Last Blog - Executive Extinction

This will be my last blog - no one seems to be reading or leaving comments - so I see it as a lost cause.  I may craft it into a play next year. June 2011 - Darien CT.  Watch for it.

Good-bye all.

M

Executive Extinction


maryccharest@yahoo.com


“It is finished.” My small, hollow voice addresses the room; the room does not answer. It rests in corporate condemnation. A fresh coat of wax grips its exterior - I have always paid close attention to the details. “They’re coming,” I whisper. Unlocking a hidden panel, I remove two bottles of water. “It’s hot today,” I remark, “and they’ll be thirsty.” I pour each drop methodically into the crystal carafe. Prisms waltz with the burls below, struggling over who will take the lead.



Shades of muted wool and silk proceed into the administrative core. They circle the black leather, crafting their own executive dance. No one takes the lead. Everyone craves the sway. Gray wool sits at the head and black cashmere to her right. She runs ripened fingers carefully through her mane of gray and motions towards the goblet, “Water?” “Yes, Ms. Liness,” I reply, filling her glass. Black cashmere trembles. “Water?” she resonates, nodding towards the vessel. “Of course, Ms. Hackle” I respond, filling her glass as well. The others look on craving their own chalice. They wait. Hackle eyes Liness with contempt; the fine nape of her neck bristles with congenital hostility.



An oblong silhouette of Liness glistens behind her. German and French blue sparkle discharging beams of light from the glass. Wormlike shapes of aging lead twist, embracing the modern illumination. Holy light illuminates her for a moment, and then fades. She is a jewel, forged from the most ordinary materials: sand transformed by fire - soldered on both sides.



Liness swallows, and considers her commercial realm. I recognize the look – it is the gaze of mature trepidation. “Her time is almost up,” I say. Walking toward the door my foot trembles. I panic. Muted wool and silk notice my oversight. They make a mental note. Ms. Liness yawns lazily, and bares her dentist’s latest masterpiece. Her perfect white teeth stand in formation, awaiting inspection. Black leather chairs reflect a forged admiration for their leader.



“Two matters are on the table,” Liness says with a cool unease. “There must be a vote.” Black leather chairs tilt in anticipation. Hackle smiles, her synthetic black hair framing her face lift agreeably. “She didn’t bruise much,” I muse. They notice me move closer to the door. I have ruffled their feathers again. The circle around the burled mahogany constricts. “Termination and relegation. Who will begin the vote?” Hackle commands.



Liness stalks the room with her eyes – searching for a defense. She looks at me, and then down at the cup before her. Strained, she takes a sip. Liness endures, nobly accepting her destiny. She utters expressionlessly, “Termination? If so, remember - it must be undivided.” One by one the muted wool and silk raise their hands in fused favor. Hackle smiles, adding hers to the final tally. “So carried,” Liness heaves a sigh. “Relegation?” Liness proceeds, with slight hesitation. They look at her hungrily, each eyeing her chalice – waiting. Hackle places a finger on the rim of hers and glares at Liness. “It is time,” Hackle states raising the chalice to her lips. Victoriously she swallows, watching her legion with approving eyes.



They raise their hands slowly, each contemplating their position – their number. It was her turn now. It will be their turn in the future. Silence fills the void. “Relegation carried.” Hackle moves towards the door. Her breath is thick on my neck; I feel the room shift. It sways to their dance – I move to its music. “It is time,” she explains, while peeling my uniform off. Layer by layer, I allow her to strip me of industry, trade, commerce. I stand, exposed to the circle, awaiting my fate.



Liness joins Hackle and remains still by my side. Hackle seizes Liness’ royal robes of the business realm; Liness slips on mine. “The circle must continue,” Hackle states with imperial fervor. “You are yesterday – I am today.” They looked at Liness, vacant of position and power – standing regal none the less while robed in lowliness. They hate her for her complacency, and remain self-righteous. They wait. Hackle turns to the window and watches the light dim.



Intensity cloaks the silhouette; it yields to the revolution. Ancient glass melts and transforms, bending to a progressive influence. Bright hues are crushed, painted, and fused onto glass. Solemn blues give way to gold infused red; it kisses her lips. Serpentine lead links each piece of glass in place. The process is complete; Hackle’s induction is concrete.



Liness walks down the ruby red carpet, and offers Hackle her chair. “Water?” Hackle demands, raising her glass toward Liness. Resistance surges and then is suppressed; Liness pours from the carafe, filling the crystal vessel. I watch, disrobed and cold. My wrinkles are naked and in full view of the on looking spectators. Age spots speckle my surface – imperfection; a piece of a bruised crop awaiting removal – no longer productive. Black leather leans in my direction, and circles around me. Soaring, spinning, constricting, they devour me until a hollow moment remains where I once stood. Naked, cold, weary and old - Executive Extinction.

Queen Bee - Chapter One

Actually, A Natural Death is Chapter One of Queen Bee -- but here is the next chapter just for fun...Comments would be nice.

                                                                          Two


Clare yawned. She brushed the snow off her woolen cape and strode to the staircase of the Capital.


“Today is the day,” a bright-eyed boy sang out while holding his father’s hand.

“We’ll have a new President, one way or the other, by tonight, son.”

The boy backed up roughly into Clare, who shrugged and snapped, “Will you mind your boy” She walked up the steps to the capital.

The capital was infested with people – like bees in a hive - some happy, some mad, and some indifferent, but all buzzing.

This noise is unbearable, Clare thought, gazing at the lines in front of the political sweepstakes machines. Clare moved toward the shortest line she could find; only four people before her. She padded the coat beneath her wrap to make sure the deed to her property was still there. She could feel the lump of tattered paperwork, and let out a sigh of relief.

An elderly man looked at his political slip and angrily crumpled it in his hand, letting it drop to the floor. “Worthless, this cause is just plain worthless. Anyone could be our next President – a gay or drug-addict who happens to own a slice of land here or there — who the hell cares at this point?” He flailed his hands in the air. “America, as I knew it, has just been flushed down the toilet.” The old man walked heavily toward the Capital doors and flung them open yelling. “Anyone who thinks this is going to work needs to have his head examined!” He muttered to the woman walking in after him, “A sweepstakes machine choosing our President and Legislative Staff – that is true desperation.”

The woman shifted her screaming toddler to her other hip and rolled her eyes. “Nothing else has worked in my lifetime. I think it’s a pretty good idea.”

Clare smiled. She also thought it was a good idea and her only reservation was for those like herself, who really did not want to serve a post. This was a mandatory duty, and whoever was designated an office by sweepstakes ticket had to deal with the term.

It was finally Clare’s turn, and she handed over her deed. An elderly lady behind the desk looked the paperwork over and punched the lot and block of Clare’s farm into the “sweepstakes” machine. Out popped a ticket, and she handed it to Clare, who shoved it in her pocket along with the deed.

The elderly lady asked, “Well, ain’t you even gonna look?”

Clare smiled and replied, “Maybe later.”

Clare stepped into the snow and down the granite stairs towards her ancient pick-up truck. The flakes were heavy and covered her thick hair. The seat was frozen, and the threadbare upholstery snagged at her wet wrap. Starting the truck was difficult, and it groaned in the cold as Clare turned the heat on high. She kept the truck for long trips or farm provisions. Clare just could not bring herself to buy another fuel-dependant vehicle. Her new Amish model was being built to her specifications — it would take at least another month.

Slipping her hand into her pocket, she felt the damp slip of paper; Clare bit her lip.

Gingerly, she removed the ticket. She turned it over. Flipping off the heat, she fumbled for her reading glasses in her purse. Pens, wads of tissue, and even her checkbook were tossed from the bag until she produced her specs. They foggily confirmed what she had feared.

The recycled slip simply stated, “You are the One” with the Presidential Seal underneath her block and lot. There was a number to call as well, but she would handle that when she returned home. Clare’s hands were visibly shaking.

“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. Her soul quivered.



                                                                                ***



Many people own Friesian horses for English, Trail, Hunter, Driving, and Western Pleasure Events; Clare was a simple woman. She kept a small herd of Friesians for breeding and transportation purposes.

Clare remembered releasing her horses into an early blizzard one day in late October, just before the Sweepstakes. They acted like foals on a spring day — even Bree, her seventeen- year-old gelding, pranced about.

Black brandishing the icy white confetti made good fodder for her camera and her memory.

Just twenty-five years ago, the streets were filled with heavy steel from trucks, cars, and industry breathing noxious fumes into the atmosphere. Clare was nearly fifty when the second Revolution rocked America. This insurrection yanked her nation’s roots right out of the ground. It was the first time Clare had ever witnessed death among like folk.

Clare took her eighteen-year-old niece and fled to Ireland for a year. A tear ran down her nostril, and one down her throat. She pulled out a tissue and wiped the memories away.

The brisk wind of impending winter blew against her skin. Clare strode into it…

Clare L. Fern had returned to a remote farm in America when she reached age of fifty — well before the prices of farms rose to unbelievable heights.

The Revolution had ended within a year; and the ecologically minded Green presided. Her niece Karen lost her life fighting for that right. “Damn it, she should have stayed where she was told, and not listened to that idiot boyfriend of hers. Kids!” Clare pounded on her dining room table. The pain cracked through her fist, and heart.

Clare worked for the Green, spending that year safely in Ireland with Karen until she ran off with that fool of a young man back to America.

