't want to anyway.

I was three years old at the time and didn't care if she had bad habits with the adults. She never used them with me. I loved her at first sight. My older sister and I already had a black Welsh pony, named Billy. From the moment I saw her, I abandoned Billy to my sister and claimed Queen as my own.

"Transformation"
by Joanna Foreman

According to the rules, you have to live a specific number of animal lives before you can come to Earth a human. An animal can't select his owner; all he can do is state his purpose in life. My purpose was to make a difference in this world. I think that's why Michael chose me. My life as a Siberian husky lasted less than five months, but it was the best time I've had so far. The entrance was a piece of cake, but the exit was the worst imaginable for any animal I've ever known. However, I've only known a few, for I am yet a young soul; if this craziness doesn't stop, I'll never accumulate enough Earth-time to become an old one.

"--Not Even a Mouse"
by Jeannine Baumgartle

Since I am no more than a quote from a popular myth, the term "even," admittedly, and at first glance, sets me apart even further from this story. Why mention me at all, unless there is a role to be filled, a connection to the imagination that nothing else could bridge? I think I am "alive," after all, in this context.

"Now You Sea God, Now You Don't"
by T. Lee Harris

The deep KLOOONNNG of a heavy Revere Ware lid hitting the kitchen floor launched him from the bath and toward the door with a bellow. Pausing to jam his arms into his ratty kimono, he pelted down the stairs. "Damn you! All of you! This I didn't miss in Peru!"

The kitchen was empty except for the pan lid rocking gently on the linoleum and a splotchy trail of broth that led to the living room, across the parquet to the couch. Which was growling. ...

"Cats. Why do I even like you?" He shook the mauled chicken wing at them. "Well, this you forfeit, cat creeps."

As he stood to toss the wing in the trash, his gaze fell on the light table and the unfinished drawing surrounded by glossy photographs of the gleaming mask of the Moche sea god. The golden splendor drew him to it as surely as the fragrant chicken broth drew the cats.

Another cat face snarled out from the illustration board and the photos. A cat face of pure gold with inlaid teeth and startling blue eyes surrounded by eight tentacles of an octopus tipped with tongue-flicking snake heads. It was a riveting piece with a convoluted history. Made to adorn the brow of an ancient Moche king, it was looted from a northern Peruvian tomb in 1988. It then disappeared, only to be recovered by Scotland Yard from a dusty file cabinet in the offices of a prestigious London law firm almost twenty years later. Where had it been? No one knew or was saying. If the mask could talk ... ah, it probably wouldn't tell. It was part cat, after all.

"Out of the Cradle"
by Marian Allen

I learned my lesson about the land when I was not much bigger than these youngsters. I had only hatched four months earlier and was barely swimming on my own, but I thought I knew as much as any of the grown merfolk.

"Stay away from the beach!" the old ones warned us, over and over, and we paid as little attention as these youngsters do now.

"Home on the Range"
by Marian Allen

You don't realize how big cows are until you find one sitting, totally uninvited, in your summer kitchen, tucking into a big slab of your rhubarb pie.

She didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. She froze when I opened the door, but then she met my gaze and deliberately took another bite of pie. Her big brown eyes were hard and challenging, and I had no doubt that this was the wild cow I had been warned about.

I knew I couldn't let her know how frightened I was.

"Is it good?" I said.

"Yeah," she said. "Be better with some ice cream."

She picked up a glass of white liquid and took a swig.

"...Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't know. Maybe you think it's wallpaper paste. But what it is, is milk."

"You drink milk?"

She smacked her lips. "Just like mother used to make."

"You drink MILK?"

"Hello? I'm a cow? What do you think little cows get big and strong from drinking--martinis?"

"Caleb Speaks"
by Bonnie L. Abraham

We headed into the wilderness. Then Pharaoh changed his mind and came after us with his army. We were trapped between him and the Sea of Reeds. Moses held his staff out over the water and the waters parted. We walked -- no, we ran as fast as we could -- across on dry land with a great wall of water on each side. I don't know which was scarier -- the walls of water or the army behind us.

By the time the last of us were across, Pharaoh and his army were right on our heels. But when we were safe, those walls of water just collapsed -- and the whole army drowned. We were free -- completely free of Egypt and Pharaoh and all of it.

That's when the grumbling began.

"Sunday in the Park With Josh"
by T. Lee Harris

The grin abruptly disappeared as he surveyed the wreckage around him. At first, he thought someone had been here before him and ransacked the place, then he remembered the infamous mess in Connor's office -- but this was ten times worse. Maybe thirty. Suddenly, the word "buried" took on a chilling new meaning. He stepped over a toppled stack of computer magazines, closed the door behind him, and flipped his cell open, then hit speed dial #2. It rang once on the other end.

"Hey, Josh! Where are you?"

"Avi Rosenberg, I hate you."

"Ah, you're at Connor's place."

"Your mitzvah level will never recover from this thing you've done."

