I.R. - 07142006 - Assault on an Officer

On Friday, July 14, 2006 at approx. 2132 I (Ofc. J. Glover) was conducting an interior patrol of the Fairchild property. Upon entering the Galley I observed a suspicious person (later identified as Mr. B. Rian). I approached Mr. B. Rian and asked to see some identification at which time he attempted to strike me in the chest with a closed fist. I leaned back causing the swing to miss and then stepped away from Mr. B. Rian. Mr. B. Rian advanced on me and kicked me in the upper thigh. I stepped into the trapping range (a close proximity fighting range) and applied a knee strike to Mr. B. Rian's Common Peronial. He stumbled to his left and as he did I applied a forearm strike to his Brachial Plexus. Once on the ground, Mr. B. Rian stopped resisting and allowed me to place him in handcuffs with no further incident. I was able to notify Plano Police Department at approx. 2134. Plano Police Officers B. Rooklyn (badge #0001) and K. Ylea (badge #0002) arrived on scene at approx. 2155 and took custody of Mr. B. Rian. Plano Police cleared the scene at approx. 2215. Case #12345. Nothing further to report.

Incedent #3402

On the evening of the twenty third of October, 2002, at approximately 9:24 PM, Mrs. Babs Smith called the front desk to report that her mink coat had gone missing. She had last seen it at approximately 5:30 PM, just before leaving her room for dinner.

At 9:32 PM I went to her room to take inventory of the scene. It was somewhat in a mess, but Mrs. Smith said that it may have gotten that way when her and her husband, Mr. Smith, were preparing for dinner. While looking around the room I had noticed a wallet on the table. The wallet was open and the name on the New York drivers license was Lonny Malovich.

When I questioned Mr and Mrs Smith about the wallet they both acted like it was not theirs. However, upon picking up the wallet it was clear to me that Mr. Smith was indeed Mr Malovich. He then became very angry and argumentative. I eventually had to use restraints on Mr. Malovich.

At 9:53 PM I called 911. The Drivesdale Police arrived at 10:05 PM. The removed Mr. Malovich's plastic cuffs and restrained him with Police issue cuffs. Mrs. Smith was also restrained and both were taken in for questioning. One of the offices recognised Mr. Malovich as being wanted in the state of Navada for robbery.

Upon further investigation it turned out that the room was registered to a Mr. and Mrs Johnny Smith, from Utah. They were found early the next morning after coming in from a late night out. They had lost there keys and stopped by the front desk to aquire a new key to their room. There was no mink coat.

3 Pillars of Joy!

The three things that bring a smile to my lips:

1. The Future. I would call myself a futurist. I read a lot about what is coming soon. It excites me almost to a frenzy.
2. The thought of the impossible becoming, well, possible. Do you remember "It"? It was a under the covers invention that was created by an incredible inventor named Dean Kamen. He invented the iBOT, which is a mechanized wheelchair that climbs obstacles such as stairs. He also invented a mobile dialysis system for medical applications.

Anyway, because of all of the patents surrounding Kamen there was a cult following about what "It" was. There were rumors going around that it could be anything from a transport device (much like that found on star trek) to a hover board. It ended up being a gyroscopic scooter called the Segway, but for a few weeks I was in geek heaven.

3. The perfect stroke. I'm not talking about golf. I'm talking art. There is such a thing of beauty that is the single perfect line or stroke. It can be the line of a woman's back, or the cut of a horse's eyelid. But the perfect stroke is a thing of beauty, worthy of admiration.

Jared's Premise

Okay, I know it is really late, but this shouldn't take too long if you want to do it.

I want everyone to think of something (real or otherwise) that you would define an INCIDENT. Something that you feel you would need to report to someone. Then I want you to write an incident report. Include Who, What, Where, When, Why and How. Also include names: Victim, Witness, Suspect, etc. Bear in mind that reports deal with facts only. Do not DRAW CONCLUSIONS or include OPINIONS. This is not a story but an account written simply and clearly enough that if I were a member of a jury (I use that example to add weight) who was not at the scene, I could still understand what happened. I hope you have fun with this. I am going to make it Courtney's headache to set a due date for this. I hope she can get us back on schedule.

My Three

Okay, I know I am late, but here is a shot at my three favorite things.

NFL Football. I love to watch it on TV and play it on PlayStation 2. Something about grown men beating the crap out of each other makes me happy. It helps me work out my agression.

Guns. I love guns. I want to own more of them. I like to shoot, I like to watch other people shoot, I like to hear stories about shooting. I just love guns! Plus, the smell of the gunpowder is nice.

And I like to pay bills. This may fall too close to the money thing, if so then I am sorry. It isn't that I like having bills, I just like getting them paid and putting them out of my mind. Granted I need help with them all too often, but I would rather be able to pay my bills than not have them because I cannot afford them.

I hope that is what you were looking for!

The Three Knights

• The night was dark and still. Barbie’s “supplier” had just left after delivering her “recreational” provisions. As Barbie placed the small colorful scrap of paper on her tongue, she prepared to be whisked away to “Fairytopia”…

  Okay, I am kidding. Let’s start again.

  As the night wore on, Barbie found herself lying restlessly, her mind racing through silly trivial thoughts. She wanted so badly to turn it all off and go to sleep, but alas, it would not work. Finally she gave up and decided to go for a walk down the little forest trail that she had used since she was a small girl. Just outside the Castle gate, she picked up the path and began to wind through the trees toward the stream where she used to spend her days swimming and sunbathing. She remembered how simple life was then. No worries, no deadlines, just being a kid and having fun. She longed for those days again. Barbie found herself sitting next to the water looking at her reflection.

  In the morning, Ken woke up to find that his beloved Barbie was gone. He looked all around the Castle, and asked all of the staff that worked there, but no one had seen her. Ken began to worry. He called all of his knights together and told them to scour the surrounding land and find his love. Hour after hour crept by, but still no word. One knight went to the cave that was said to be home to a dragon of immense size. Cautiously he made his way inside quietly looking for the lost damsel. Another knight found himself staring at the bridge that no one was brave enough to cross for stories of the troll that kidnapped and tortured anyone who dare try to pass. Yet another knight found himself at the seashore where stories of monsters had originated. Each of the brave knights swallowed his fear and began the dangerous trek across his obstacle to find Ken’s wife who the entire kingdom adored. Any one of the knights would lay down his life to save Barbie.

  As the sun crept higher into the sky and the day neared the noon hour, Barbie awoke. She had crawled under a fallen tree and slept, finally, only to stir late in the day. After a moment, she realized that Ken would worry about her. She quickly began the trek home.

  Upon arrival at the Castle, Barbie ran into the three knights who returned at the same time from their adventures. She listened as each one told their story.

  “I was nervous about going into that cave, but I knew that Barbie might be in there, so I had to go. About five steps in I heard a great roar. It scared me to death. But I pressed on. Then, about thirty paces into the cave, I found a small pool of water. The melting snowcaps from the mountain feed that pool, and every few seconds, another rush of water causes a loud crashing wave in the pool. There is no dragon, just his roar!”

  “Well, I found myself at that troll bridge. People have reported actually seeing the troll and running away before it could catch them. I too had no choice but to overcome my fear and cross the bridge looking for Barbie. About halfway across the bridge, I saw the troll moving up the bank of the river below me. I drew my sword, and the troll stopped. I called out a warning, but the troll just stayed in the same place watching me. Finally I made my way to the troll, and found that it wasn’t a troll at all. It was just an old thorn bush that had a discarded cloak tangled up in it. It looked real enough, but I guess that is what happens when no one is brave enough to take a closer look.”

  “Well, I found myself at the coast of the great sea thinking about the monster that has terrorized the coast for years. There was no boat big enough to provide safety, but I had to go out anyway to look for Barbie. So I climbed into a small rowboat and began paddling into the open water. I was about a thousand yards off the coast when the water around me began to boil. My heart raced, and I drew my sword not knowing what I was about to encounter. The water became more violent with each passing moment. Just as I thought the boat would sink into the whirlpool that was being created, a school of dolphins surfaced and began swimming all around me. Back and forth, jumping over the bow of my boat. I couldn’t believe my eyes. With a school of dolphins that large, nothing dangerous could possibly reside in that part of the ocean. The stories of the hideous sea creatures must have been sailors who were frightened by the playful dolphins.”

  “I am sorry I caused you so much trouble,” Barbie said to the three knights, “but at least we finally know the secrets of our land, and can begin to feel safe with our surroundings. Next time, I will leave Ken a note so that he knows where to look for me.”

  The End

Barbie's Dark Night

Barbie slid down the tree and landed squarely on her feet. That was easy enough. She then turned and headed down the street. Where was she headed? Her friend Jan's cast;e? That sounded like a good idea. It was far, she thought. But she carried on anyway.

As she got further and further away from her castle she realized that it was quite scary out side on a strange street without anyone else with her. Things looked so different at night. She could hear noises, but she didn't know what they were.

Just then a stranger rode up next to her on a giant horse.

"My lady. What art tho doing outside of the castle walls on an eve such as this?" The man asked. He had such a gravely voice. It really scared Barbie. She didn't know what to do. She knew her mommy and daddy had told her never to talk to strangers. But they weren't there now, were they?

"Waiting upon my gaurdsmen, Sir."

"Lass, I am affraid your are alone!" The man leaned down and smiled a crooked smile.

Barbie did what she had been told. She turned and began to run. She ran as hard and as fast as she could until she got back to the castle gate. There were her mommy and daddy frantically looking for her and calling her name. They were so glad to find her!

Barbie would never sneak out of the castle again!

Taste Great! Less Filling!

The grass is greener... greener... green...gr.

I believe that sometimes this is true. Think about it. Your fenced it. There's grass over there with no one else gnawing on it. It's just sitting there soaking up the sun, glistening with the morning's cold dew. Just beckoning you, "Hey, I'm greener. No other cows over there to poop on me! You want to eat me!"