Neither faction wanted to use toxic weapons that would ruin the land, so the lines were drawn and fighting took place in America via noxious measures that harmed the human body, underground vigilantism, terrorism, and hand-to-hand combat; American against American. The Green fortified itself and finally emerged. Talks between the Greens and the Blues ended like the child’s rhyme, “sticks and stones will break your bones. . . ” and then the war continued.

It was vulgar and animalistic and the point each side had allowed themselves to reach was repulsive. She could not believe Karen would buy into that sort of mind-set.

Ireland had already accepted the ideals of a green government, as many had in Europe, and were friendly to the Green cause. They were willing to do their part to help, and save their economies at the same time. They believed, as Clare did, that America’s financial system needed to get back on its feet fast, or the rest of the world’s economy would continue to fail and they’d all wind up down the toilet.

Clare made good use of her dual-citizenship. She stayed with family after Karen left, deciphered Kondratieff's political wave theory, and often read Langstroth’s the Hive and the Honey-Bee. Not many had ever heard of Kondratieff or Langstroth, but they where her literary champions.

Kondratieff’s ideas seemed simple, like life’s cycle, and it was only a matter of time before America’s winter’s low became spring’s high. L.L. Langstroth, the "Father of American Beekeeping," provided practical advice on bee management which Clare weaved into her private political aura. When all was done, and the Revolution was over, she returned to America — back to her horses, beekeeping, and her new ideas.

People considered her plain and unappealing, a hefty, idealistic woman who didn’t really care what other people thought about her politically or otherwise. She held to her own thoughts, flair, and will – and felt they respected her for this.

Citizens were watching their “America” die slowly, much like Narnia’s eternal winter, until they could take it no more –- the birth of the political-sweepstakes machine was born. The Blue “government capitalists” lost, and that meant reform.

A long-awaited restructuring of their failing nation was beginning, and Clare was alive to watch.

People were sick of the government promising change, greener pastures, cleaner air, ecologically friendly power, and less interference with an individual’s choice of life. The time for change would be now -- not later. She smiled to herself. We need to get back to our roots — politically and otherwise.

For several months Clare created her isolated farm from the rich soil in her region. America’s spring had come; all things would be new. Clare’s animals, and a few close acquaintances, kept her company during this birthing process.

Now, that might all change. It had been a month already, and she wandered off toward the stable to hook her favorite horse to the brand new buggy she’d obtained yesterday from the Amish Carriages, Inc., just down the road from her farm. She wanted to ride into town, and receive her orders in the same simplified style she intended on running the country.

“Morning, friend!” a deep voice bellowed out of the blustery weather.

Through frozen eyelashes she barely made out her Amish comrade pulling up the hill in his buggy. The horses sniffed each other, and settled down. Clare smiled. “Morning, Joshua.” She had to shout into the wind. They passed each other as they often had; Joshua returning up the hill to his farm in his traditional Amish buggy, but instead of her ancient pick-up truck, now Clare ventured down the hill with Bree, her horse and best friend, short for Breehy-hinny-brinny-hoohy-hah, named after one in Lewis’s Narnia series, in her modernized Amish Carriage. She could not think of a better way to begin a new political era.

Of course there were still cars, trucks and trains in America along with industry and a friendlier form of entrepreneurship. Ecology, economy, and enterprise were the three political tasks this new government needed to undertake.

For instance, before becoming President, Clare joined a group that lobbied for the research and development that made it possible to manipulate animal manure in such a way that it could be developed into a clean fuel for operating any vehicle.

People had been trying this for decades, with little progress, and it finally succeeded! Keeping water sources clean, farmers in business, and gave America another option to the solar and wind power that had been rapidly replacing energy for the past ten years.

Clare thought about the sweepstakes, as Bree picked up his pace. She had won. Out of all the Green landowners in America she had won by the draw of a master computer program. Was it actually a true win?

What would it mean for her life, her farm, her core? The agreement between the Green and the Blue was that there would be a sweepstakes held by computerized methods for President and his or her cabinet. It would be compiled of all landowners in America that were American citizens.

But how had she won?

Clare and her cabinet would preside for the ensuing eight years. After which the Blue Landowners would be added to the computerized compilation and a winner’s name would be generated, granting the “winner” a four year Presidency that would become the regular period in office for a President.

At this point, the President’s cabinet and the rest of Legislative Officers would be chosen by a computer drawing, compiled of Green and Blue as well for four years at a time.

Clare loved the idea. No more grand political campaigns would waste vast fortunes of money, and it’d halt the great waste of tall-tale literature printed on paper.

Every landowner would have a fair shot — reasonable. It was not quite Democracy, but in these times desperate measures were needed. She was obliged to take the post and she intended to — with a few alterations, of course.

Even though the sweepstakes was perfectly random and supposedly fair, presiding as the new leader of America would not come easy, and she would make sure her say was heard.

Clare always suspected she was born to lead, and to leave her fingerprints on history somewhere, and that God must be leading her toward it — pulling her strings when needed and providing opportunities here and there. Clare didn’t like God much, but believed in Him.

“First thing,” Clare said, “is to make the White House a museum.” She had always wanted to do that. Clare had many other ideas, but this was one of her pet projects.

The White House stood for luxury and waste. All school systems would be “encouraged” to bring and pay for their children to view the White House as a historical museum, and all proceeds would go to other countries in need.

Clare’s political stand would be to stop digging America further into poverty, and to allow her rebirth by rebuilding from the soil up with fresh and new ideas.

“This will take time and money,” she said. Of course, her advisers, their thoughts and opinions, would be considered. What resistance might she encounter?

Give and take. She toyed with the words.

Bree’s hooves tread an unbroken thump in the trodden snow.

There would need to be a hiatus placed on giving vast amounts of American funds to other countries for a number of years, after which the matter would be reconsidered. However, the White House Museum proceeds, along with private religious, philanthropist, and non-religious groups would be encouraged to continue helping other countries during this time span via tax breaks and other incentives.

“People from around the world need to see that we are not a wasteful administration, and that we desire transformation, and we are worth investing in,” Clare whispered.

Bree whinnied, signaling they were in front of the Post Office. The Post Office was always the first destination in their many predictable visits into town.

Clare pulled into a buggy space, and tied Bree to the hitching post. Bree lapped up heated water in the trough.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Clare said, stroking Bree’s snow-covered mane. The elderly Friesian seemed content, and Clare walked up the stairs to receive her certified orders.



                                                                                 ***







A thick dossier sat in front of Clare on her wide-planked dining room table. A log fire was crackling in the background, as she sat down with a steaming mug of tea. So many thoughts raced through her mind.

America was experiencing the first stage of Kondratieff’s waves: Spring, which is expansion and growth. “A social shift in possessions, growth, and modernization is likely to create mayhem in the world,” she whispered.

America was at its foundation and had nowhere else to look but up; like crocuses in the snow, bathing in the sunlight.

Clare smiled. She loved crocuses. She missed her garden, her beehives, and her lambs.

Many people feared the “poverty” of a simpler life, but she embraced it wholly. “This is just what we need — look at all the green developments that are being marketed in America. Other countries were thinking about, and actually starting to invest their funds in America. Ireland and other small factions of Europe were among the “watchers.”

“Due to these new, yet practical, ideas the world will take notice of us once again,” She proclaimed, pacing the worn floors of her converted barn. “Just look at my buggy for example.” Her fireplace popped in response. Her Amish friend Joshua disapproved of the new Englisher’s version of the Amish family’s traditional mode of transportation.

Clare had purchased hers from one of the new buggy businesses growing within the farmlands of America.

She acquired a streamlined version with shiny black paint, much like a luxury automobile yet safe for the environment and it had all the latest eco-friendly safety devices such as solar/battery-powered lights and a slow-moving vehicle triangle with license plates.

This small new line of buggies have provided many different jobs for horse breeders, horse tack manufacturers and suppliers, and even a small army of children who wanted the occupation of street cleaner and made sure the troughs were filled with fresh water and the roads remained clean of animal waste for a modest wage.

Back to the dossier, and the impending economic changes Clare knew would descend upon their new country. She flipped through her well worn version of Professor Nikolai Dmitriyevich Kondratiev’s book The Major Economic Cycles (1925), purchased while she lived in Ireland. L.L. Langstroth’s Hive and the Honey-Bee was always nearby on the table. His simple ideas about bees, when applied to the American populous, might just dig it out of its grave.

She obtained a newer four-volume set of The Works of Nikolai D. Kondratiev when she returned to America, and they were sitting, spotless, on her dusty bookshelf. Clare studied his books and life, and agreed with his economics for the most part. “Well, poor Nikolai got thrown in prison for his ideas – I don’t intend to. They will have to listen to me – at least for the next eight years.”

Clare tore open the dossier carefully and pulled out two inches of official papers. It included who would be in Clare’s Cabinet – or Executive Branch, which included the President, the Vice-President, and “the Cabinet,” an advisory body made up of the new heads of the original fifteen Executive Departments in America: Department of Agriculture, Department of Commerce, Department of Defense, Department of Education, Department of Energy, Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Homeland Security, Department of Housing and Urban Development, Department of the Interior, Department of Justice, Department of Labor, Department of State, Department of Transportation, Department of the Treasury and the Department of Veterans Affairs. Clare was giving much thought to merging several of the original fifteen heads to create a new, tighter cabinet. Catherine, Clare’s sister said seven was a Godly number; Clare thought it was a lucky number. It was far easier to deal with seven cabinet heads than fifteen — cheaper too!

The positions have not changed, but what they stand for surely would, Clare thought.