"Oh, come on, Josh. Do you see any sign of the thumb drive? He said it might be in the vicinity of the couch."

"I'll be lucky to find the couch."

"Never Again!"
by Glenda Mills

I was one of the most computer-illiterate people I knew, blissfully ignorant of the Internet and totally content to use my computer as a word processor and a means to send and retrieve e-mail. I was, at least, until September, 2006.

My descent into technological purgatory actually began in August of that year, when I returned to my job as a tutor at a local children's home. At the end of the second week of school, I was told that the state had changed the requirements of my job description. To keep my position, I had to have a college degree -- no problem -- in education -- still no problem -- and a current teaching license -- big problem. Mine had expired two years prior, and I'd never gotten around to taking the six college credits I needed to get it renewed.

Now what? It was mid-August. The fall education classes were full. Maybe the state would grant a grace period. After all, it wasn't my fault they had changed the rules, right? Wrong. They weren't going to budge. Despite my pleading, compromise was not an option. The children's home had to have the funding from the school to pay me and Stephanie, the other tutor, for our services. The school system had to have the state money, and the state did not consider Stephanie -- who also had let her license lapse -- or me to be qualified. Everyone involved on the local level expressed regret over our plight, but their hands were tied by the state's purse strings. The tutoring positions were to be posted the next week.

At this juncture, Stephanie got the bright idea that we should look on-line....

"The Inheritance"
by Jane E. Jones

She found Stitch, finally, all five buildings and eighteen houses of it. There was a general store which had gas, groceries, and the post office; a ranch supply, feed and hardware store; a restaurant; a saloon/ pool hall; and a church. The lady at the general store, a petite redhead about fifty years old, introduced herself as Mabel Jones and welcomed her enthusiastically. She gave Jory directions to Uncle Jeb's place.

The directions said this was it, but they had to be wrong. The place was a disaster. The log cabin had been built right up against the rock wall of the canyon. She thought it a wonder a big boulder hadn't fallen and smashed it. The porch sagged badly and was missing a step. The screen door hung on one hinge. A crack in the window had been patched with duct tape. The barn was in better shape than the cabin, but it was a wreck, too. There was an outhouse at the side of the cabin. None of them had ever seen a paint brush.

Jory stared in horror at her inheritance. How was she supposed to live in a place like this?

"Horse Listener"
by Joy Kirchgessner

Dear Horse Listener:
How do you load a horse into a horse trailer? I just bought a small estate and got a free horse as a bonus. The former owner was getting stressed because he said that it would make the horse very unhappy if it had to leave its home, was there any way it could stay on the estate? That was so sad, I almost cried. He seemed truly relieved, bless his heart, when I told him I'd always wanted a horse and would love to keep it. The horse's real name is Unrulé. I think that's French. I didn't want to appear pompous, so I nicknamed him Puddin, because he's so cute. Anyway, I just bought this sweet little pink one-horse trailer. It has a door near the front and a door on the rear. The dealer sold it to me at a real bargain. He was so helpful; he even showed me how to hitch it to my KIA. I think it's time Puddin and I ventured out.
Signed,
I-Am-Feeling-So-Lucky.

Dear Lucky:
If you are intent upon using this horse, please seek out an experienced equestrian who can be there with you. Preferably, you would be observing from 100 feet away while the experienced equestrian loads the horse. Also, read any and all horse advice material that you can get your manicured nails on. I suggest you start with my column, in the April 2006 back issue of this magazine, addressing horse name choices and their meanings. I have a feeling the name Unrulé is not of French origin.

"November 21, 2002"
by Bonnie L. Abraham

Let me start by saying, writer's group was to meet that night. That's important, because that's what caused the whole morning to spin out of control. When I woke up, I had two things I knew I needed to do. The first was to get copies of chapter three of my Willim story made for the writer's group. The other was to go to the grocery. Simple, right?

Since I had printed out chapter three the previous night, all I needed to do before taking off on my two little errands was to write out my grocery list. I copied the current items from the ongoing "out of" list on the refrigerator, then went through the recipes for the things I planned to make in the next few days in preparation for Thanksgiving. With list in hand, I grabbed my purse, got in my car and took off.

At the bottom of the drive, I realized I had forgotten chapter three. I turned around in the drive across the street, drove back up the hill, ran into the house, got the story, got back into the car--throwing the story pages onto the passenger seat as I got in--and headed for the copy store.

I am a creature of habit. By the time I got from home to Main Street, (we're talking three blocks, here) I was locked into go-to-the grocery mode and forgot to stop at the copy store....

"The Ashtray"
by Teddi Robinson

I stared at the empty spot where I'd stored the souvenir ashtray from Colorado. How could they do this to me? Why? Boy! Am I angry!

This was adding insult to injury! Not only had I lost my husband, but his children and grandchildren swiftly descended upon me like a swarm of locusts-- and someone from his family had taken the ashtray my step-mother had given me many years ago!