So, you practice your cow-quando and hurdle the fence. Then the ranch hand comes after you with that darned horse who calls himself, "The King", and that rope of his. He chases you down the fence line until you realize that if you turn off to the right, away from that horrid fence, then you just might be able to shake him. It's worth a try. Besides that there's a nasty looking corner of the barbed wire headed right for your beautiful snout. So you do it.

A hard right turn and you duck under the snarl of the thorny brush and into the creek bed. You pause just for a second to glance to your left and right. Which way? Just then the rope of the cowboy glances off your right horn. Good thing he's not a good shot, huh?

So you decide to go straight. It might be difficult for his majesty to haul that fat butt poke up the other side, but you can slip through, you and your slim figure. So as you crest the other side of the creek you can hear the painful screams of the lost rider and the horse appears alone. You stare him down thinking, you can take him. This equestrian wuss. He's not even that much bigger than you. You duck your head and begin to fling the earth into a fine mist about you as you prepare to challenge the other other red meat.

Just then the stupid human emerges yelling all sorts of profanity as he is trying ever so hard to gather himself and his rope. He sees you and you see him. Change of plan. If it were just the horse, no problem. But this dope is just too much trouble. So you pivot ever so gracefully to your right and head the other direction.

Since you are somewhat wider than the given trail it becomes more and more painful as the native nasty thorns try their best to tear at your hips. Ahh, those wide hips. You wish you had joined the cow-yoga class earlier this spring now. You duck and scramble, but you can hear the thud, thud, thud of the mounted one behind you. You wind and work your way through the brush, crossing creek after creek until you see a break in the wood. Your thinking this is it! This must be somewhere I can really cut loose and get away from this guy!

As you clear the shrubs you are presented with a different obstacle: another barbed wire fence. You don't even have time to think about it. Your training takes over and you vault your girth upward and over the fence, just clearing it. But your follower was not as lucky. That's what he should go by, not "The King", but "Lucky". The horse managed to stop, but when he did the rider didn't. He comes flailing at you like a shot duck. Just as he is about to hit you, you move and he lands right in a pile of...

Wait a minute. This place looks all to familiar. "Oh crud! I'm back in my pasture! Well, I guess it wasn't worth it after all!" So, you just mosey over to your friends who are now staring at you in utter disbelief as you waltz up and begin to eat the ever so sweet green-gray grass...on your side of the fence.

Stream 2

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. I’ve heard that all my life. Thing is, I have never crossed the fence. I have seen what lies on the other side, and wanted it. Sure I know that the odds are that once I get it, it won’t be what I thought. I still wouldn’t know. It is an odd saying though if you think about it. Where did it originate? What person decided that the particular hue of color on the other side of the fence mattered? Why is it even considered a viable cliché? Am I now being compared to a cow? They don’t care how green the grass is, and they are dumb. If I am to look at the world as a cow, then I have larger problems than how green some grass is. I need to break away from the herd. Move in my own circle. March to the beat of a different drummer. Now there is a good militant cliché. It makes sense, and it instills a sense of order. That is what I am looking for. Someone who believes in order. I hate open ended “hey you” practices. Plot and plan what you are going to do. Spontaneity is inefficient. It may work sometimes, but deadlines cannot exist without order.

Okay, that is my ten minutes. What now?

Summer Is Coming

Do not fear my love.
Spring renews from high above.
Prepare for the heat.

Premise: Haiku

Our Premise in Spring
Would be of the Haiku way
So tap your keyboard


That's right! A Haiku. A Haiku is the simplest of literary forms. It follows a fairly strict pattern, the first line has 5 syllables , the second has 7 and the third, again, 5. Haiku's can normally be about anything, but ours will be about fear.

If you need more info on Haiku's, please check http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku.

The Architect

My earliest memories were filled with being able to design and build things. When I was about eight or nine I took a bunch of scrap wood and built a bridge in my grandparents backyard in Odessa, Texas. I always knew I wanted to be an Architect. But apparently I didn't understand back then exactly what type I wanted to be.

When I was growing up I took all the drafting and building classes I could. But then I was side-tracked for several years chasing art, which is still a passion of mine. But somehow I got into programming. Over the years I have found that I am rather good at it. I have a very logical mind. I have always had a deep interest in tearing things apart and discovering how they work. As a software developer, I get to build things. As a Software Architect I would get to design entire systems.

A Software Architect and a Building Architect share quite a few similarities. You are responsible for the entire project. It's success, or failure, relies on how good your design is. You must manage a throng of people and make sure that your plan is carried out to the fullest. You must be well read and well practiced. You must understand the latest techniques in your trade, better than anyone else around you.

So how can I get there? I'm already on my way. It's been, and will continue to be, a long and difficult journey. There are projects that I have worked on that have consumed over one hundred hours per week of my time. There have been times when I was afraid I would crack under the tremendous pressure.

Several years ago I was responsible for converting my companies entire suite of web applications from Tango to Active Server Pages, two completely different technologies. It was a more difficult task because of the fact that I was not brought into the project until the very last moment. I was given two months to do so, which was impossible. I feverishly worked around the clock while my very pregnant wife sat at home by herself in a town three hundred miles away from her family. There was a two week period toward the end where I did not see her at all. Not because she had gone somewhere else, but because I would work until long after she had gone to bed, and then get up long before she would. She, of course, was furious with me. So the launch deadline came and everyone in the company was very excited about it. Our web site had five thousand dedicated daily users from around the world. Our site would now support five languages. And it would be more performant than ever before. We had a lot riding on it. I had a lot riding on it. So, when the night came we were to launch I had the VP of Marketing in my office as well as my boss who was the Director of IT. There were also ten others waiting in my office, champaign in hand. We launched, everything broke. Ouch. I spent the next two sleepless days fixing everything, and it all ended up fine. But can you imagine the stress.

So in my career I have often encountered several instances of stress like that. But what I learned over the years is that you benefit greatly by having an architect on the project. An architect could have dealt with marketing and let them know that they were wrong in not letting me know ahead of time. He could have designed the bugs out of my systems before I coded them. That's what I want to be some day.

So, what are my next steps? What does it take to be an architect? There are two paths, both of which take a tremendous amount of time. You can either go the scholastic route, earning your Masters or PhD in Computer Science. You then still have to work in the field, first as a developer then working your way up. Or you can choose the path that I inadvertently have. You step into the field and work your way through. You do all the jobs that no one else can or will and you put in your hours. You take your lumps and learn from them.

My current boss has been a Software Architect for many years. He's been in software development for over twenty five years. He told me that I was on the cusp of being an architect. I just had a few things to work on, Most of which are my project management skills. Microsoft has an architecture program which I want to get into. But the requirements are that you be in software development for at least ten years. You must also be in a valid architecture role for at least three years. And you must have a certified architect nominate you. After your nomination you must write a thesis paper and defend it before a panel of ten other architects in a week long process in Redman, Washington. You must also pass numerous tests and hold several certifications. You must also have published several papers in industry leading publications. Like I said, it's a long and difficult journey. But one worth doing.

So what do I have left? Well, I have been in software development for eight years. I have no certifications, although I have ordered a set of training material to prepare my slept for the first round of exams and certifications. I have a software architect, in my boss, that is training me for an architect role. Just a few more years.

Better late than never - Clean's stream

Procrastination, that pretty much sums me up. I need to act faster. Be on the ball. I’m tired. 0430 – God doesn’t even turn the sun on until 0700. Nothing in my mind. I am not sure if this works with someone like me. I can’t just let my mind wonder. I always end up trying to tell a story. Whether something that happened in my past, or making something up. See, I am doing it now. Logan is awake. He wakes up slow like I do. Don’t mess with him when he first wakes. He will scream at you…much like me. I wonder if coffee would help. I am sure that he would like it. I don’t know if I would like him on it. He is energetic enough without it. I wish I had his energy. I need to start working out. I am tried of being pudgy. I don’t know where to go with this anymore. I don’t have any thoughts in my head. Well, I guess that isn’t true. I must have thoughts if I am writing. What would it be like if I truly had no thought. I think Brian is home. Logan needs a new diaper. He is pretty soggy. Five more minutes. Who came up with time? I don’t mean who created it, but who decided how long a second is? Why are there 60 of them in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour, but 24 hours in a day? Didn’t these people know about standardization? And why do we have an extra day every fourth year? That is just lack of proper math. If they had taken more time with the equation, I am sure that there would have been another way to incorporate that day. Add another minute to each day, or a second. Would that work? Is leap year the only way? How did I get here? “This is not my beautiful wife!” That was a fun song. The Talking Heads…great name. Well, that is my 15. This makes no sense.

Brian's Stream

I sit in my cave, my view of the world tainted by the metallic shades slanted open ever so slightly that the sunlight may make its way in. I wonder how this weekend will go. I don't really want to work today, but I will. I have to completely change the way the organizer works. I hear voices outside my door. I hope they don't interrupt this. I like writing. Courtney makes fun of me all the time because of my spelling and grammer, or lack there of. I like writing. I think it gives me another creative outlet that I had not explored before, not to this extent. I wonder if the way I write is the way I draw or paint. I have always been a big picture person. You know, where I like to see the over all end result instead of worrying over the little details. I like to paint too. I wish I had more time to do so.

Thought number 20. I like the fact that I can listen to music while I work. People think I'm nuts. I don't know why but I can get in a better "groove" if I have some music in the back ground. I think its because of its rythm. The pulsating beats as the words drip over them. I can think in that same beat. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. write a line of code with the key strokes following the very pulsating instant gratification of the music. Its soothing. Its calming. I like to lay my head back in my chair. I wish it were colder in here. Its hot.