There was a complete profile of each person designated to head each executive department. So which eight should she axe, Clare thought. While Clare was eager to read, she was also very tired. She needed rest and a clear cranium before getting into each of these Executive’s “heads” to see what she was actually dealing with.

She shouldn’t be working this hard.

This would take time. Clare might even require help in background checks to maintaining a clear head — for that job she could only think of her sister Catherine Cook, a retired FBI/CIA agent, who lived nearby; if she were willing to even discuss it with her, Clare thought with a frown.

Clare already had ideas with regard to how things would be run at her farmstead which would now be the new “white house.”

They would need to build onto her existing dwelling an extension large enough to contain the space they would need to get the President’s Executive Office up and running, and of course, some sort of profane bomb shelter beneath – they would require it of her, as President.

The thought nauseated Clare; however, she knew it would not be an option. Compromise – give and take. Modus Vivendi, she had read somewhere. . .

Clare’s cat jumped onto her lap, a grey alley cat named Louie. It oddly reminded her of her sister, Catherine. Catherine had resigned from the FBI and the CIA recently and was happily raising bees with her son and his new wife and family.

They lived a self-sustaining lifestyle. They were happy. Catherine had experienced a husband, a child, and an extended family. I have had not, she thought, and maybe that’s why I can be a little rough around the edges. Louie agreed with a yawn. Clare glared at her reflection in the antique mirror beyond the tattered velvet seat at the head of the table. There she saw an old, fat woman with a grimace. “No wonder children run from me,” she laughed.

It was a lie of course. Catherine’s little grandchildren loved to visit Clare’s farm and it was approaching springtime so they would be there for the lambing. Maybe she was not so rough around the edges after all — but she was still fat, ugly and old with that long braided white hair she refused to dye. She was still a hippie at heart. Clare smiled with hope.

Then her brow knit. She still had that apprehension in her soul that would not leave.

Catherine lost a daughter during the Second Revolution, and she felt it was Clare’s fault.

Karen loved Clare, came to Ireland with her, and fought alongside her for “their” new America. She was Green to the core. Karen didn’t want to play the “no parent” game, so she chose Clare as her mother figure. Neither sister had spoken a word about Karen since her death – now they might have to...

Dirty Muck Boots

Fall's coming, and as the sweat drips down my left cheek I was thinking about Muck Boots http://www.muckbootcompany.com/ — They'd make a real nice birthday present (women’s size 10 the tall type).




If you REALLY want to live a self-sufficient lifestyle you’ll need a pair of these for each member of your family. Right now we have the cheaper version from Tractor Supply http://www.tractorsupply.com/ — the black rubber boots that come up to your knees. Some with insulation, some without; bee sting proof in the summer, and just wear wool socks in the winter! Ah, to have a pair of authentic Muck Boots — well, it’s a dream anyway!



I also dream about the worn out kitchen floors of my ancient farm house (that was once a barn —the real house was hit by lightning and burnt to the ground before we arrived) with fresh cut grass trudged in by our makeshift muck boots on these warm summer days that I’ll busily sweep back out the door three or four times before bed on the weekends we can get away.



I make plans for our future Rambouillet Lambs, Champagne D’Argent Rabbits, and Ring Necked Pheasants we’ll breed and sell off, or eat and Russian bee’s hives for honey — tea or mead, or drizzling on your homemade bread and butter — take your pick! I own almost every book on the subject - thank God for Amazon.com's used book section! Yes, my friends, this is homesteading 101!



All those books will help me learn how to create our own food, and wool, and if I am lucky I’ll even learn to milk a sheep for butter, cheese and the “milk” itself. I hear it's better than cow’s milk — and since I have dairy allergies I can't wait to give it a try.



We’ll also have a large garden and I'll learn to can everything possible from our friends who are already living self sufficient lifestyles nearby. I’ll grow my own flowers to cut and grace my vase in the kitchen and in the living room. I'll find out what vegetables and fruits grow best in our area of the great USA. We’ll seed and hay the fields after clearing off the over grown Christmas tree farm on our southerly hill and feed our livestock with the fresh new wheat.



My husband will be the “muscle” of the house of course, his mother will be the brains behind the plant life and partnership, and I’ll be the “administrator.” All of these are important jobs that need to be done. Self-sufficient means just that — no one else is going to do it for ya!



My husband's already talks to our Amish friends about cutting lumber, building a barn, and learning how to ride one of his horse and buggy’s. It’ll sure save on fuel for short trips! My mother-in-law prunes trees, and has a vast knowledge of plant life and office organization — as for me, well I’m a bookworm, have administrative know-how, and have a knack of making things work out.



In the winter, things tend to be a little calmer — other than feeding the fire with wood, and snow removal. A little more time to read by firelight, write, blog, work on some art projects, and we listen to NPR http://www.npr.org/ where the stories range from A Prairie Home Companion to Gunsmoke on the weekends at night and REST — who needs TV?



Mark my words, if you are smart and have some money or equity in your homes left — sell your house and get a farm. If there is any way in the world you can get 50 acres, a barn, and a farmhouse or at least 5 acres and a house that will allow you “create” a small homestead — buy it NOW! I don't really care who is the President right now — we are in a recession that is not going to let up for YEARS — face it — it is time to be Self Sufficient and Frugal RIGHT NOW.



Later on, when the recession is over, if you want to change your mind you can — and you’ll have a working farm to sell if you need to. You may actually find that you like rural living much more then the rat race you used to belong to and might just stick with it.



As soon as we can get out of New Jersey, we plan on living off “the land” and the things we will grow on our farm. By then we will hopefully have a barn full of animals, a fenced in yard, a huge fenced in garden, fields of grain where trees once stood, and perfectly pruned apple and pear trees, strawberry patches and many areas of raspberry patches with a nice root cellar to fill, a stocked freezer, and pantry to store with mason jars filled with goodies from the garden.



I am one of the many unemployed people in the USA right now — just graduated in 2009 at age 45, Summa cum Laude with a 3.86GPA. This should be something to celebrate, or at least something a prospective employer should find as a sparkling future asset to invest in. Unfortunately, my BA has done nothing for me except hang sadly on the wall as I scramble to find a job — any job — just to survive. I’d be better off in my dream barn in a pair of dirty muck boots!



In my opinion, you have a better chance riding this recession out on a homestead.



If I could leave NJ now, believe me, I would.

Barbie Doll

Barbie Dolls are fortunate.




They always look grand.



No hearts to be broken,



or one might think…



Their children crave new,



modern models,



and will eventually get them.



The luckier dolls will be placed upon the top shelf



to gather dust.



Some misfortunate dolls will end up as bathtub toys



all washed up.



Several dolls will find their legs,



arms, and other body parts strewn across her shag green carpet



awaiting their child’s Mother’s command for her to clean them up before supper,



or suffer the consequences.



Most will be thrown quickly in their box,



with cast away dresses and mismatched shoes.



or forgotten -



Abandoned on the floor,



lying naked in the corner



as the light dims



alone.

Rev. L.L. Langstroth -- "The Hive and the Honey Bee".

In 1853, the Rev. L.L. Langstroth published a book called "The Hive and the Honey Bee". This book describes the use and dimensions of the modern bee hive as we know it today. If you are interested in starting a honey bee business, hobby, or just making honey for your own consumption I suggest you buy it!

Amazon.com  http://www.amazon.com/Langstroths-Hive-Honey-Bee-Classic-Beekeepers/dp/0486433846/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281908083&sr=8-2


The Langstroth bee hive is made up of:

Telescoping cover or migratory cover

Inner Cover

1 or more hive bodies or hive supers made of wood, polystyrene, or plastic

(optional) queen excluder between brood box and honey supers

8-10 Frames made of wood or plastic per hive body or hive super

Foundation made of wax and wires or plastic

Bottom Board with optional entrance reducer

Check out my bee links below - some of them have great shots of bees in action with musical accompaniment!
 
 
~~The Honey is sweeter then the sting ~~
 
Queen Bee

A Natural Death: On A Honey Bee - Philip Freneau (1752 - 1832 / USA)

A Natural Death: On A Honey Bee - Philip Freneau (1752 - 1832 / USA)

Gluten & Wheat & Dairy-Free Honey Bread

I keep all recipes given to me as I am on a Gluten, Dairy, Wheat, Sugar, Soy, Vinegar, Yeast (etc) free diet due to food allergies I hope to overcome!  This was given to me for "future use."  So, give it a try, and let me know if you like it. It’s healthy at least! Pour some honey on it with homemade butter!




Gluten-Free & Wheat-Free

Dairy-Free Brown Honey Bread

Recipe

Ingredients

2 Eggs Plus 2 Egg Whites (Large)

1/3 Cup Vegetable Oil (Canola)

1 Tablespoon Dark Molasses

¼ Cup Honey

1½ Cups Warm Water (105-115°), Divided

2 Packages Active Dry Yeast

2 Teaspoons Sugar

1/3 Cup Warm Unsweetened Apple Juice (105-115°)

2 Cups Cornstarch

½ Cup Tapioca Flour

¼ Cup Glutinous Rice Flour

1 Cup Light Buckwheat Flour

¼ Cup Teff Flour

1 Cup Flaxseed Meal

4 Teaspoons Xanthan Gum

1 Teaspoon Salt



2 Teaspoons Sesame Seeds,

Buckwheat kernels, or Poppy Seeds

(for top of bread)



Directions

Add variations to this recipe if you wish – anything you can have on your diet in the recipe or on the bread – even a drizzle of honey and homemade butter - or whatever!