Late in the 1970s, I visited my father and his new bride, Ann, in Terre Haute, Indiana, where I saw and admired the unique ashtray. It was a circle with sides of silver lace, the bottom, a colorful mosaic. The tile had the Colorado state flag, state bird, and the date the state was admitted to the flag spelled out in a semi-circle. Not practical or usable but very pretty to admire.

Handing me the souvenir, Ann said, "Before he died, my first husband gave me this ashtray. We went to Colorado to fish on our honeymoon, and he bought it for me as a token of his love. Fond memories from the past.... Could I give it to you?"

"Yes," I replied. "I'd appreciate that. I have the perfect spot for it in my curio cabinet." I thought of it as a special treasure from Ann's hand to mine.

The ashtray stayed in my curio cabinet for twenty-five years, until recently. It wasn't worth anything...at least I didn't think so....

"In the Fast Lane"
by J. Baumgartle

Can't talk now. My sister-in-law just called, and she's on her way over. Let's see....twenty minutes from the airport.... Sure, I can change Ty, pick up the toys, do the dishes and shower before she gets here. Probably have time to make the beds and scrub the kitchen floor, as well.

I hesitate, groping mentally for the likeliest course of action, which whops me behind the knees and hangs on.

"Ty, come here you little hit-and-run!" I fish for my two-year-old, hoist him into a hug, and we're off to chase down a diaper. At least he didn't bite me this time.

"The Monkey's Uncle"
by Leslea M. Harmon

The plane landed hard and I bounced in the nearly-comfortable seat. Its plentiful padding was bursting out of aging vinyl, as if the cushion actually had been used for a flotation device, then recycled.

"Doesn't this damned thing have shock absorbers?" The propeller was winding down loudly, and I wasn't sure if the pilot had heard, or if he'd just chosen to ignore me.

My co-passenger scratched her armpits. She stuck out a bright pink lip and picked her nose.

Nothing could be finer than to fly to Carolina...with a monkey.

"Collateral Clothing"
by J. Baumgartle

My sister and her fiancé already have a table, by windows that overlook the park. They greet me warmly, and we all place our orders. I try to remember my sister as a little girl: the highlights in her fair hair, the refined features, a sweetness about the large blue eyes that take in everything.

The only thing that's changed about her is her depth. When Meredith speaks, her words are considered, definitive, yet kind. She and Vaughn ask me to be the matron of honor in their wedding.

--The delight of clothing itself hits me first. The blend of fabrics, the subtle language that textures speak to my fingertips, a history of origin under the sun, all of it informed by the play of light and color as it is handled. Then, slowly, I become aware of the rare opportunity, an invitation to join in this momentous event in my sister's life. It is nearly too much. As always, I find myself virtually inundated in the swirl of sensory stimuli, to the exclusion of actual experience. I struggle to hold on, hear myself acknowledge her request, then I am in her arms, weeping, all forgotten except my very strong love for this incredible sister.

"Thinking Outside the Box"
by Joanna Foreman

I was strolling through the mall when a whimsical tee shirt caught my attention. If my mother were still alive, I would buy the shirt, walk over to her house next door to my own, and watch the shocked look on her face as she read the message:

She would sit in her swivel rocker and think back, sorting the years, one by one, trying to figure out her failings. "Why, Joanna, what have I done to deserve that? I raised you the best way I knew how!"

I would have worn the shirt as a joke, so I wouldn't let her dwell on it, because, in reality, when I reminisce, I can't think of one thing my mother did wrong. Period. I say that with all the sincerity in the world. She was a fabulous mom--ask all my childhood girlfriends--they confided their jealousy, wishing their mothers were such fun, so understanding.

By now you may think this is a tale about my perfect mother. And while I did consider writing it that way, I thought better of it. When a writer concocts her mother's story, she risks losing readers if, after a paragraph or two, the narrative bogs down, gets downright boring, unless, of course, Mommy was hell on wheels. Mine was no Mommy Dearest. In fact, she was so ideal her story would put most people to sleep. There was one major thing she did, though, a decision she made when I was five, that altered my direction for over four decades.

"Throw Momma From the Dive Boat"
by Ginny Fleming

The diving advertisements enticed, the colors of the new scuba gear seduced, and my husband's offer of vacations to sultry waters was one I couldn't refuse. So, I signed up for scuba class. You may well ask why a much stressed and frazzled woman would take a dive class. Simply put, I did it for love. Love of diver-husband and love of exotic white-sand beaches. But, contrary to what the Beatles taught us, LOVE is not all you need.

First, you need good thorough training with a fully-qualified safety-minded scuba instructor. Second, purchase your basic equipment: mask, fins, snorkel, gloves. A small water-proof slate inscribed in indelible, not to mention waterproof, ink with the assuring words 'DON'T PANIC!!' written in 3" block letters is also very helpful. The training came from a local dive shop. I had to make my own sign.