Thought number 40. I don't know if I am doing this right or not. Back to programming. Its something about the music. I like being alone and programming. People bug me too much. It breaks my flow. In the flow. I should put that on my door. When I get interrupted it takes too much time to get back in the flow. The flow is important to programmers you know? The flow is what good code comes from. Creative code. Ideas that would not manafest themselves other wise. I wish I would have an original thought. Maybe I am too hard on my self. If life like were only like a video game. Where I could get to certain stages... and then hit save. That way, when I screwed up I could just go back and start from the part that I was right on.

Thought number 60. I can't wait to get to the next level of ubiquitous programming. Programming models where stuff just works. I can't wait to the next boom really happens. Its so weird knowing that we are about to hit another revolution and the world seems not to know. I know so many people that are living like its 1999 and I can feel 2020 closing in. I wonder what people will think when we have things like self controled cars that can freely operate on a highway, warn you when issues arrive, or take care of them itself. I wonder what people will think when they can infact talk to their computer that can seemingly make its own judgments about what you ask for. Not just do what you asked for. It's strange thinking of it in those terms though.

Thought number 80. I don't know if it will be right. I mean, if a computer really acted like it had artificial intelegence then it could make the consious decision to act on, or not, what you have requested. Imagine, "Computer, please pull up Google search." Computer, "Not really feeling like doing that right now. Watching the news. Please check back in 10 minutes." ouch. That would be frustrating. There would have to be some rules. Like children. It could be smart, but only like a smart child that was to do everything I ordered it, or it might get grounded. And have the TV taken away. But if stuff just worked, that would be great. I can't wait. People don't know how close we are yet. There is so much user experience revolution going on right now. Computers sucked back in the 90's. Yeah, I said it. Those of us who wrote software, we didn't take the time.

Thought number 100. I can't wait. Cars will soon under go such a revolution. The convergance of computers and cars is taking place right now. I don't know if my friends or family know it or not, but soon they will be able to interact with their cars like no body's business. We will have a complete convergance of Internet communication bringing applications into the cars that are just out of this world. You'll be able to tell your car the restaraunt you want to go to. Your car will confirm, "You mean the one on Lemmon and 32nd?" "Yes" "Ok, sit back and relax and we'll be there in 13 minutes and 45 seconds." This is what I've been waiting for. I'm disappointed that it is taking so long. I wish it would have happened 10 years ago. I can remember when the famous "IT" came out a few years ago. I was soo pumped. I was hoping for a floating transpertation device, or a teletransporter all together. It spawned discussions with Courtney about what we would do if we could get anywhere in the world within seconds. I was sooo jived. But then they came out with the scooter. I was crushed. I had to go back to work.

Last thought. And then I heard how teleporting would actually have to work. Its like this: A computer takes a scan of every atom, and the state of every atom in your body. Then it recreates it somewhere else and ultimately destroys the original. So, effectively it would have to clone you each and every time. That's where our current technology is. But, wait a second. Why? The information that passes through a computer is nothing more than atoms anyway. At least in Quantum computing. So, if that were the case, then why could you not pass the originals down the same transportation mechanism? Wireless, ethernet so on. So, if that happened then you could reach up and snatch a little piece of someone out of the air!!!! Strange.

The Red Cross

"What the" Maxwell exhaled. His most prized possession was no more. He grated his teeth as he glared in the now cavernous container that once held the Royal Scepter with the Red Cross. He had risked his life for it, and not to turn it over to another admirer, but to keep it as his own. It might have brought him millions on the black market, but this was, excuse the pun, his crown jewel.

But who could have pulled this off? There was only one person in this world that knew Maxwell even had the scepter for sure. That was Mortimer Franks, but Maxwell couldn't imagine Mortimer having taken it. One key attribute you need as a career thief is the ability to read people. You have to know who to trust and who to bring into your inner circle.

Another thief. It had to be. But that would mean that Mortimer had leaked some information to someone. He had been visiting his local pub quite often lately. I wonder if he had become too drunk one evening and relinquished a few too many secrets. Maxwell would have to ask at dinner tonight.

"Maxwell, how are you?" Mortimer asked as he strutted across the grand dining room floor to clasp the hand of his most precious friend.

"Just fine, Mortimer. And yourself?" Maxwell responded as he intensely studied Mortimer for any sign of a weakness. Maxwell could tell if someone was being untruthful if they continuously looked down and to the left. Also, a bead of sweat might dissolve his cover.

"Fine, fine! I have some new information for you, on that diamond exhibition in New York next week. The India Blue will be on display there. And we already have bidders lined up for it. I say, this could be a big one. I have it on good word that the diamond is over 100 carets!" Mortimers eyes glistened with excitement.

"Oh yes, one more thing dear friend. I received the strangest call this afternoon. Someone named Julia. She said she needs to speak to you, an utmost urgency she said. I am afraid I do not recall anyone named Julia. A new acquaintance perhaps?" asked Mortimer.

A steel look eclipsed Maxwell's face. "Julia" he thought. He hasn't heard from her in years.

"Mortimer, how long have we known each other?" Maxwell asked.

"Going on ten years now, Sir."

"Have I ever told you about Julia?" asked Maxwell.

"No Sir."

Maxwell and Mortimer sat at the dinner table as Maxwell excused the wait staff.

"She's my daughter. You see, Mortimer, I was married when I was very young. I divorced my first wife when I decided to do what I now do on a more permanent basis. It's not the kind of thing you want to do while having a family, you know."

"Wait a minute," Maxwell thought. He probed his vast memory for any inkling of ever showing Julia where he stored his bounty. "Stop." Maxwell reprimanded himself. "Its your daughter. How can you think of such a thing?"

"Sir?" Mortimer queried his long time friend.

Maxwell snapped back into reality, "Oh yes, sorry. Anyway, her mother moved them to Paris. I haven't seen or heard anything from the two since Julia was twelve. Did she say what she wanted?"

"No sir, but she did seem somewhat frantic, despondent. I have her number written down on your desk pad in the study."

"I must speak to her now. I hope all is well." Maxwell said as he rose from his untouched meal and proceeded to the study.

"Hello?" The voice on the other line sounded weak and weary.

"Julia, it's Father. Is everything alright?" Maxwell responded.

"Yes, well, uhm. No, actually. Mother has passed. I'm sorry I did not call you sooner, but she has been dealing with cancer for the last six months. She had been diagnosed in September and it went badly for her. She died last night. I'm sorry I haven't called, but it was her wish that you did not know." July had begun to weep.

"Julia, darling. I'm very sorry. Please come to London and visit. Are you still receiving the payments I send?" Maxwell asked.

"Yes Father. We do so appreciate them. I'm sorry I haven't contacted you myself. I've been seeing a therapist and trying to work through my issues with you. But I thought you should now about Mother."

Maxwell could feel the lump in his throat rise. "Julia, please do come and stay with me. You can stay in your old room."

"Yes Father."

Two days later Maxwell was in London eating at an outside eatery with his female companion of two years, Beth Holland. Maxwell had Beth's background checked and doublechecked. She was a school teacher from West London and was every bit as innocent and sweet as she looked.

"More tea darling?" asked Maxwell.

"Yes dear." replied Beth as she bit off the end of another cookie. She was, as usual, buried in her books. She did not know of Maxwell's craft, as well she shouldn't. He learned his lesson the first go around.

Beth finally broke away from the novel her nose had become acquainted with to ask, "about this weekend dear, are you going to be able to make it to the Shires? Remember, they've invited us to their dinner party in the country?"

Maxwell hated being coy, but knew it was best. "Not this weekend dear. I've got an appointment with a new broker in New York. I must meet with him this weekend, otherwise he won't be available until the end of the summer.

Just then an erie feeling came over Maxwell. He knew who was standing over his shoulder by the shadow that his rather large fedora cast.

"Good day Mr. Galloway. And may I ask, who is your lovely friend?" Captain Vince Van Haught slyly asked.

"Good afternoon dear Captain. What a lovely surprise it is to see you. What can I assist you with today?" Maxwell skillfully avoided introducing Beth to the Captain. He always thought it would be better if the two had never met.

"Beth Holland"

"Ugh." Maxwell sighed under his breath.

"How very nice to meet you, madam" the Captain said as he reached to gently kiss the extended hand of Ms. Holland.

"How are things in the yard?" Maxwell asked, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Splendid, splendid indeed. In fact, I am taking an early retirement. Had a relative pass away recently, left me a great deal of money. Much more than the pension from the Yard, I must say."

"That is great news. I will miss your expertise however. We need brains like yours to keep my trade business safe from scallions." Maxwell said again trying to divert.

"Indeed. Indeed. Well, I must be off. Enjoy your tea. Good day madam." The Captain tipped that enormous hat of his as he walked off.

"Nice chap!" Beth said, again burying her nose in her book.

Later that night Maxwell was watching television in the den when news broke.

"This just in. Honored Captain in Scotland Yard has been arrested in possession of an article of the Crown Jewels stolen last summer. According to the Yard spokesperson, he was arrested while trying to sell the item on the black market, to undercover agents! He was caught with a woman thought to be his accomplice. "

Maxwell gasped. He stared at the television in disbelief. Then he screamed at the top of his lungs for his assistant, "Mortimer!"

"Yes Sir?" Mortimer managed to get out, short of breath from the dash to the den.

"Mortimer, do you see this?"

"What the bloody hell?" Mortimer murmured as he slowly made his way to the television.

"That conniving little. Sir, it's Beth!" Mortimer managed to finally get out, still having his eyes glued to the set, watching Beth get out of the car in hand cuffs.

"Mortimer, you'd better tell me what's going on."

"Sir, I am deeply sorry. Beth and I, well Sir, as so I thought, had developed a, well a friendship of sorts. She kept flirting with me, and well Sir, I must say that I enjoyed it."

"Mortimer, please tell me you didn't show her the false wall!" Maxwell said as his face turned bright red.

"Yes Sir, I actually did. But I laughed at her when last week she made a comment about how funny it would be if someone less obvious had stolen from you, one of the greatest thieves of all time."