In medium sized bowl (yeast mixture will expand), place ½ cup of the warm water, yeast and 2 teaspoons of sugar; stir until dissolved. Let stand for 10 minutes. Mixture will become foamy (if not, the yeast is not active and should not be used).

In mixing bowl, combine eggs, egg whites, vegetable oil, remaining 1 cup of warm water; mix. Add honey, molasses and apple juice; mix.

In large bowl, add dry ingredients: cornstarch, flours, flaxseed meal, Xanthan gum, and salt; stir together. Add these dry ingredients to the wet ingredients already in mixing bowl. Add yeast mixture to mixing bowl also. Mix all of this together using low speed until combined. Increase speed to high and mix for 4 minutes.

Place dough in a round Pyrex casserole dish (size 2L - if in doubt, should hold 8 cups) which has been sprayed with cooking oil. Cover dough loosely with plastic wrap and allow dough stand for 1 hour in a warm, dry location (dough should eventually rise about 1 inch above rim of pan).

Place in preheated 375° oven (oven rack should be set to second from bottom position) for 65 minutes (after 20 minutes, place foil over top of bread to avoid over-browning the top crust).

Someday I can eat this, and I am looking forward to it. I just have to clear up a few things in my body first. Sounds good – let me know if it tastes like “real bread”!

Here's a link for homemade butter - as for the honey, get yer own hive! *SMILE*
http://theorganicsister.com/2009/07/easy-homemade-butter/

On A Honey Bee - Philip Freneau (1752 - 1832 / USA)

On A Honey Bee




Thou born to sip the lake or spring,

Or quaff the waters of the stream,

Why hither come on vagrant wing?--

Does Bacchus tempting seem--

Did he, for you, the glass prepare?--

Will I admit you to a share?



Did storms harrass or foes perplex,

Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay--

Did wars distress, or labours vex,

Or did you miss your way?--

A better seat you could not take

Than on the margin of this lake.



Welcome!--I hail you to my glass:

All welcome, here, you find;

Here let the cloud of trouble pass,

Here, be all care resigned.--

This fluid never fails to please,

And drown the griefs of men or bees.



What forced you here, we cannot know,

And you will scarcely tell--

But cheery we would have you go

And bid a glad farewell:

On lighter wings we bid you fly,

Your dart will now all foes defy.



Yet take not oh! too deep a drink,

And in the ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,

Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said

To perish in a sea of red.



Do as you please, your will is mine;

Enjoy it without fear--

And your grave will be this glass of wine,

Your epitaph--a tear--

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat,

We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.



Philip Freneau

A Natural Death

ONE







A Natural Death
By:  Queen Bee

A hideous scream came from the brownstone above. Vibrations against waves of ancient glass nearly burst the filmy sheets. “Another dead one,” Catherine said flipping a page in the Times. She sat reading on a bench across the street from the local café. English tea and honey captivated her taste buds. People milled about on this typical spring day in the city. The bees watched.

Catherine folded the paper. An elderly gentleman approached her; sweat covered his olive skin. “Good Afternoon,” he whispered shakily. His accent was clearly American; his heritage was undoubtedly Middle Eastern, and he didn’t look well. “Nice day,” he said, placing a daisy on her newspaper.

“Isn’t it,” she replied, looking up into the blue sky. Clouds waltzed and the blue backdrop applauded.

Contact had been made — he slipped her a small camera chip, and said, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Tipping his hat, he meandered toward the Café.

In a world that was falling apart with natural disasters, economic catastrophes, and rumors of hostile revolutionary campaigns, Catherine was not surprised about the chip, or what might be imprinted on it. Politics were a disaster — and the rest of the world that had any power left was waiting for the kill. Russia, China, and the USA were the contenders; all in about the same dismal shape.

“Misfortune tests friends, and detects enemies,” a passage Catherine heard her late husband employ many times. According to the Times article she scanned, China and Russia were feeling most of the natural disasters, and that kept them at bay for the moment. China was cleaning up after the largest earthquake to hit them in years, and Russia had little to no food due to the decrease in temperature, and longer winters.

America still had the ability to farm the land and begin again, but not so with most of the world powers. Their land was frozen, parched, useless, or destroyed. The only profitable thing they had was oil. “So what,” Catherine said licking honey from her thumb. “We have oil too.” Her land was the emerald green jewel in a world of cheap imitations. However, some super power would attempt to take over the U.S. for our soil unless we acted swiftly.

Her older sister’s eco-ambition was beginning to make sense; nonetheless, Catherine still felt Clare was a deserter running off to Ireland just like that — with Catherine’s seventeen- year-old daughter in tow no less. Then again, we were “friends” with Ireland. This game of chance Clare’s Party had in mind for political power between “Greens” and “Blues” was ludicrous. A second American Revolution! How archaic. Clare said that America had turned into another England and they were being taxed to death — and something needed to change that. Catherine could not argue that point; however, she couldn’t believe a second revolutionary war was occurring over this mess. Catherine let out a loud harrumph and scanned the rest of the Times.

She sat for a long while, sipped her strong tea, finally catching sight of the honey at the bottom of the cup. She slipped the chip into her oversized leather purse. She really didn’t want the chip to end up there, but slipping her hand in the shoulder bag seemed a natural thing to do. She’d find it later under some old receipts or a bit of gum wrapper. Closing the paper and glancing at the front of the Times again, she winced. CIA and FBI Join Forces to Battle Blind 'Epidemic': Thousands of Americans Dying From Silent Killer . True — it was a tough case. Many people of different backgrounds, ages, and ethnicities were dropping dead with no apparent reason all over America, and with no obvious Terrorist group(s) assuming responsibility for the slaughter. Sirens filled the air. Two police cars and an ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the brownstone. Catherine didn’t need to look — she knew what was thumping down the stairs.

Catherine had a theory. She could not prove it, but it lurked within her thoughts, especially after that fatal dinner. One evening, just after the Epidemic had begun, she and a dear friend were enjoying the last bits of a luscious feast at one of her favorite restaurants. They laughed and reminisced over old times. Catherine was informed the next day that her friend had been taken to New York-Presbyterian Hospital. By the time she arrived, her friend had died. The doctor shrugged, baffled. “Just like the others — all ages, male and female, with no apparent reason — a natural death.”

Such a waste. Grabbing the paper and her bag, she tossed her empty tea container in the trash can.

Honey-bees flew wildly licking the remaining honey out of the moist paper container, before any other “robber-bees” could. Her best friend eliminated by this damn epidemic! What the hell was this world worth anymore, a patch of grass for a human soul? She kicked the garbage can with her “old lady” shoes, even though she was only forty-two, and three little children snickered in the field behind her. They didn’t see the flood of tears fill her face as she walked away. Beatrice, Karen, and Ralph, dead -- all in one year. She wept. The last tear dropped, bathing her silken blouse in human salt.

Catherine took the elevator to her little one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan and made a quick call.

“Yes,” a deep voice answered.

“Cook, here: I’m going on extended leave. I need to think, and the honey is ready to harvest.”

Silence echoed on the other end of the line. Of course he was upset, but he knew she did her best thinking at the farm and she was his best contact, with the FBI anyway — she would hardly get in to any real trouble. She was the official secret liaison between the CIA and the FBI — long-time rivals. Although not the James Bond type — no Beretta or Martini’s for her — she was just a very stalwart link. Catherine and Paul knew they needed to work together during these uncertain times. The CIA and the FBI had their difference of opinion, but Paul was unusual — he cared.

“You have my arm twisted, Catherine — but call in once in a while?’ His voice became slightly strained. “And for God’s sake, Catherine, stay on-line. Bring your lap-top. People are dropping like flies.”

“I know. I know it too well.”

She sat behind the wheel of her black Jeep and headed North toward her farm. It was a mere five hour drive from the City, and if they really needed her they could pick her up by helicopter. The thought of checking the wax capped honey and looking for new brood gave her some sort of solace, but Beatrice never joining her again sent a tear down a newly formed wrinkle on her cheek. Her job had aged her and she was seriously considering an early retirement after this case was solved. “A natural death,” she murmured looking at the verdant farms and cornfields on either side of her. There was nothing natural about it. It happened in sporadic areas across America only — city areas. Interestingly enough, babies and young children must have had some sort of immunity to it. This was terrorism at its worst. She would examine the camera chip tomorrow morning, check out some poisons on her confidential links, and then visit her bees and ask their opinion.

As she pulled onto her dirt road, dust and summer warmth greeted her like old friends. She had opened the window by then and let her wavy red hair blow in the gentle wind. It reminded her of a younger mans hands running their fingers through it once, long ago. She shook off the thought. A well-built young man waved from the front porch and jumped down to greet her. She opened the door to a pair of muscular arms that held her tight.

“I’m so sorry, Mom; I figured if Beatrice ... you know, I would help around the place — you don’t mind, do you?”

Catherine looked up into the dancing jade eyes of her only son. He looked exactly like his father, God rest his soul. Pausing, she thought of that man, a lifetime ago, and it made her begin to cry. She cleared her throat, fighting back the tears, and said, “Well, do you still remember how?”

The sandy-haired nineteen-year-old grabbed her bags and said, “Yes, I still remember how.”

Catherine smiled. “You’ll do fine then,” and she grabbed her purse, a black satchel, and followed him into the house.

“One more thing, Michael — I need to visit my girls tomorrow morning...alone. I need some time to think — you know?”

Silence.

Michael said, “Mom, how are you?”

“I’m —”

“Losing Dad, Karen, and Beatrice in the one year — it’s tough for you, Mom.”

