An Adventure of Anh

An Adventure of Anh

One time there was a female named Anabeth Garza.  She was nearing thirty-five; she was pondering her life, considering death.  She walked late in the night to a closed fairground.  So dark was the night, so quit in its loneliness, the moon lit her way, albeit.

As she found her way to the monkey-sized puppet in a box, she noticed a small orange bulb in the lower back of the “vending mechanism” to still be on.  “Anh” inspected the back of the large box, noticed it was not plugged in.  “The machine must have stored energy from a busy night,” Anh thought to herself, “That or it is magical.”

She reached into her pockets thinking she just may, by some crazed off-chance, have a coin.  She did not.  She looked below the machine and found one.  She deposited the coin in the machine and the small monkey spun around in a glowing light.  The monkey was well-dressed, as if ready for dancing on a stage.  It looked directly to Anh and said, “No one is looking.  What is your tentative wish?”

“‘Tentative’,” Anh thought to herself.  This was sure to be some form of hard-to-appreciate fun adventure.  “I want to be 12,” was the only thing she could think to say.  She said it before the monkey’s glow disseminated, and warped immediately to small school in Southern Mexico.

“This is a run-down heap,” she thought to herself, as she was surrounded by Mexican students in a classroom with a chalkboard and a clock on the wall.  “They have  a clock,” she noticed.  “Es ocho,” said the teacher, starting class at 8.  Anh only spoke English, though she may have known a few words from the Spanish language.

The day was sure to be an adventure.  Anh noticed that the other students mostly kept to themselves or distracted each other; she could stay mostly quite and say only  a few words like “Si” and “No.”  Lunch came and they all ate beans and rice with milk.  Anh was surprised that the small meal hit the spot.  Recess came.

During recess, Anh played on the swings with another young girl she sat next to and was close to from class.  They were swinging and not saying much.  Anh noticed, across the playground, a larger, heavy-set boy was taunting a boy and a girl.  Anh instinctively went over to see why.  The boy did not have much of a reason, appeared to Anh to be being mean for no real cause.

Anh tapped the boy on the shoulders and he turned to her as if he knew all about it.  “Leave them be or I will beat the breaks off of you,” said Anh.  The larger boy pushed Anh and she fell to the ground.  Her friend begun to run from the swings to where Anh was to try to stop her.  “Anh!” she cried, “Do not do it!”  Anh stood without brushing off her nice outfit, leaped into the blow she delivered to the bully, landing the blow with the lower part of her palm.  She made contact to his brow directly between his eyes, hearing his skull crack.

Anh landed on her feet, ready to see what the big boy was going to do, as he fell to the ground crying with blackened eyes.  Anh’s friend caught up with her and Anh apologized by saying, “Lo-ciento.”  Her “amiga” was disappointed, though somehow understood.  Their instructor found them and Anh endured meeting the principle of the small Mexican school.  He was bilingual, said that she should have informed the instructor and to conduct her actions differently next time.

Anh agreed, hoping the bully learned his lesson.  She warped back to the puppet in time to see light condense from its immense brightness to a small glowing orange bulb.  The monkey looked as though it went to sleep.  “Wow,” thought Anh, and she carried on.

To My Followers, A Rare and Fun Song or Two

To My Followers… some fun

Hello, all.  I have estimated that at least two people will see this post.  Hencethoughtforth I present to you a favorite song to listen to.  It is my guesses that this band did not have the time to properly market their talent, must have pursued survival via another method.

At any rate, I found this great video and hope you can enjoy it; it is one of my favorites.  Will I e-e-e-ver get back to my other two novels? … ma-a-a-aybe.

Happy Blogging!

Here is my current favorite site for easy listening, nin dot com

and fun video from slipKnot: cool, psychosocial

and yet another, here… love you guys!

I enjoyed Rammstein, too… here is a link to many of their videos. 🙂

“My work will never be done -” me.

Personification and the Wicked Night

Personification and the Wicked Night

One time there was a class of students.  They attended a college course on creative writing. There were prerequisite English courses for the class; many business and English majors took the course. Art and film majors commonly signed up, too; the two professors teaching the course were well-known novelists. The course’s seats where usually scheduled full early – many students on the campus found the class to be intriguing.