"She knew?" Maxwell asked, a tear developing in his eyes.

"Yes Sir. I guess I was blind to it Sir. She and the Captain must have been in together on this the entire time."

Maxwell relaxed back into his chair. How bitter sweet it was. Beth, whom he loved but was considering breaking off his relationship with and the Captain, who had been on his heels for five years were now out of his life. For quite a long while. Pitty it all had to happen at the expense of his greatest prize ever captured, the Royal Specter with the Red Cross.

Premise: View As The Thief

You must write your story this week about Maxwell Galloway, a notorious jewelry thief in England. You have stolen several prized items; the most prized being the Royal Scepter with the Red Cross, one of the five scepters in the Crown Jewel collection. You story must pick up when Maxwell discovers the scepter has been stolen from him. The story takes place in modern day England.

Cast of characters:

Julia Galloway - Maxwell's estranged daughter, 23, lives in Paris.
Mortimer Franks - Maxwell's assistant and confidant, 55, lives with Maxwell.
Captain Vincent Van Haught - A captain in Scotland Yard, 57, trying to catch Maxwell.
Beth Holland - Maxwell's love interest, 49, lives in London.
Maxwell Galloway - Career thief, 54, lives just outside of London.

Hunting Grounds

This is my disclaimer: I made up this story. The characters really existed, but the tale itself never happened...at least not to my knowledge.

The morning was grey as the sun slowly crept over the mountain tops. Sergeant Hathcock and Lance Corporal Burke had been in their hide since about 4 a.m. the previous morning. The Gunnery Sergeant with the shaved head and handlebar mustache from the intelligence division had given them a tip that Colonel Ba was reportedly coming to an area near Hill 55. Colonel Ba was commander of the sniper platoon that had been hunting Hathcock and his Captain over the past few months. After seeing nothing yesterday, the two snipers had felt discouraged, but Carlos was working a hunch. He had found an area above a creek where there was evidence that someone had slid down from a low place above where the grass had been flattened indicating that someone had been laying there. It was possible that the guerilla sniper had only been there once, but after scoping Hill 55 from the hide, Carlos found that it gave the right angles for many of the shots that had been fired at the hill in the last few months. Carlos felt that the sniper would come back to his favorite hide eventually and would then lead him to the commander of his platoon.

Colonel Ba had sent a messenger to alert the snipers that he would be coming to rendevous with them and to be ready to report any new information about "White Feather". Now as he stepped off of the NV truck ten kilometers north of his rendevous point, he found himself daydreaming about one of his snipers confirming the kill of the ruthless killer that had caused so much commotion for the North Vietnamese in the last seven months. He was not looking forward to his long walk, but these thoughts made the time pass faster. Finally, three kilometers out, the Colonel put all of his daydreams aside. Knowing that he was well within the hunting ground of the American, he would begin the slow deliberate trek to his snipers' cave. The final three kilometers would take the Officer almost twelve hours, in which time he would not stop moving for a moment.

Carlos nudged his partner's heal with his own. Burke looked at Carlos and then trained his M14 to the same point that he saw the sergeant's Winchester model 70. "That hamburger has no idea we are here. We been watchin' him for at least three hours now; lookin' round, moving in cover from the hill. He still hasn't spotted us. Now he is getting in his favorite hide to spend the day picking off Marines." The thought angered Carlos, but not as much as the other reality of the situation. "John, we don't touch him unless he spots us. I hate to leave those Marines to his marksmanship, but if we are to have any chance at Colonel Ba, we have to follow old Victor Charlie here to the rendevous." Carlos' voice was so low that Burke more read his lips than heard what he said. With a slow almost imperceptible nod, Burke agreed.

At the end of another day, Carlos was relieved that no shots had been fired. Normally a day this quiet would make the Sergeant uneasy, but since he had watched the sniper scope on his fellow Marines, Carlos was happy that he had not found a target suitable for shooting today. Once the sniper left his blind, Hathcock watched as long as he could see Charlie to get an idea of the direction he was going. Carlos knew better than to try to follow behind the sniper, but he hoped that the slightest trail would be left and the two Marines could pick it up the next day.

"There!" Burke said in a low confident voice. "See that broken stick? He came this way."

"How did you spot that?" The stick was at least three hundred yards away, and the Marines were on the move. Burke hadn't even used his scope. He just "saw" it.

The two Marines found the trail to be easier to follow the further it got from Hill 55. "This hotdog is good, but I told you we were smarter than these gooners. We would never use the
same blind twice, nor would we ever leave a trail like this. If anything, I try to hide my trail more the closer I get to home." The two snipers stopped to take a break among the downed tree trunks that littered the jungle. They had been low crawling for almost 4 hours now. While stopped, Hathcock took out his 20 power spotting scope and checked all around them. Slowly he let his foot slip to the left where it met Burke's. Surprised, Burke slowly brought his canteen down and looked at his Sergeant.

"They are this close to 55?" Both men were sure that they had two to four more hours of crawling through the brush ahead of them. From this distance, a patrol from Hill 55 could accidentally run across them coming or going.

"Smart Charlie. Set up camp right in the last place we would expect." Carlos always respected a good hunter, and Charlie was known for that. From this point, the snipers could remain hidden while keeping an eye on the traffic on and off of Hill 55. The cave was 3,000 yards from where the Marine snipers slept, and had a great view of the compound. They were too far away for even a wild shot at the encampment, but still close enough to have a good idea of what movement occurred day to day. "We don't have much of a shot from here. Lets skirt that ridge to the west and see if we can't find high ground on them."

At 3 o'clock that same afternoon, as the snipers settled into their new blind atop the ridge, Colonel Ba poked his head from behind a bush and looked over the cave. One of his snipers stepped out of the cave and stretched. At this sight, Ba came out and announced himself.

As the Colonel walked toward the cave, Carlos readied his rifle. He slid his hand up tight against the end of the shoulder strap, pulled the stock tight into his shoulder and rested the crosshairs of the scope on the Colonel's chest. He breathed slow and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reopened his eyes to find the crosshairs in the exact same position. He began applying pressure to the trigger. This was Carlos' favorite shooting position. He could shoot very well from all positions, but this one was his best. It fit him. It was comfortable...like an old leather glove.

My Friend

Sit there staring across from me,
blissful in your ignorance.
I sit over here as I see
what will be your downfall is your arrogance.

Listen to me, dear old friend,
as I sit across from you.
I'll describe to you your end,
as I see it from my point of view.

You have stolen from me
what is most precious.
You have taken from me
what you considered delicious.

Go ahead, stare dead into my eyes
as I plot and scheme.
Go ahead and try to compromise
how and what I dream.

'How would you know?'
I imagine you'll ask.
'By that old leather glove
that you left at your task'

Ah yes, that glove as evidence,
so warn and gray.
A glove that is missing it's co-currence,
the side that has gone astray.

So where is it, dear obsession,
that glove of yours?
It's in my possession
locked away behind my doors.

Should I reach across the table
and steal the life away from you?
Be aware that I am able
but is it what I should do?

That act would mimic
what you did to my bride.
Put her in a panic
as you tightened what you had tied.

But at some point you removed the glove,
probably to adore her beauty.
You have taken what I love
and now I will do my duty.

But alas, my dreams are shattered,
as the cops put you in chains.
I'll keep the glove so tattered,
in memory of my pain.

Lil' Logan

It was hot in this new place. Logan had just turned twelve years old, and was about to start Junior High School when his father, a native Texan, had retired from the Army and moved Logan away from his home in Scotland back to the small town in Texas where he himself had grown up. Logan felt lonely, and wished he was still in a big city like the one he lived in before, but not only had he left all of his friends behind, he also had to move to the country. Logan knew nothing of the country except that there were wild animals. He knew that he would eventually have to deal with the likes of rattlesnakes and wild pigs, maybe even bears. The thought kept him awake at night. Why would his father be so careless with his safety?
Things between Logan and his father were different without his mother there. Logan felt that he let his father down with every effort to impress him. That is why he had not complained when they moved to this dreadful place. His father wanted to go back to his home and raise Logan the way he thought was right. Logan understood, at his tender young age, how his father felt. He was afraid that if he had said that he didn’t want to go that his father would be hurt or angry. After all, with that many years in the military, he wouldn’t want to hear any response other than, “Yes Master Sargent! Right away Master Sargent!” Logan was afraid of his father, Master Sargent Thomas Mitchell, because he had never seen him smile while he wore his uniform, and he had heard the stories about how hard he was on his men. The man had been in war once, then volunteered to go back. He had been in the Army more than twice as long as Logan had been alive.
Another reason that Logan was afraid of disappointing his father was that when they moved back to this place, they moved into his grandmother’s house. In his father’s old room there were trophies everywhere. All State Football, All State Wrestling, Junior Football Championships. Logan had loved football for years, but now he began to feel that his father would never have reason to be proud of him unless he were to join the football team. That prospect would be a challenge though, because at twelve years old, Logan stood only five foot three inches tall and was lucky to tip the scales at one hundred and fifteen pounds. All the other boys were three to six inches taller than Logan, and out weighed him by fifteen to thirty pounds. A full contact sport seemed very dangerous to such a boy.
One day in June, Logan was walking around the small pond on his father’s property that was home to his best friend Spike. Logan had never given thought to it before, but Spike was an unusual pet, especially in Texas. Spike was a platypus. He was about eighteen inches long, and couldn’t have weighed more than two or three pounds. While Logan talked to Spike, the boy next door made his way to the fence separating the two properties. His name was Buck, and he was quite a disagreeable person. He was also twelve years old though you would not be able to tell from looking at him. He stood almost six feet tall and had to weigh one hundred and seventy-five pounds. He looked more like a fifteen or sixteen year old than twelve.
“Hey squirt! What are you doing out here alone?” Buck had warned Logan that if he were to be caught alone Buck would beat him up just because he could. “Now I’m gonna pound your face flat while my dog does the same to that little flat faced rat.”
“You leave him alone!” Logan screamed as Buck and the dog crossed the fence. Logan scooped up Spike and began running as fast as he could from Buck.
“Get them Killer!” Buck unleashed his German Shepard to catch their prey, but it didn’t work. Logan ran the two hundred yards to the house in less than twenty seconds. Even Killer looked surprised when he was unable to catch the boy. Logan immediately called the cell phone number that his father had written on the notepad by the phone, but when he answered, Logan decided not to tell him what had happened. Logan was sure that his father would be ashamed that he could not defend himself. Instead, Logan simply asked, “How are the fish biting Dad?”
“Not doing too bad Son, we have already caught our limit. We are just doing some catch and release now to use up our worms. I thought about bringing them home and saving them, but you remember how bad it smelled the last time that I put them in the fridge and forgot about them.” Thomas paused for a second then asked, “You sound out of breath Son, is everything okay?”
“I was just out playing in the yard. I wore myself out and needed some water and decided to call you while I was inside.” The lie came easily for the boy who, until a few months ago, couldn’t imagine being dishonest to his own father.