Her husband Ralph died before the outbreak of the Epidemic on ‘a post’ earlier this year. They spread his ashes near the beehives, the place he loved best. And Karen, the sensible daughter, how could her Clare encourage her to join this idiotic Green Revolution — it was Clare’s fault Karen is dead; she never even reached eighteen. Catherine felt her hands forming tightened fists — she released. A well of pain filled as far as her throat and for moments she was unable to speak. Then she said, “Michael, having both your parents in the FBI was tough on you.”

“I understood and there was always one of you around for me. And Karen — He stopped and choked down tears. “I didn’t turn out so bad, did I — even though I do look like the “milkman’s son”. He laughed, as his thick sandy hair and sturdy build was always said to come from the other side of the family. “I’m nineteen now. Mom, where do the years go?”

She read something else in what he was saying — the retirement issue. He had lost one parent on ‘a post,’ his younger sister in the Revolution, and did want to lose another loved one anytime soon.

Catherine realized that Michael’s true “home” was the Bees Knees Apiary; the one place he would always remember both of his parents walking the wooden-planked halls, and tending the beehives even though they had hired help. Ralph named it. He would always say things like, “the bees were his girls” and “tea with honey, dear? You're the bee's knees Catherine!”

“Your girls, Mom,” Michael laughed quietly and answered, “I’ll leave you alone tomorrow with your girls — don’t worry.”

***

Catherine woke early the next morning and popped the chip into her computer. She recognized several of the men and women entering the warehouse. They were terrorists from Russia, China, and two of their ruffian Middle Eastern provinces. Of late, times had become rough for the United States. Several multi-terrorist attempts had been made upon the country in the past few years. She was interested in the poison used — thinking of the venom ‘her girls’ used when they stung her once or twice out of fear or defense. However, if a swarm of Africanized Bees chased you down — you’d be dead for sure. She searched, for a few hours and finally this came up with: “Biotoxin Ricin: Another of the so called untraceable poisons Biotoxin Ricin made from the Castor Bean plant. This type of untraceable poisons is purportedly being made by Iraq and other terrorist nations.”

“Makes sense,” she mumbled.

The only thing she couldn’t make out was the name on the warehouse snapshot. Catherine removed her antique magnifying glass from its velvet sleeve. It was the only thing she was given after her mother died; her brother was an attorney and embezzled the rest. She received it in a package from some unknown island near Cuba.

Re-directing her thoughts, she noticed there was a raised swirl of dark chocolate paint in the shape of a letter “B” on a golden bag — she had seen it in the magazine at her doctor’s appointment last week. It was the symbol for the newest rage: A gourmet coffee bean corporation aptly called “Beans,” into which all the wealthy were investing. The name of the place escaped her, but she heard that they would only deliver by mail, late, and it was a worldwide international company. She would call Paul later — after she pieced this thing together. The Castor Bean poison certainly could have been used to lace the coffee, but why?

She scratched her wavy hair and almost tossed her idea. “It’s an international company, and we are the only ones affected,” she whispered. “Unless, of course. . . “She just couldn’t bear the thought. “I must see my girls and think on it a while.”

Catherine suited up. Her bee suit was well-designed, slightly snug this year due to stress, and over-eating. “Gotta lay off the honey babe, or this suit will be traded up a size real soon,” Catherine shouted at her image in the mirror. There she saw a woman who looked barely forty, smooth milky skin with a few new wrinkles, and wavy burgundy hair. She was medium in height and build — some might think of her as a beauty, but if she kept up her eating habits she felt that would soon change.

Her gloves provided valuable defense against stings from guard bees, wasps and hornets. Michael could easily fit into Ralph’s suit, but that would not be until tomorrow. She had some thinking to do. There are many mysteries connected with honey bees; mysteries that her honey bees might help her unravel. She left the mirror, and went back to her thoughts.

***

Descending the stairs quietly the next morning, she saw Michael setting up her favorite tea cup next to his and a fresh pound of Honey Hill in a gourmet glass jar. The kettle was boiling and how could she refuse. “Not too much honey, OK?”

Michael smiled.

“I thought you drank coffee?” she asked.

“I usually do,” Michael answered, “and it should arrive here within a few days. Beans are the best; they’re all the rage. The only problem is that you can only get them delivered — they have no shops or cafés.”

Catherine gasped. Beans? If she weren’t a tea drinker, she might have picked it up far more quickly. “Do me a favor, dear – when that package comes, will you give it to me?” “I will,” he answered, nervously running calloused fingers through his thick, fawn hair.

Michael walked into the den.

Catherine strolled down the stone pathway to the bee hives. The brook babbled in the balmy air. She always felt a tingle of joy when visiting her girls. The blossoms to produce one pound of honey alone, and the many other jobs that must be completed for a colony to flourish, were mind boggling. Her honey bees were constantly adapting to conditions around and within their hives. Catherine’s five hives provided enough honey for personal consumption, gifts, and mead. Coffee? Hardly. Could this epidemic be caused by Biotoxin-Ricin-tainted coffee beans from this new trendy beanery? It would explain the pictures on the chip of the terrorists entering the building — Both words start with “B” — but she needed more proof, such as why? “What do you think, girls,” she whispered into the wind. She walked into the bees. Only the gentle hum of her girls at work replied.

***

They would need another super tomorrow; she thought once examining her hives. After smoking the hives and cracking several of them open, she saw more than enough honey for sharing. If you were kind to your bees, they would remain in their hives. They would have to do a bit more work though – until October.

One honey-bee landed on her glove and crawled around as if it were in the hands of a loving God. When finished exploring, it flew off into the wilderness in search of pollen and nectar.

Mid-May was when Catherine’s acres of apple orchards fully blossomed. The new flow of nectar had been underway long enough for her girls to gather nectar, pollen, to make honey and feed their brood — the next generation. Michael had been smoking their suits and began to crack open the first bee hive. “Slowly and safely,” his mother reminded. Michael just smiled and went back to work.

Back to Beans. Could this be the source of our “natural deaths”? Were they tainting the beans with some sort of drug that killed without a trace – to create a new colony? She decided to text Paul and have someone come pick up Michael’s package, if it ever reached the house — unless she could manage to get one of the local Universities to examine it.

No one but Catherine, and of course her bee-club friends and other bee keepers around the world, seemed to understand the crucial part honey bees and other insects that transport nectar for their own use, and pollen “droppings” carried from one plant to foliage miles away. Pollination was what made things grow. Most of the other world super powers were having food shortages because their bees were dying. America had no such problem. We flourished, at least ecologically. Desperate world super powers were raping rain forests in search of fertile land; kidnapping American apiary scientists for solutions. She felt butterflies in her stomach eating its lining away – this was bad, really bad.

Catherine returned to her kitchen and took the net off her head. Michael was in watching the TV, and she ascended the staircase to her bedroom. Two thoughts within Catherine’s mind converged amongst many minor ones: Call Paul; another she must brush from her concentration. Paul must be at the top of her list, so she slithered out of her bee keeper’s suit and picked up her secure cell phone. Pressing his extension, she received a message: “Good Morning, This is Paul Matthews, I will be out until tomorrow. If you need…” Catherine listened until she heard the beep. “Beans – call me,” she said, and then hung up. Paul would call back as soon as he could.

She dressed casually and descended the staircase. Michael thought she was young-looking for her age. She did not. In the den, Catherine focused on the TV set. The newscaster stated that Mr. Paul Matthews, a top player in the CIA, had succumbed to the Epidemic and was pronounced dead this Morning. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered loudly. Catherine glanced at Michael, who gazed back at her, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. She knew he wanted a cigarette, but she never approved of his smoking. With winkled brow, she gave him his chance and rushed up the staircase. Catherine called Jane Caldwell, Paul’s secretary; it was unorthodox, but necessary. “Jane?” Catherine said shakily.

“Yes,” a deep woman’s voice answered.

“It’s Beans, the new coffee distributor – they are mailing out Biotoxin-Ricin-laced coffee …I can’t talk here – test the beans.” Catherine hung up.

Michael stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Catherine smelt the faint odor of cigarette smoke. He was a man, although just nineteen, and needed to make his own health decisions, she decided. Rambling up the staircase to her bedroom she dialed into the green room to Paul’s superior, Matt Smith’s office.

“Hello,” a deep southern voice answered.

“It’s Cook – I think I have solved our mystery. Is the line secure?”

He answered, “Yes.”

Catherine paused. “I know you may find this a bit odd, but a friend gave me a chip with four terrorists entering the warehouse of the new Beans coffee merchandise — the Russians, Chinese, and two more from the Middle East. I knew them all by sight. Have an autopsy check on Paul’s body for Biotoxin-Ricin-laced coffee. It’s a definitely a poison from Castor Beans — being made by Iraq and other terrorist nations. I believe they have tainted Beans coffee with it. I believe to destroy American’s, due to our fertile land, and start a new colony for themselves. My son ordered some Beans coffee and it should arrive any day. Have someone come and pick it up — I really think this might be the culprit. It is only available by mail order. Something just is not right — do you know what I mean?”

Smith cleared his throat and said, “I better push my coffee away. I’m on it. Call me when the package arrives.” Smith was working on an anecdote from his sample of coffee anyway. But they needed more evidence — since Beans was tipped off and quit the biz; Michael’s package was their only hope.

***

There was a chill in the air — the months had flown by and it was already October. Maybe the package had been lost by the postal service — out here in the fields it was not that uncommon.

“Don’t worry girls; we’ll only take what we need,” Catherine said, smiling through her net at her son. “When I’m dead and gone,” she said to Michael, “always remember that the honey we take is surplus honey that our girls won’t need to carry them through the winter and spring.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You have many more years left in that body of yours – why don’t you consider retirement and enjoy your girls and maybe me too while you still can?”

It was an interesting and agreeable thought. All of her friends were dying, and one loved one missing or dead. Did she really want to die serving the FBI? She never had a real life with her son. She had certainly served her country more than the average agent – in fact, if one really thought about it, she was a double agent; a liaison between the CIA and FBI.

“Why not; you’re right!” she answered. “After this case I think I’ll hang up my hat so to speak.”

The bees hummed in agreement; so did Michael.

After careful inspection of the five hives, and as little disruption to the bees as possible, Catherine and Michael pulled out the frames with honey they needed and put them in harvest supers. Each frame was thick with honey. They were smaller frames, and Catherine could have coped with it, but Michael handled all the heavy lifting. He would wrap the hives for the winter next month.

They loaded up the ancient pick-up she left at the farm for just this reason and drove down the path toward the guest house where the honey extraction equipment was ready and waiting. Some day she would get one of those new-fangled Amish wagons, and give up that old Junker for good.

They watched from the truck as a delivery van left a trail of dust down their dirt road. The infamous “B” package had been dropped off on the porch. Catherine looked at Michael and asked, “Be a dear and start the extraction – I have an important call to make.” She knew Michael wanted to ask why, as he always had, but the possibility of having his mother resign once this case was solved was worth the wait.

“Sure,” he said and headed off to the honey house.

She exited the door and hurried toward the house. She picked up the package with her bee gloves on – - not sure if the poison was on the box as well and went to her bedroom.

Matt Smith’s personal line picked up after the first ring.

“I have the package,” Catherine said. “Good, he answered. We have an anecdote! Thank God I didn’t drink that coffee. I’ll send one of my bees for the evidence right away.” Catherine returned to the honey house with the box. “They are coming for it now, Michael. I’ll let you in on a bit of this one since it is my last case.”

Despite the chilly afternoon Michael, had tied his flannel around his waist, and sweat dripped down off his torso. He stopped whirling the extractor.

“The epidemic is clearly not a natural death. Beans coffee has been tainted with some sort of new tasteless poison, or at least that is our thoughts right now. We have an anecdote, but need your fresh evidence. I must go inside now – I trust that you can handle this by yourself. You see, I’d like to have my resignations ready for pick up as well.” She smiled at her son and hoped that he might stay at Bee’s Knees with her for a while.

Catherine signed two resignations, one for the FBI and one for the CIA, and sealed the letters with her private bee stamp in warm honey wax. This reminded her of her daughter Karen —killed — and her sister Clare who was at fault. Sealing letters with honey wax was a family tradition. She bit her lip; it tasted bittersweet.

***

Her wavy hair blew in the wind as the helicopter whomped its approach. She couldn’t hear a thing. He couldn’t hear her shouting at him, or see her arms waving wildly. The pilot was about to land on her prize peony patch! He lifted back into the air with a whoosh; she grabbed the box of coffee, with the gloves still on, and headed out the door. There was a small field to the right of the farm and in the opposite direction of her bees. The actual landing zone need not be sizeable, and no one else from the agency ever had any trouble; yet she was nervous as this was the very first resignation she had ever tendered. She reached the whirling machine and asked the pilot if he had gloves. He shook his head and looked around, finding a pair underneath his seat. Putting them on, he seized the box.

“One more thing,” Catherine added. “The contents of these two letters are for Matthew Smith’s eyes only, and it is of the utmost importance that he receives them both immediately.”

The pilot lifted his glasses, took the letters, and said, “Yes, Ma’am - he’ll receive both straight away.” The helicopter took off quickly, like one of her girls searching after the most succulent flower she could find in a distant field.

Catherine Cook let the cool wind blow through her locks and raised her face to the sun. “Today is gold, pure gold…” she whispered, walking back toward the honey house, beaming with joy. Michael had probably finished bottling already, but she wanted to be with him every moment she had left on God’s green earth.

Her brow creased. “That damn Political Sweepstakes is tomorrow — I should position with the Blues and stand against Clare —oh, how I hate her!” The Blues had contacted Catherine already — with an interesting offer. No reply was given, yet. She kicked a pile of leaves. Catherine would not let it bother her, not today. The case was on its way to being solved, and she at long last “quit the biz”. She had every reason to be contented, to shed a few happy tears, and look forward to living life, at its fullest.

Acceptance

Well hello friends - I thought I'd start off with a fiction piece I've been working on.  Let me know what you think...

Acceptance

By:  Queen Bee

She bowed her head and prayed. Warm blood ran down her cheeks like tears, as if a crown of thorns had been placed firmly upon her head.


“Just do it,” She growled, crying at the same time. “Call the damn police.” Picking up the receiver, Moina remembered her husband’s warning.

“If you ever call the Police, I’ll kill your father, and I’ll make you watch. I am a Cop; Cop’s protect Cop’s — don’t forget it. Darrow, wiping the chill off his face, grinned. “Then you’ll be six feet under baby, where no one will ever find you.”

In her foggy state, she remembered him hollering at her in a stupor.

“Screw you; screw your whole family — I’ll shoot you all, one by one, and you can watch until the end. He staggered about the room, and smiled crookedly. His twisted blond hair plastered to his head, closely shaven; the hard sweat pouring off of it.

She screamed at their wedding picture on the wall: “No more — No more.”

He’d make good on the threat, Moina believed. She knew her husband would make the trip to California – or one of his pals would do it just for fun. He despised her family, especially her father, Rodger Browne.

A cold sweat swathed her face; she lifted the receiver. Weariness, the panic of a blackout, made her body twitch. Moina heard the numbers bleep in reply to her touch: 9-1-1. “Come on, just pick it up,” Moina shouted into the receiver. Static murmured, and a loud buzzing in her ears drowned out the voice that answered, “Officer Polk speaking. Hello? Is anyone there?”

***

Broken slivers of glacial blue, clear jade and bright emerald wrestled within her blood shot whites; overpowered, they lurked below their orbital rims. Moina, passing in and out of mortality, lay motionless in the hospital bed.

“She’s been like this for nearly a week — what’s the prognosis?” Roger Browne asked the Doctor.

The youthful physician answered indifferently. “This won’t be a quick fix Sir. Your daughter suffered severe bruising, several fractures of face and the nose, and the left orbital rim of her eye is extensively damaged.” He paused. “She’s not in a coma anymore, and that’s good — we were able to keep the brain swelling down. She will need to have some surgery, and a number of her teeth replaced. The blow she received to her cheekbone has left it recessed 2 mm. This may need further surgery, or may just be a cosmetic issue to consider. I’m not sure yet. We’re working on it.” He adjusted the green scrub cap that exposed a bit of blond hair. “Leave your number with the nurse’s station and we’ll keep you updated. You should go back to the hotel and rest; glad we were finally able to reach you.” With a polite smile, the young Doctor shook Browne’s hand and left the room.



Roger Browne sat heavily in the green chair in the corner of the room; he was happy his wife wasn’t alive to see this tragedy. He stared at his daughter’s battered body covered with white sheets and connected to a variety of machines. Browne often thought of her as tall and resilient, but now she looked very small and vulnerable — like a child. He was furious at his son-in-law for the abuse, and more upset at Moina for not revealing it. Browne’s grimace turned to a grin as he remembered Darrow had made a “fortunate” slip-up; he killed a cop during his escape. “This makes the mess a little easier to clean up for Moina,” Browne thought out loud. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about chasing Darrow around the courts; it’s straight to jail for him.”

Roger Browne had been an attorney in Trenton, New Jersey for over thirty years, then semi-retired to Carmel, California after his wife’s death. He felt guilty, but thanked God that Darrow killed that cop, otherwise he would have wriggled out of the abuse charge. It was unfortunate for the dead cop, though. He was just a kid. Nearly all “first time” abusers plead guilty to misdemeanor charges, and at the very worst they got a few years probation. The Judge would probably order a risk evaluation and send him to a certified anger management-counseling program, which he’d have to attend and pay for of course, but not now. Darrow killed a cop. Browne knew Moina would not want him embarrassed in court by the whole abuse scandal. She worked with him at the law firm for years as a teenager; she knew the drill. Rule one: Family laundry was never exposed.

***

White sheets merged with perspiration restrained her as she thrashed in the bed. Bells and whistles began to sound off, and a hurried Nurse burst into the room.

“You’ll have to leave — pronto!” she ordered. “Just take it down the hall,” the sizeable

Nurse demanded, motioning for Browne to leave.

Moina’s father looked at his daughter with desperation and rushed from the room.

***

“You never want to have sex.” Dennis complained.

Moina continued to convulse as the nurse injected her IV. She was in her bedroom at home, yet she knew something was peculiar; as if she were in a trance. Dennis looked so real, she thought, but something just wasn’t right. She knew it was a matter of time before the beating, and observed the usual pornographic glossies he left lying open on the bed, and the video camera propped on his dresser. “For future viewing,” she thought with disgust. Moina could smell the cheap shaving cream he used moments before. She felt unusual, as if she were going to just fade away.

Dennis Darrow, in the darkness of her memory, turned on her, shouting loathsome, vicious things. He jerked her body towards him, kissed her hard, and back handed her across the face.