Thomas Mitchell put the phone back in his pocket and wondered to himself why his son would be lying to him about the bully next door. He knew, from working so closely with people and in the situations that he did, when someone was lying to him. He could hear it in their voice. It upset him that his son was being dishonest, but he didn’t want to confront him just yet. Thomas was curious how his son would deal with the bully. When he first figured out that Logan had a bully, it was everything that he could do not to march right over to the neighbors’ house and give them a Drill Sargent routine that would leave them quaking in their own home, but after consideration, he decided to be polite and invite them to a barbeque instead. He thought that getting both families together would either give the boys a chance to become friends, or allow Buck’s parents to see that he was a bully. Thomas thought that the former had happened, but it was becoming more and more evident that he was wrong. Buck was smarter than Thomas had given him credit for.
Wanting to help his son, Thomas thought of everything he could. I can teach him to fight - but Logan always shied away from Thomas when the topic was brought up. I can tell Buck’s parents - but Thomas was afraid that it would embarrass Logan, or worse would just make the situation harder. I could move him to another town - but Thomas knew that there would be other bullies. Buck was not the only big kid with that idea. I could send him away to Military School - but Thomas wanted Logan to choose the military himself, not be placed there like he had been.
Thomas really didn’t know how to best help his son. He just wished that Logan would come to him and tell him the problem. Then he could ask Logan how he could help. Thomas felt that Logan didn’t trust him for some reason. He didn’t know why.

In August, school started. Logan had made a plan. “This year I am going to make Dad proud.” He would try-out for the football team and the wrestling team. No matter how bad he got hurt, he was determined to make it on one or both of them. He would stop running from bullies and find ways to make them leave him alone.
Thomas was also making a plan. “I won’t pressure Logan this year. Not a word about sports. I won’t bother him about school.” He called the coaches and asked them not to try to recruit Logan. He asked the teachers to watch out for Logan because he thought he had a bully. He was determined to protect Logan without letting him know he was involved.

On the first day of school, Logan walked tall into his home-room class. He was nervous, but determined not to let this turn out like the other school years. He would not be quietly bullied while trying to avoid physical activity. This year he left elementary school and began his trek towards High School! It would be different.
The first day was going very well. Logan was headed to his sixth and final class for the day without a single sign of a bully. He had gone to the football and wrestling coaches and set-up a try-out; there was something strange about their reluctance to talk to him, but he had accomplished his mission. His head was in the clouds. Then there was Buck. He walked into the classroom just ahead of Logan. What would Logan do? Could he just skip this class? Maybe today, but not for the rest of the year. He didn’t want to go. Suddenly Logan thought to himself, “Yeah lad, run again. You’re good at it. Let them make fun of your size, or how you talk. Make your military father proud and run away one more time!” Then Logan threw his shoulders back and expanded his little chest just as big as it would get. He walked into that class ready for anything...except an immediate direct punch to the chest. It knocked the breath right out of Logan, and he collapsed to the floor. Just then the teacher walked in and sent Logan to the nurse. He spent his last class period in the nurses office refusing to say anything about what happened, then he moped out to the bus to go home.
Thomas met Logan at the bus stop and immediately knew something was wrong. “How was your day little man? Something bad happen?”
Logan just grunted with his head hung low staring into his lap. He knew right then that his whole plan for the year was out the window. The ride home was only a few miles, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Both rode in silence the entire way. Father trying to figure out how to make his son trust him. Son trying to figure out how to make his father proud. Neither daring to ask the other for help.

“Spike, you are the only one that I can tell. I know you will keep my secret. I got beat up at school today. I didn’t even stand up for myself. It was Buck, but I didn’t tell the teachers. I should have. But that would make it worse. I don’t know what to do Spike. I wish you could tell me.” Logan was holding his little friend feeding him dog biscuits. Logan was feeling smaller than the platypus by now.
“You need to stop beating yourself up or you will never gain the respect of anyone else!” Logan slowly looked down at the animal who was staring directly in his eyes. “Trust me, I am a platypus I’ve been through it!”
Logan shoved Spike out of his lap and backed across the bed he was sitting on with almost cartoonish speed. “Get hold of yourself Logan! No way a platypus just spoke to me. Did I hit my head when I fell today?”
“Why couldn’t I speak to you? Because I have chosen not to so far? Why can’t you trust me, you did up until you found out that I could talk back.” Spike was angry and hurt by his best friend’s reaction. “Fine, I won’t help you!” Then Spike just went back to making the little squeaks he had always made before.
“No, I am sorry Spike, but you have to admit that it is strange. Everybody talks to their pets, but how many talk back?” Logan was still not sure that this was real, but he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting his friend’s feelings. “When did you know that you could speak?”
“All platypuses can learn and speak human languages, it is just that we are so rarely involved with humans no one knows that. But please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want the attention. I only let you know so that I could help you because you are my best friend.”
“Okay, so how do I stop ‘beating myself up?’”
“You always attack situations from the angle that you can’t do it or that it would be a miracle if you did.” Spike began to make sense, “You would be so much more successful if you would tell yourself that not only can you do it, but that there is no way you will fail. If you will believe in yourself, you can accomplish anything. Look at me. I am an animal that can speak to a human. Do you think that I would be able to do that if I didn’t believe first?”
The two talked for the next few hours until bed time. Logan found himself looking forward to going back to school the next day. He was confident even knowing that he had a football tryout during his fourth period gym class. This was the beginning of Logan’s “Year of Change”.

12:45. Time to tryout for the team. Logan really didn’t know where he could possibly fit on a football team, but he knew that he could impress the coaches. Finally his name was called.
“Have you ever played before son?”
“No coach, but you tell me what you want, and I will give it to you!” The coaches looked him up and down and every one of them held a face of disappointment. But they decided to let him tryout.
“Just let him try a couple of things. It would mean a lot to his father. It will give the other kids a chance to rest too.” None of the coaches really expected to see anything useful from the child but when they called Thomas to tell him that Logan wanted to try out, he asked them to be open minded. They started with tackling. “Here kid, I want you to hit this dummy as hard as you can.” Logan had watched the other kids hitting the bag. They just put their shoulder into it and the front end would leap into the air. Looked pretty easy he had thought. So Logan lowered his shoulder and ran as hard as he could. He hit the bag so hard that he saw stars. He fell on his bottom, but the bag never budged. He heard a couple of the kids laughing, he assumed at him. “Okay son, why don’t we move on. Can you catch?”
“Don’t know Coach. I sure will try though!” He didn’t fair any better here. The ball was too big for his twelve year old hands. It never settled into them, just hit and fell off, or worse bent them backwards to the point that he thought they would break.
“Okay, we’re not done just yet. Pick that ball up and throw it back over here kid. Lets see what kind of arm you got.” Logan threw the ball, and immediately the term “Lame Duck” came into his mind. The pass fell about ten yards short of the coach who was standing about fifteen yards away. Logan began to feel embarrassed and ashamed. He knew that there was little chance that he would find a place on the team with this performance. “Well kid, there is just one more thing to find out. Come over here and stand by me.” Logan stood where he was told. “See that Coach down field there?” Logan nodded. “When I say go, you get to him as fast as you can. You understand?”
“Yes Coach. I will do my absolute best!” The word came, and Logan ran so hard that he thought his legs were on fire. It seemed to take forever, but Logan finally made it to the other coach. But Logan was sure that he had taken too long to get there. He never thought of himself as fast. Logan slowly turned to look at the coach with the stopwatch, and found that his jaw was dropped open.
Suddenly the other coaches gathered around and there was a buzz among the other kids. “He ran forty yards in four point two seconds. Most professionals can’t do that and he isn’t even wearing cleats!”
“Is there a problem Coach? Did I do something wrong?”
“Not at all son. Here do something else. I want you to join a play with the practice squad as the running back. Just carry the ball as far as you can without getting tackled or fumbling. Understand?” Logan did. He took the hand off and ran around the outside. Suddenly there was a player coming toward him. Logan ducked under him and never slowed. Then someone got a hand on his arm, but Logan switched direction and left the kid in the grass. Five yards, ten yards, fifteen yards...then there was Buck. Buck was a linebacker. He caught Logan from the right side and knocked him to the ground so hard that Logan lost consciousness.
When he came too he found himself surrounded by coaches and players alike. “Can I have that son?” A coach was trying to take the ball out of Logan’s hands. Even unconscious Logan would not give up the ball.
“How did I do?” Logan asked still cloudy from the hit.
“Better than I ever did in a single carry.” The voice was familiar. Logan scrambled to his feet and came to attention in a snap. Thomas looked at him disapprovingly but with a certain pride that he could not cover. “Walk with me.” Once away from the others Thomas asked, “Why didn’t you tell me that you were trying out for the team?”
“I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me if I failed. I know that I have disappointed you so many times before.” Logan wasn’t sure how his father was going to react to his statement.
Thomas stopped and knelt in front of his son, “You listen to me Logan. You cannot disappoint me. You don’t have to play football to make me proud. All you have to do is be you and come to me for help. You are small, that is not a shameful thing. In many ways you will grow up to be better at some things because you have to challenge yourself more to accomplish the same mission. I will always be proud to call you son. Now why don’t you let the coaches know that you appreciate the tryout but you don’t really want to play.”
“To tell the truth, Dad, I am scared to play football, but it felt really good to be out there running. I finally got to feel special. I never knew before that I was fast. Now I can give my gift to the rest of the team and we can all accomplish our mission together.”
“Listen, I am sorry about how I treated you before. Lets be friends from now on.” Buck held his hand out to Logan who took it and shook it solidly.

The team went on to win the district championship that year. Logan’s trophy was placed, rightfully, next to his father’s trophies in what was now Logan’s room.



The End

La Araña

It was a blistering day in Del Rio, Texas. Nunez and Smith had just come back from another run.
"They are getting more creative" Nunez said to Smith as they exited their aging Border Patrol SUV.

"A tunnel directly into someone's house. A freaking tunnel into a living room! How in the hell are we supposed to find those? I guess we were lucky this time."

"Yea, if it weren't for that kid Escobar I don't think we would have found it. How many do you think they got across this time?" Smith asked.

"Escobar said that it was finished months ago, so there's no telling. Hundreds probably." Nunez opened the door as he and Smith entered the Border Patrol Regional Headquarters.

Del Rio had become the focal point in the new battle against illegal immigration. Since the President had signed the "No Illegals Bill" in December of 2006, there was a big push to shut down all entry points into the States. Nunez and Smith had been teamed up only for a year, but they both had many years of immigration work under their belts. They had also been developing a deep love for one another. And yes, it was against policy.

"Heard you had a good one today?" the voice came from behind the big desk. It was seemingly in need of oxygen, but the pair knew who it was. That fat jerk Chief. He sat, as he did day after day, behind that huge desk of his as if he were perched, ready to pounce on anyone at any time. Laying in wait for his next meal be it fried burritos from Manuel's next door or the ass of his subordinates who screwed up again.

"Yes sir!" Smith replied with obvious spark in her voice.

"Twelve today. Escobar really came through. Can we do something more for him?" asked the ever so caring Smith.

"What, and perpetuate that spic? Hell no! He can go back to Mexico if he doesn't keep delivering!" Chief bellowed out as his enormous belly jiggled with delight.

"You're so crude." Smith lashed out as she slinked back to her desk.

Smith had such a good heart, always seemed to try to take care of the poor illegals. After all they were just trying to make their lives better. It was her job to enforce the law, but she wanted to make sure that they stayed safe. It was important to her. After all, crossing the border is extremely dangerous. More so than the Mexican government would let on. There were wild animals, raging heat and also crazed border vigil-anti's that would just assume shoot them as turn them in.

"Nunez, you writing this up? I wrote up the last one." Smith asked as she stared across the two desk that were arranged back to back.

"Sure, whatever. It pisses me off though. I can't understand this La Araña (The Spider). We pick up something here and there, but never anything concrete." Nunez said with distain as he began pecking at his typewriter.

"We'll get him, Nunez. We'll get him" Smith said with confidence.

The next day Nunez and Smith were patrolling the fence line FM 3245, a favorite amongst crossers. It was low and offered come conventional cover from the Patrol such as trees and shrubs. It was another hot day, topping out at 103. Smith was cranky.
"Where are you headed Nunez?" Smith questioned.

"Over towards that bunch of trees. I found several last year over there. It's got a nice little pocket that we can't see from the road."

"It's not in our plan for today Nunez. Chief is going to blow a vein if we don't make our patrol on time." The frustration on Smith's voice was heavy.

"Chief has no clue what he's doing. Him being so strict on these patrol times is stupid. Like you can control exactly how long it should take you and then get pissed because you’re an hour late. I should tell Chief where to... wait! I think I saw something in the trees." Nunez and Smith both grabbed binoculars as Nunez pulled the vehicle to an abrupt halt.

"You don't see anything. I think your brain is fried in this heat, " said Smith with a sneer on her mouth.

"No, I'm freaking serious. In the spot I was telling you about. I saw something red move over there." Nunez began to inch the vehicle forward still gazing through the lenses.

"And there it is again!" Nunez chirped as he stopped the SUV and put it in park. He turned the motor off and opened the door. Smith reluctantly exited the vehicle and moved to the rear to grab her shotgun. Nunez snapped the holster loose on his right thigh and began making his way through the ocean of buffalo grass and mesquite trees that were not more than knee high.
He was a good thirty yards in front of Smith when he saw a figure wearing a red shirt stand up and make a running break for the tree line.

"¡Parada! ¡Inmigración! ¡Forzarán la parada o me para tirar! (Stop! Immigration! Stop or I will be forced to shoot!)" Nunez shouted as he stepped up his pace to a full-fledged jog. This was extremely difficult given that he was in rough terrain and in those heavy polyester pants.

"Smith! Try to cut him off on the left!" Nunez shouted back at Smith who was now also at a fast pace. She cut to her left and could see where the runner was headed. It was a small rocky drop from ground level to the river bed, which was pure rock.

As the two Border Patrol Officers closed in on their prey, the force of gravity and clumsiness took over. The runner tripped at the top of the drop and landed face first on the unforgiving riverbed.

Smith called the dispatch when she arrived to the bloody and unconscious runner. "Dispatch, this is 281. We have an illegal on FM 3245 down. Repeat, FM 3245. Illegal has fallen and injured head and neck. Dispatch an ambulance to FM 3245 on the North side of highway 211."

"Copy that 281." the voice replied over Smith and Nunez's radios. It echoed in the riverbed and the river seemed to carry it to another destination.

"He's coming to!" said Nunez. "¿Cuál es su nombre?(What is your name?)"

The runner moaned with pain as he struggled to get up from the river bed.

"El señor querido, esté por favor con mí. Ahora cúreme.(Dear Lord, please be with me. Heal me now.)" he mumbled as his breathing quickened. He opened his eyes looking straight at Smith and Nunez.

"La Araña! La Araña!" He yelped.

"Sssshhhh" Smith tried to comfort him, "Tenemos venir de la ayuda. Apenas relaje y tomaremos el cuidado de usted. (We have help coming. Just relax and we will take care of you.)"

His voice began to soften, "La Araña. La Araña."

The Mexican illegal let go of his last breath.

As Nunez grabbed a beer he had a puzzled look on his face.

"What's wrong dear?" asked Smith.

"I'm just wondering why that runner today was shouting 'La Araña! La Araña!'. Do you think the Spider was close?" Nunez asked.

Smith never answered as she sat on the couch next to her lover. They had grown so close over the past year. At first he was unsure about having her as a partner. He was a hot head who never followed the rules. She was a passionate protector of the border, but always staying within the bounds her government had setup. Plus his last partner had died in a raid last year and he wasn't sure he was over that either. Juan was a great friend of his. They had partnered together the previous 3 years and had developed a stellar record. But he couldn't resist Smith. She was sexy. She was more woman than he was used to. He wasn't sure how that had happened, her getting into the Border Patrol business. She was from a wealthy family in San Antonio and could have done so many things in Law Enforcement. But he was glad that fate had brought them together now.

The warm Texas sun splashed across Smith's face as she woke the next morning. She rose from her slumber and ever so gracefully made her way to the bathroom. She was completely nude and Nunez was no longer sleeping. He noticed her perfect body catch the rays of sun from the window dancing down her back and across her perfect rear. As she crossed the threshold of the bathroom she stopped, turned and invited Nunez in without saying a word. She knew he wasn't sleeping.

Later that afternoon the pair was at the office when the call came in. An informant named Hector had called the voice mail box and left a message. He was frantic. He kept saying "¡Éste es grande! ¡La araña instaló éste! (This is a big one! The Spider set this one up!)"

Hector was a favorite informant of Nunez. He had used him on several occasions and Hector had always delivered the goods. Nunez felt the icy tingle come like a waterfall down his spine. He knew that something big was going to happen today. Maybe they could get the Spider after all.

"Smith! Hector called in! This one sounds like it might be big."

"Whatever Nunez. We are so backed up on paper work. You can go waste your time with Hector if you want, but I'm staying here and getting caught up on paper work."

"Smith!" Chief burst out from behind his desk, " you go with your partner. You know we never go out alone anymore."

Smith just dropped her head in disgust. She knew it was no use. Once the Chief had made up his mind you couldn't change it. He was a stubborn one. He was the type that once her had something in his head no one else was an authority anymore.

"Fine, " Smith mumbled.

The two sat out side of the old warn down house. It was in need of some serious repairs.

Nunez just sat in the SUV. Thinking. He had become so close to Smith. He had already talked to the Del Rio Chief of Police about a job there. He was promised a position. That way he could ask Smith to marry him. "Tonight," he thought as he glanced over at his soon to be. He reflected over the past year of his life. It was so wonderful with her. He hated the fact that they had to hide their relationship. Partners just don't marry. That's against everything in law enforcement. He knew it. But if they worked for different organizations then everyone would be happy for them. Except maybe for Chief. He can't be happy for anyone.

"I don't see any movement Nunez."

"Lets move in. I'll take the back door, you take the front." Nunez ordered.

Nunez drew his 44 as he stepped up on the stoop of the dilapidated home. Adrenaline was surging through his every vessel. It always did in these types of situations. He didn't know exactly what to expect. Most of the time the runners weren't armed, but there had been a time or two when the people who help the runners were. It was, after all, their livelihood. Like the Spider. That SOB had plagued Nunez for so long now. He whished he could find him. The thought that the Spider might be in this very house right now thrilled Nunez.