She sensed his anger — her heart raced. Moina was held spellbound within the rerun her mind had conjured up. She opened her right eye, but could not see the nurse who leaned over her. Moina replayed Darrow yanking her off the floor. With brute force he threw her on the bed. Her head smashed against the wooden back board. She was about to give up. Life was not worth living this way anymore. Letting her neck go limp she allowed Darrow to gain the force he needed to send her into straight into eternity.

Just before Moina slipped away, little fingers opened the doors of her murky memory. A small voice from her past whispered, don’t give up — remember? She scarcely recognized the voice, and then she remembered. Moina felt a surge of strength and chose life in the midst of death.

***



Moina focused on the jumble of artifacts she had collected over the summer: she held in her little hands three shells, five rocks, and one massive crab claw. She grabbed the crab claw and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. Shifting artwork, papers and mountains of comic books a small spot materialized where the crab claw could safely be hidden. Her mother insisted it reeked of dead fish and demanded its removal earlier this morning. At age eight, Moina of course, did not comply. “There,” she whispered. “If you sit quietly and promise not to smell, Mom won’t find you.”

Moina always spoke to her things as if they were alive, for in her mind they were. This claw for instance could actually be the key she had been searching for. Moina gazed at the claw and touched it — eager to transform into something more powerful. She pictured herself in a sleek red outfit, with a perfectly fit body, and hands that would transform into enormous fiery claws anytime she said the words, “Lobster Woman”. She closed her eyes, and earnestly whispered, “Lobster Woman.” Moina opened one eye and noticed there was no sleek red outfit, or claws of any sort on her childlike body. Holding her breath, Moina Browne tried again and shouted, “Lobster Woman!”

Giggles burst from behind her. Moina’s little brother was laughing uncontrollably, and her mother, who had been watching from the bedroom door, rolled her eyes. “Brian, go clean your room,” she ordered. Brian bounced away, shouting “Lobster, Lobster, Lobster Woman!” and continued in fits of hilarity.

“Hand it over,” Moina’s mother ordered.

Moina lifted her precious link to the super human universe out of its hiding spot and said, “You don’t understand.”

Her mother took it from her hands. “You are right, I don’t. Moina, your time would be better spent studying your math — dinners in a half hour.” She walked out of Moina’s room and closed the door.

Sliding the bottom draw shut Moina looked over toward her desk. Math, Science and English books sat, uniformly arranged, awaiting the touch of her long freckled fingers. Underneath the pile was a tattered English composition book with pages thickened by over use. Moving her schoolwork to the side, she reverently held the worn book, and opened to the first page. By now, Moina knew the following questions word for word.

Ten ways to tell if you are Super Human:

1. Do you have superhuman strength, courage, or the ability to fly?

2. Are your five senses more powerful than regular humans?

3. Do you feel the need to protect others, and do you have a secret identity?

4. Have you figured out what your super-theme is?

5. Do you have a costume? Is it super strength?

6. Do you have arch enemies?

7. Do you have any superhero friends?

8. Do you have a secret control center?

9. Do you have a super weapon?

10. How did you become a superhero?

Moina opened to the page her pencil was stuck in and placed a big “X” through her cartoon of Lobster Woman. This was one of many pages that had big “X’s” through other super human identities that hadn’t worked out. Moina was getting close to the end of the notebook. If she didn’t find out what sort of a super human she was soon, she would need to start Book Two. “So far,” Moina whispered, “I have plenty of arch enemies, feel the need to protect others and have a secret identity that I really don’t like. That’s it.” Moina closed the book, and hid it in her desk drawer. Walking toward the mirror Moina asked, “Aren’t you ever going to change?” The solemn looking eight year old stared back at her and seemingly whispered, “Sorry”. Moina picked the blue comb up off the dresser and brushed her hair. It really didn’t help; the girl in the mirror was still as plain as ever: thin brown hair, sad jade eyes - nothing special. She wasn’t ugly, and wasn’t pretty — just plain, pale and freckled. Worst of all, there wasn’t a hint of anything super. Moina tried looking intently at the girl, seeing if her eyes could shoot paranormal laser beams into the mirror that might shape her features into something a little more interesting. It would also take care of number two on her list of super human requirements: powerful senses.

“Moina – Dinner!”

Her mother’s voice broke Moina’s concentration.

“I’m coming,” Moina shouted.

After she took her seat at the table, Mom put a big plate of spaghetti in front of her. It looked like worms in tomato sauce, and Moina swore one was squirming.

“But Mom,” she complained.

“Before you start, we were all out of shells, sorry.” her Mom said. “Just dig in and don’t look.”

Moina listened to Mom and Dad talk about their latest legal cases and watched her brother Brian clank his fork slaying his spaghetti worms. Her sisters Maggie and Irene were fighting as usual. Moina tried a few bites, but just couldn’t erase the image. She had a bad feeling about school tomorrow; her stomach started churning as she pushed the plate away. Deciding to try and make the “worms” work for her, Moina put on her best under the weather face. “Mom, I don’t feel well,” she said.

Her mother scanned her with an invisible sick child sensor glance and proclaimed, “You’ll be fine. You don’t have to finish, just scrape the plate clean and put it in the sink, OK?”

Moina threw the squirming pasta off her plate, into the trash, and left like a flash. The stairs creaked as she climbed them. Moina noticed it was starting to get colder. It was only the beginning of October.



***



“Mrs. Darrow, look at me and FOCUS!” the Nurse ordered.

Moina reemerged, staring with her one good eye into the dark skin of a woman she did not know, and began to weep.

“Stay with me now,” the nurse said opening the curtains.

Sunlight flooded the small room.

“I’m dead,” Moina whispered.

“My name is Sara, I am your nurse, and let me assure you — you won’t die on my watch. It was just a dream — a very bad dream.” Sara Jones checked a few things off on the chart at the end of the bed. “You’ve been out of it for quite a while — welcome back Moina,” she continued, re-taping the IV to her right hand.

Moina began to move her left hand cautiously towards her face.

“Don’t go there yet honey — Ok?” the veteran nurse asked.

“I feel like crap, and I must look worse,” Moina answered lethargically.

“I’ll let you look tomorrow, if you follow my orders today.

Familiar bells and whistles began to sound off, and Moina fell limp.

Nurse Jones shouted, “Damn,” picked up the phone, and yelled into the receiver, “Code Blue — get the crash cart in here now!”

***



Moina put on her blue checked Catholic School uniform, and readied herself. She still felt uneasy — like something really bad was going to happen. But bad things always happened to Moina at Mary’s Blessed Academy, and she wondered why the panic over today. The weekend was great. She had a grand time with her first friend — plus an overnighter! The first sleep over she had ever been invited to. Kate was a new transfer student from California, and invited Moina to her home Friday after school. They caught tadpoles together, laughed and played, and told secrets before bed.

Moina had a real friend now, even thought the rest of the school hated her. “How could anything be wrong?” she whispered. Rushing down the stairs, Moina bypassed the kitchen.

“Well at least take your lunch,” her mother said rushing after her.

“Thanks mom.” She answered giving her mother a nervous peck on the cheek and grabbed the crumpled bag. Opening the door, a rush of spring air greeted her drying the sweat on her forehead.

For Moina, going to the bus stop was a nightmare. She stood alone, praying to God that they would leave her be, just this once. The wind blew her hair around and she began to hear them whispering, laughing. A bright splash of yellow crested the hill, but not before Moina felt a sharp crack to the back of her head.

“Bullseye!” the large one shouted, “I hit it in the head with a rock — score!”

The boys snorted and laughed.

Moina felt a tear start to fall, but reminded herself firmly that super-humans don’t cry. She pretended not to notice the growing lump on her head and grabbed her book bag. The

yellow bus came to a shrieking halt and the familiar doors opened. Monia grabbed the seat right behind the driver.

“Look at its new hairdo,” a cluster of 10-year-old girls behind Moina giggled, “Doesn’t it look pretty!”

The largest of the bunch stuck her hand in Monia’s hair and messed it up.

“Yuck, you touched its hair,” one of the other girls shouted.

“Knock it off and get to your seat,” the ancient bus driver growled. He had seen how the kids treated Moina earlier in the year; he’d save the front seat for her each day by laying his dirty coat across the bench. “Just shove it over when you board,” he whispered to Moina one morning early in September.

It was April now, and Moina was grateful. She didn’t care if the coat was dirty and smelled of cigarettes. Moina thanked God for the ancient bus driver. The bus pulled forward with a lurch. Moina knew the Nuns and Priest allowed the bullies to control the turf at Mary’s Blessed Academy. It wasn’t worth mentioning the increased swelling of the lump on her head.

In fact, Sister Bridget told Moina one afternoon, after another “incident,” that harassment and brutality helped form character, and Moina might make a fine Nun herself one day because of it.

“Don't be late. Don't chew gum. Sit up straight,” a group of girls whispered, mocking Sister Bridget, as they hung up their coats in the closet.

It was a huge closet Moina thought to herself, and then she saw Kate and smiled. She couldn’t believe she finally had a friend!

Kate looked nervously over at the group of girls still standing near the door. “Tell her,” one said with a glare. Kate rolled her eyes and pulled Moina in the closet. “Moina,” Kate began sadly, “I can’t be your friend anymore. They all told me about – well, you know,” she said looking at Moina.

Moina hung her head in the dimly lit space. “They said they’d treat me like you if we stayed friends.” The two girls locked eyes: Moina’s were pleading; Kate’s were brimming with tears.

“Gotta go, sorry,” Kate said, and she hung up her coat and left.

Monia felt hot tears sting her cheeks, and she wept. The super human rule was broken, but Moina didn’t care anymore; she angrily wiped the tears off on her sleeve, and left the closet.