"Ésta es la frontera patrulla. ¡Abra por favor la puerta y salga con sus manos sobre su cabeza! (This is the Border Patrol. Please open the door and come out with your hands above your head!)" Nunez shouted as he approached the back porch.

He could see the door was slightly ajar. From the door opening he could see a tiny little face. Couldn't be more than five years old. Then the door slammed shut. He knew he was in trouble.

As he rushed the door he cleared it with the heavy boot of his left foot. He was wearing the latest Kevlar, but there was always that possibility that a shooter would aim for his exposed skull.

"¡Todos abajo en la tierra! ¡Déjeme ver sus manos! (Everybody down on the ground! Let me see your hands!)" He shouted as he made his way through the small kitchen to the living room. As he entered the door way he saw that someone was forcing their way out the front door.

"Smith!"

The runner shot twice. Nunez couldn't see Smith be he knew that's whom they were shooting at.

He ran through the front door to see Smith lying face up. A bullet had caught her throat.

"Smith!" He yelled as he collapsed beside her. She was already dead. Nunez welled up inside. A lady appeared in the door frame. "¡Usted idiotas estúpidos! ¡Ésa era la araña! ¡Usted ahora la ha arruinado para toda su familia! ¡Usted asno estúpido! (You stupid idiots! That was The Spider! You've ruined it for all of your family now! You stupid ass!)" she screamed at the two young men now making their way down the street.

Nunez fought to clear his head. He turned to the lady and asked, "¿Qué usted está diciendo? ¿Qué usted significa, la araña? (What are you saying? What do you mean, the Spider?)"

"Ella tomó pitty en nosotros. Ella setting-up estas casas seguras por los dos años pasados. Le llamaron la araña porque ella podría tejer una tela en nuestra propia casa, Del Río. Ella ha ayudado a millares de mejicano a hacerla a Tejas. (She took pity on us. She has been setting up these safe houses for the last two years. She was called the Spider because she could weave a web in her own house, Del Rio. She has helped thousands of Mexicans make it to Texas.)"

Could this be true? Nunez was crushed. He realized he had been a piece of her puzzle. She had been under him the whole time. That's why he could never catch the Spider. Keep your friends close... your enemies closer.

Due date is 0001 hours on April 1, 2006

Funny stories ladies and gentlemen. Once again, it is time to switch gears. I want everyone to find your comfort zone. What would you write about given free reign, and what would the rest of us expect from you. Once you get that write a story of your choosing in as opposite a style as you can imagine. Example: If you would typically write a horror, then I want to see a children’s story. Use your imagination, but give me as much as you can. I would like to see 1500 words or more, but don’t kill yourself. If you don’t make it, don’t worry. Good luck!

In the care of friends

It was a very warm and extremely dark night in Glenwood Springs Colorado. I had not seen any action at the bar, and my karaoke exploits had left me unfulfilled. As I entered the car and started the ignition Jim Croce sang “Operator” from the CD that I had in the stereo. I knew when I got to the bar that I was driving, so I intentionally avoided drinking anything alcoholic because the road to my friends’ house was particularly dangerous.
My sobriety, however, did not assist in my ability to make good decisions. When the speed limit is posted as 20 mph, 60 is not an acceptable substitute. As I came to the corner where my vehicle met its end, I failed to realize my error in time. I tried to make the turn, but was met by loose gravel on the road. The car drifted sideways. I was literally standing on the brakes. Seeing that this was not going to work, I suddenly realized that my Saturn was front wheel drive. I released the brake and jammed the gas pedal as far down as I could. The engine revved, and for just a moment, the front wheels caught and began pulling me out of the slide. But as luck would have it, the passenger side tire found more gravel and off the cliff I went. Suddenly I knew why I should have bought the maxi-model (with wings), but alas I had not. As the vehicle leaped twenty-five feet to the right of the road and proceeded to fall twenty-five feet below the road, I screamed. But everything happened in slow motion. My scream died out, I looked at my watch, wrote a will and knitted a sweater. I actually began to get impatient wondering when I would hit the ground.
Finally, there it was. In the darkness I could feel pain in my back, my right shoulder and my head. I realized that I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my back to the door. I looked behind me and found that I had put my head through the door’s window. Then as I looked to the right I found that the passenger air bag was responsible for the pain in my shoulder, and that there was a hole in the collapsed windshield that was eerily shaped like my head. I climbed across the vehicle and kicked open the drive side door. As I leaned out I could feel warmth all along my face on the right side. I knew that I was bleeding, and all I could think about was how dark it was and how high up in bear and mountain lion country that I was. I climbed the twenty-five foot cliff back to the road and took off my shirt to apply pressure to my cut head. Then I started walking. I walked about three quarters of a mile, talking out loud to warn off wildlife that could undoubtedly smell me, before a car came along. I must have looked like something out of a bad Halloween dream in the dark like that, covered in blood, but they stopped anyway.
When the kind people dropped me off at Scott’s house, I slowly made my way inside. I caught my reflection in a window on the way in and jumped when I saw that I had an almost perfect line down the middle of my face. On the right blood streaked everywhere, on the left, nothing at all. When I walked in Scott’s house, I was angled so that he could not see the blood. “I hate to be a pain, but could someone drive me to the hospital?”
“Why do you need to go to the hospital…” I turned to face Scott as he asked, and without pause he leaped to his feet and continued, “okay, we’ll go right now!”
At the hospital, I was subject to the sadistic personalities of two graveyard shift nurses who wanted to pick the glass from my scalp, and one radiologist who wanted me to hold fifty pound weights in my right hand so that if there wasn’t a separation, they could be sure to create one. Once back in the exam room, the doctor came in with the x-rays. With the doctor on my left and Scott on my right, we looked at an obvious separation between my right collar bone and right shoulder.
“Does your shoulder hurt?” Scott asked sincerely.
“Yeah, it really does…” I began without looking away from the film, “it is throb-“ I was cut short by a sudden excruciating pain in my right shoulder.
“WELL GET IT FIXED!” Scott said while turning and slapping me directly in the injured area. I fell to the ground, tears streaming down my face cutting through the still caked blood…laughing to the point that I couldn’t breath! Meanwhile, the doctor is looking at Scott as if he were going to hit him as well.
Finally, back at Scott’s house I was able to wash my head and lay down to rest. Just as I was about to fall asleep on the couch, Scott turned on Sports Center where they were recapping today’s greatest putts. Someone made a fifty foot putt, and Scott yelled, “INTO THE CLOWNS MOUTH!” I laughed until I lost consciousness begging the whole time for him to stop talking!

1966

"Are you going to drive?" I asked my cousin, Ryan, as we approached the car.

"Heck yes!" He eagerly responded as we approached the newly refurbished 1966 Ford Mustang.
It had a V8, 235 horsepower 289 engine. It also had a fresh white paint job and a thin red pin stripe that seemed as perfect as the rest of the car. The interior was flawless as well. Crushed red velvet tuck-n-roll covered seats with all of the dash restored to the original look, except for the stereo. It was a jaw dropping, heart thumping Alpine CD player connected to the two twelve inch woofers in the trunk. On the ground was a set of Michelin Street Pro tires that were wrapped around the shiniest sixteen-inch rims I had ever seen. My uncle had spent close to $10,000 dollars on the car and the restoration. It was, well, perfect. There was only one slight issue. Ryan was sixteen.

He had just turned sixteen a week before. He did not know how to drive a stick shift, especially one with this much power. So as we traveled from Odessa to Comanche I drove most of the way teaching my younger counter part in the fine art of shifting. We were to spend a week working with my granddad on his ranch. He had a lot of stuff for us to do, and we both needed the extra cash.

As we entered the car I could feel the electricity fill the air. Ryan had been driving all week and he had gotten pretty good at shifting. He only ground the gears every so often. We were headed to Gilmer to a small family owned restaurant where they served the best chicken fried steak in the country, at least that's what it seemed like after ten hours of work in the hot Texas sun.

As we pulled out of the ranch onto the dirt road I warned Ryan of the sandy parts coming up. He abandoned warnings and began to put his foot in it. He was revving close to 5000 RPM when we entered the apex of the hill that also turned toward the left at a graceful pace. It almost reminded me of a turn in a NASCAR competition. However, I'm sure that NASCAR tracks are not made of pure sand.

As we began our slight decent from the hill Ryan had the car in a beautiful power slide, much like that of the Dukes of Hazard in the opening credits. The tail of the car was about 45 degrees out while the front wheels where headed in the direction of the road. When we hit the bottom of the hill we hit a sea of sand that can only be described as like that of the Sahara Desert. And that's where we hit trouble as well.

The car was doing about 65 miles per hour and when the sea caught us it straightened the wheels into alignment with the car and catapulted us forward. Unfortunately in this part of the country they have machines come out every so often and grate the roads. That makes a neat feature on the sides of the roads we call banks. Banks also make nice ramps for out of control cars! We were launched into the air immediately. I bet we cleared all four tires by at least two feet. Then Ryan and I managed to look at each other as somehow we hit the time-space continuum and were in a state of slow motion.

While weightless we both yelled "Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhh dddddddaaaaaaarrrrrrrrnnnnn!!!!" as we flew into our ultimate foe.

In front of us was the biggest tree I had ever seen in my life. The giant tree must have been over a hundred years old and would take ten of us to wrap our arms around it. Now let me say that the car weighs about 2000 pounds. The tree has a death grip on the earth. The tree won.

When all of the dust cleared, and space and time returned to normal, we were sitting in the car with the nose of the vehicle apparently trying to climb the tree. As I looked at Ryan I noticed the stream of dark red that had began to flow from his hairline. He noticed mine as well and we both scrambled out of the car, because of course it was about to explode right. They all do at some point, don't they? I stumbled over to the other side of the road while Ryan made his way back to the trunk where he had a role of paper he had used for cleaning the windows of the car just a day earlier. He made his way to my newfound sofa of sand and slumped down next to me. He handed me a wad of paper that I used to remove the blood from my forehead. He looked so defeated.

As we both sat there in dismay we viewed the beauty turned beast. It was the most awful site you can imagine. What was once a vintage ride, a splendor to the eye, was now married to the aging oak as if they were meant for each other.

At that moment I started to feel a twinge in my stomach. I turned to Ryan and asked, "so, I guess we're not going to get that chicken fried steak after all, huh?"

Premise: Poe's Lost Manuscript

You are Edgar Allen Poe. You must write the lost manuscript that will be discovered 200 years after the author's death.

It is suggested that you read up on Poe. You can find a good number of his poems and short stories here http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe/.

You need to write a short story, preferably in the same vein as Fall of the House of Usher and the Raven. Remember, it's the mid-1800's and death and disease are all around!

You have two weeks to write this one. It cannot be posted until 3/17/2005.

Seven Lagoons

I had received the letter from the widower over a month ago filled with horror and grief. She had been catapulted into a world she did not understand, and certainly one she did not want to be a part of. This land was unexplored by civilized humans; however its inhabitants knew it as if they had always been here. They crawled through the veins of this organism as do parasites in a fresh kill. My transportation was beginning to reveal his own concerns over the issue of our very survival of this retched place. If my equestrienne companion could sense something you would consider that I might have taken note. However I had not and thusly continued my push to what might have been my very last exploration.

The widower, Jane Montgomery as she is known to her former friends and companions, had befallen what to the people in her circles would considered an awful fate. She had been married to a well-to-do tobacco farmer of the great South. The businessman Maluable Montgomery had always succeeded in his former quests, including that of obtaining his wife, the beautiful siren, Jane. Maluable knew how to prosper in the usual and unusual ways, both of which he enjoyed to the fullest; however I believe he may have enjoyed the latter most.

Maluable arrived in the South some twenty years earlier than the events described here. While he had some monetary value he obviously had to pursue other endeavors to support his every growing curiosity in the strange. He was often seen carousing with the traveling gypsies that had also come over from the old world, a world he knew very well. They brought with them things of fancy and things of fright, the types of things that would give grown men nightmares and day shivers. Maluable was definitely different than his other high society, gold wielding counter parts in the areas of business he chose to envelop himself in.

One sort that brought him this far South was a curiosity in what some call the dark religions that crisscrossed this horrid country side like a plague of old world proportions. They called them selves religious but I so do not know what bounds a religion such as their lacked. Anything vile and seemingly obtuse would be apparent to them. They relished the things that should have expired in life, but lived on, while they chased the life from everything else that carouses in their land.

Maluable had purchased land in Louisiana that he claimed would relinquish the most wonderful leaves, a fertility that had not been seen in the rest of the country. It is a thriving industry again from an old world made new, this tobacco would make him rich he said. With the land also came an abundant source of labor, making him even more prosperous than his previous endeavors had every dreamed. A slave would provide the necessary sweat that would allow him to thusly provide the Northerners with their tobacco rolled as tight as the human finders would produce. The sweet, as well as pungent, smells that rolled from these fine leaves would entice the nostrils of the upper class, definitely a group that Maluable would like to see enticed, and cause many a rucass between husband and wife, and Maluable seemingly was good at that.

But my research has led me in a strange direction, as I had not desired. It seems that while I had been hoping to discover what had befallen the fair Jane, I had unwittingly discovered the dark side of Maluable, for he had enveloped himself in this dark religion of the region. It had worked its way in him as a tape worm does, feeding and festering making its host wholly uncomfortable while leaving him with such a deep hunger for more. It’s a revolting thought to have some other being encapsulated from within, but feeling a need to allow it there.

When Jane had first contacted me some six months ago, I could not understand what she had been describing. I was trained in legal matters and a wife in the South did not have much say in legal matters regarding her husband, except in the cases where the husband has passed on and as such has no male children to which the estate would naturally fall to. So I began my quest to discover this strange man Maluable Montgomery and his goings on, as well as his dealings both personal and professional. I contacted his family in England and also had correspondence with his former business partner in France, Luis DePladu. Mr. DePladu had informed me that he had dissolved his relationship with Maluable when more attention was being paid to the gypsies and less on their dwindling business. He said that Maluable had come to the Americas to clear his business head and begin to refocus his energies, although DePladu had estimated that the relocation was more to find his new fancies.

As I arrived in the small shore town of Seven Lagoons the ever brightening sun had perched high on my shoulder. This was indeed a strange place, it looked as if the town had begun an evolution, and then something had happened. I, of course, knew what had happened; The South was a mixture of old and new worlds. There were slaves who brought old dark religions and then there was new money. The two did not mix well. There were not more than thirty residents as far as I could discern, from the arrangement of buildings and the single solitary street that divided the township equally. It appeared as if there was no such concept of a governing body, which can be a deadly situation in remote locations such as this. I indeed feared greatly for my own life at this point.

The inhabitants of Seven Lagoons also seemed so strange, as if they were there in body only. Their eyes, while functional seemed to stare into an inexhaustible tournament as if they were witnessing some great event that had completely escaped me. I had passed a few of the dwellers when I finally found the courage to interrupt a person's great experience.
"Excuse me, I am Jonathan Berthold. I am seeking Jane Montgomery."
A blank stare was returned.

I queried another passer by, "Pardon me, is there anyone that can help me? I am looking for Jane Montgomery. She's a white lady. She has written several letters that come from here, or close to here."

A tall thin man replied, "You lookin for the white lady? She's down the way. Over at the good doctors place. On the left," and with out a change in expression the thin man went about his way.

As I arrived at the door of the shack of the good doctor, a stench that made me recoil suddenly assaulted my sense of smell. It was thick and pungent, very much unbearable. The smell was so threatening that I then noticed that even the insects avoided the good doctor’s residence, which led me to think, what type of doctor was he?

"Mr. Berthold," a weak thin voice protruded the haze that was now burning my nostrils.

"Are you Mr. Berthold"

I then noticed a figure leaning around the side of the dwelling almost blending in with the unpainted wood of the shack as if she had not seem a drop of water in months.

"Yes, yes I am," I responded.

About that time the door swung open with such veracity that it almost clipped my forehead. As I stumbled backward my eyes caught the daunting figure now possessing the entry way of the not-so-well-to-do abode. As I had feared, with the mass of the door forcefully pushing the dead air in front of it toward my position and a more horrid group of smells invaded my body. I must have had some sort of viral reaction as my body over powered my mind and flung itself backward.

"Who are you?" the figure bellowed with such as tremendous roar as to produce bumps over the skin of my forearms.

With all that I could manage I responded as I picked up myself from the dirty grounds, "Jonathan Berthold. I am a lawyer from New York. I am visiting you because of a letter that Mrs. Jane Montgomery had sent, about a legal matter."

"The white woman?" the man again bellowed as he turned his burning gaze toward the figure of Jane who now had hesitatingly taken a few steps toward my position.

"She was given to me by my master. She was part of the deal." The doctor said with a smile revealing his horrid teeth that had been modified. As he purposefully stared at Jane with his lips still curled back I had the opportunity to inspect his exposed bite. If I were to see those teeth with in the woods without fully understanding what they belonged to I would assume that their owner was an animal. I could even see some stains of red close to the gums.

"What do you mean given to you? What right do you have to own this woman?" I asked as I dusted the dirt, old hair and pieces of what appeared to be rock from my clothing.

"My master, Mr. Montgomery give her to me. It was part of the deal. He wanted to dance with the devil and I told him he had to give up every thing to do that. He said he wanted to, that dancin with the devil was mo' important to him than anything else. So I said to him that he would give up his beautiful white bride and he said sure. The plantation was already in bad shape. He'd pretty much given that up chasin the devil. He was sure that the devil could give him something that nothin else could. He was a smart one. He had asked around about the Voodoo and what it meant to live for ever. So he knew I was a Voodoo doctor and he asked me to help him. I said I would on the count that he done three things for me. Number one, he had to let all of us slaves go. Number two he had to give his wife to me. And number three he had to do the Voodoo ritual of eternal life. Now I want you to know that I warned him. I told him that white man can’t do this. He said 'shut up and show me how!'"

"And where is Mr. Montgomery now?" I asked with hesitation knowing that this large man may very well reach over and take the life from my body at any moment.

"Round back. Come on!" the doctor said with poise.

As I made my way with the doctor guiding me we entered what seemingly was at one time a garden of splendor, a natural beauty so rare you might only hear it described and never see it with your own eyes. But it was far from that state now as it lie in ruins. And as we passed what used to be a Purple Heart vine, now only resting in eternal decay, I noticed the smell that was already harassing my nose get worse. And there he was, Mr. Maluable Montgomery sitting in a chair overlooking a winter’s meadow and watching the weeds grow erroneously and without care. He was sitting upright with his legs crossed as if he were relaxing taking in the view of what someone might of thought to be the garden of Eden itself. He was seemingly decaying at the same rate as his surroundings.

I could hear the whimpering of the sorrowful Jane somewhere behind me. As we closed in on the departed Maluable the doctor started in again, "See, the master he don't want to listen to me. He just said 'show me how,' so's I did. It killed him alright, but see he had already tricked the law here to make his white wife his slave, his property. And when he did that, he gave her to me. You can see the papers here," as he produced the warn, but seemingly lawful set of papers that did indeed document the proceeding giving Jane to this witch doctor.

I looked Jane in the eyes and pleaded for her forgiveness as there was nothing I could do. So you see, I left her there and headed back to New York where I could start pleading my case to the President of this United States of America to get rid of slavery once and for all. It was me who left Mrs. Jane Montgomery, once a socialite of the North, who had happened to marry the wrong man that had convinced a government of such an unlawful place that she was indeed his possession, in the despair that no civil American could endure. Thusly I ask you, if she cannot endure this as the former self she was, then how can we expect any man or woman to endure this?