***

Nurse Jones watched Monia breathe heavily and noticed tears rolling down her cheek. The monitors suggested that she might be having another dream, or she might be in pain. She checked the chart and injected her IV with morphine. She was just about due for it anyway.

The door creaked and Roger Browne entered softly with a cup of coffee. “How is she?” he asked quietly.

Nurse Jones looked up into the blue eyes of the anxious father and answered, “She’s stable. That’s real good. All we can do now is wait, and pray. Moina’s strong, and in my opinion she’ll pull through this just fine,” she affirmed with a smile.

Browne ran a hand through his thinning hair and laughed. “You’re right — she’s strong.” Sitting down in the corner chair his demeanor revealed that he intended to keep vigil tonight; Nurse Jones left the room and whispered, “Call me if you need me.”

Browne watched as Moina’s body twitched and moved.

She didn’t appear at all peaceful.

“How could she be?” Roger thought pensively. Raising a grey eyebrow, he remembered that tomorrow would be Easter Sunday. Browne recalled sharing car rides with Moina when she was little, and helping her to memorize songs for school. She had such a lovely little voice; too bad it was snuffed out by that wretched place. “Why did she wait so long to tell us?” He thought rubbing his tired face. Moina never told her parents anything. Browne remembered the day she came home with a broken nose. The Superior Nun called him to the office and informed him that there had been “other mishaps” in the past, and perhaps God wanted Moina to suffer as Christ had suffered.

“What a load of crap,” Browne growled. He was still annoyed at his wife for not letting him sue the Catholic School once he found out the truth.

Moina asked him not to sue as well; she just wanted to forget about it all and he respected that.

Peg Browne was willing to agree to send Moina to Public School, and he knew this was a big step for his wife to make. Peg was a strong willed woman, and a good attorney, he remembered. She emigrated from Ireland and he knew when he married her that Catholicism was a big part of her life.

He still missed Peg, and hoped that she didn’t mind, wherever she may be, that he left the Catholic Church after she died. He couldn’t stomach it any longer; once she was gone he was free of that religious burden. Browne found a nice country church in Carmel near his firm. It was small, the Pastor was kind, and he felt comfortable there; closer to God. Browne knew Moina would too if she decided to return to California with him.

Nurse Jones reappeared after an hour or so and busily checked the monitors. She changed the IV bags and made sure Moina was as comfortable as possible.

Browne said, “It looks like she is in pain – she keeps twitching and mumbling uneasily.”

The Nurse sighed, and responded. “I noticed that before – thought it might be the pain. She’s probably dreaming again – it’s common for abuse victims to have some pretty wicked

dreams. Post Traumatic Stress – you should read up on it,” she added earnestly.

They both looked at Monia: Skin like white Carrara marble draped her fine features.

They bowed their heads and prayed.

Nurse Jones prayed to Jesus for help.

Roger Browne prayed to God and damned his son-in-law to Hell.

***

It was Thursday; Moina hated Thursdays. She was a nervous wreck as she climbed the worn steps of the choir loft.

One boy pulled her hair.

Moina acted as if it never happened.

Ms. Polite, who was anything but polite, expected perfection from her pupils. She towered over her students, and they cowered under her stout silhouette. She was known to be the meanest teacher at Mary’s Blessed Academy, and she wasn’t even a Nun!

Although her father practiced Ave Maria with Moina on long private rides through the countryside, Moina just couldn’t make the lines stick. They slipped through her memory like the sand in an hour glass.

Dad laughed, “Don’t take it so seriously honey; you don’t really have to sing if you don’t want to – just mouth it. Trust me - no one will ever know.”

But Moina knew something her father didn’t: Ms. Polite was a pitiless music teacher who whipped students' hands with her baton if they sang off key, or messed up the words, and sometimes she did worse things.

Moina shuddered remembering her last “punishment”.

Ave Maria would be practiced today in preparation for the Spring Cantata tonight; all parents and parishioners were invited to attend.

Music was not Moina’s super human strength — at least in her opinion.

Ms. Polite kept time with a staff she cracked on the floor; there were craters left in the choir loft floor; craters Moina wished she could crawl under.

As the organist began a run through of Ave Maria Ms. Polite reminded her students that, “The Latin language can be easily learned through memorization and music drills.”

Moina remembered her father’s words this morning: “the ability to study music is a God-given gift.”

But what if God hadn’t given me this gift? she wondered. Monia prayed that Ms. Polite would make her rounds, bang her staff, and forget all about her, but she didn’t.

As childlike voices resounded in Latin, the Music Teacher paused in front of Moina and shouted, “Stop!”

“Ms. Browne, you’re not singing…,” she growled.

Moina didn’t know what to say. She froze.

Ms. Polite gripped her staff tightly. She towered over Moina, and her wrinkled lips curled into a crooked smile. “What, no answer? What a pity,” she bellowed, “I guess you’ll have to sing it for all of us then, in Latin, clearly, and ALONE!”

Moina grew faint and shouted a feeble, “No!”

Students began to snicker.

Ms. Polite drew her arm back with the intent of striking the girl. Moina crouched into a ball trying to hide.

A strong hold seized the flabby arm and spun the shocked Music Teacher around. Glacial blue, clear jade and bright emerald seared angrily in the eyes of her challenger. She grabbed the staff out of Ms. Polite’s hand, broke it over her knee, and tossed it over the loft. The pieces clattered as they hit the marble floor below.

“Get the hell out of here – Now!” she shouted. Ms. Polite scampered down the choir steps as rapidly as an overweight rat after a piece of ripe cheese.

The Challenger whispered to Moina kindly, “don’t give up – remember?”

From her crouched position on the floor Moina looked up into familiar eyes, smiled, and she remembered. Moina extended a frail white hand to a parallel hand with mirrored freckles.

“Remember what Dad said, you don’t have to sing if you don’t want to,” the Challenger whispered.

Moina thought about it solemnly, and decided, “I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to stay here anymore; will you finally forgive me?”

The Challenger paused, searching through a scrap book of painful memories, and answered, “Yes,” as she received the childlike Moina back into her spirit.

Moina sighed contently, “I’ve been waiting for such a long time. Why did you forget about me?” she asked.

The Challenger laughed. “I might have tried for a while, but how could I forget

about you! We’re super humans you know — and without each other we can’t succeed. That’s the link we’ve been searching for all these years. We’re part of each other — we need to help each other - we’re the key!”

****

Moina pulled up to her former home in her tightly packed pick up truck. The “For Sale” sign gleamed in the sun, and was soon to be replaced with a “sold” sign. She still wore sunglasses outside, even though her eye surgery had been completed months ago.

The Doctor said her left eye would be light sensitive forever. As for her other injuries Moina healed incredibly well.

Hopping out of the truck, she grabbed the keys looking for the appropriate one. Unlocking the front door, she headed up the stairs. Looking at the packed boxes in the living room below, she felt both a wave of both panic and relief. Moina stood in front of the bedroom door and paused.

“Well, let’s get this over with, shall we!” Moina said with determination. The last things she had to do were to pack her suitcase and then something a little harder. After that, she was on her way to a new life at the lake house upstate.

Her father wanted her to return with him to California, but she said she needed to make a fresh start on her own. Moina rationalized, while pleading her case to her father, that he could see her more often, as he used the lake house in New York State as an escape from his job in

Carmel. Fishing was his passion, and he loved the east coast’s fall foliage. They could now enjoy both things together.

She smiled, remembering his observation that she was as persuasive as her mother, and she should become an attorney.

Moina had little interest in anything regarding the law. She was actually giving thought to furthering her academic career and pursuing a Master of Arts Degree at a University upstate. She knew here father would approve. Moina opened the box marked “clothing” and pulled out enough to last her a week. She carefully packed the suitcase. The movers were bringing the rest of what she wanted to keep to a storage facility near the lake house. She’d decide what to do with all of it later — when she had time to think and she was settled in to her new life.

“Now for the hard part,” Moina whispered. She had gone through her photo albums in her desk last week. Most of her married life was in the trash, and a small piece of her past was still under consideration. Monia lifted the two photo albums and leafed through the yellowed pages. There were several blank sheets; those were the photographs she asked her mother to remove. She remembered the day well.

Her Mother advised, “Don’t get rid of all the school pictures of my poor little Moina – Remember, the teasing and abuse wasn’t her fault. One day you might actually want her to be a part of your life.”

Her mother was right, of course, but at the time Moina was a teenager, in her senior year of High School, and trying very hard to dispose of her past and was about to lurch into a worse one.

Her mother agreed to remove all the photographs, if Moina agreed to keep one, wrapped safely in her grandmother’s handkerchief.

Moina pealed back the aged linen and exposed a small photograph of a forlorn girl robed in blue tartan; their eyes locked. For the first time, Moina smiled and touched the little face.

“Well, small one, we are going on a journey together just like I promised,” she said holding the picture close.

The snap shot wasn’t damaged, and Moina had picked out a perfect little frame. Reaching into her purse she pulled it out.

Moina carefully slid the photograph behind the glass and said, “Well, we may never actually be super human, but we can still do super things and maybe even have a little fun for once in our life!

Moina let out a deep sigh of relief, and bowed her head and prayed thanking God for the little friend she had finally found.

“We’ll make it on this journey – together.”

Moina slipped the frame into the right pocket of her leather jacket, and slung her purse onto her shoulder. Closing the suitcase with a double snap, Moina grabbed the handle and headed down the familiar stairs for the final time.

They were free at last.