In this class of students, there were two students and a teacher who had a conversation early one morning. The professor was only 29 and still very pretty. She was well endowed.  Not too endowed, the professor was a pretty dirty blonde. The two students went to see her early one morning.  They had finished their assignments and went to see her for help with an extra composition they were trying to submit to a fiction magazine.  Ms. Banks was the nice professor’s name, and the students’ names were Jasmine and Malachai.

“I hope she can help us,” said Jasmine. “She can,” said Malachai, “She is a very brilliant person among people who are. She will guide us in the right direction; she will give us the ingredients and the recipe. All we will need to do afterwards is to bake the cake.” “Do you think we are wasting her time?” asked Jasmine. “No,” said Malachai, “She will be interested in our enthusiasm. If I feel we are ‘out of place’ I will get us out of there, and we can consort with another person. I will even let you do the talking. I am confident she will hear us out.”

Jasmine was not expecting to do the talking; she figured Malachai would. She was happy to, though; she was very interested in some form of direction for her and her writing partner. Their professor’s ideas would most certainly help them. The two students were attempting to submit a draft to a magazine for a writing competition; they just wanted some advice. The students were waiting outside of the professor’s door at 7:50 AM.  Ms. Banks had one whole hour scheduled for student communication during this time. The two students knew not to bother any other students with actual needs; no other students were there, yet, anyway.

They heard Ms. Banks coming up the wooden stairwell. “Good morning!” she exclaimed, fumbling around with her writing satchel and documents, a pen in her mouth, and the keys to her office. Who knew why she had a pen in her mouth? No one, really – she was there on time.

“Come in, come in,” she said, and the three happily walked in and sat down. “What brings you guys here, today?” she asked, “I have already received your assignment for Friday. Is this about some necessary re-write?” “No ma’am,” said Jasmine, trying not to look down her professor’s shirt. Ms. Banks was a naturally attractive woman to many. “We are here to ask you for some advice with a writing competition,” said Jasmine, looking over to Malachai. He nodded in approval; she had stated these things well.

“A writing competition?” asked the excited professor, “For who? Where?” “We found the competition online with a web search; we wanted to do some creative writing. If we are published, we get a free two-year subscription to the magazine and an opportunity for a more competitive contest.” “Alright,” said the professor, “What genre are we going with, here?” “Well,” said Jasmine, “That is one reason why we are here. The magazine, ‘Other-Lands’, publishes mostly fantasy or sci-fi stories with minimal advertising. We want to write a small story with about 2,000 words, however we cannot decide on the characters. We thought we could use elves or astronauts, however whatever we came up with just did not work out. The beings we considered had already been considered by so many other works.”

“I must say I am impressed with you two – you really are into writing and have put some thought into this competition. The periodical must be a smaller publication; I have not heard of it. Let me see…” said Ms. Banks; she was thinking. Malachai’s original worry that they could be wasting time with these questions was out the window, as were his gazes into nothing, for the most part. Jasmine gave him a quick look-check. She wanted to make sure that if he was staring he at least knew about it. Lucky for him, he was looking at the books on the professor’s window seal – not what Jasmine still had in mind, somehow.

“All of those fantasy characters and you guys need help,” said Ms. Banks, “What about personification?” “You mean like talking animals?” asked Jasmine, “Like Aesop and his moral lessons with animals?” “Sure,” said Ms. Banks, “Anything that can come to life can have a dialogue and an interesting action plan for a plot – even a protagonist.” Jasmine looked at Malachai who was almost asleep. “Well?” asked Jasmine, Malachai would at least have to approve or comment on these things, otherwise he might as well be a stone statue from a library garden.

“I was paying attention,” said Malachai, “Personification is the best answer I have heard. I had not even thought of it. We can use some animals or objects, bring them to life, and let them return to their previous state, somehow.” “Are you going to put these lifeforms in outer space?” asked Ms. Banks in honest curiosity. The professor had directed her attention to Malachai and Jasmine accidentally look right down her shirt. Jasmine looked to the ground, trying not to think too much about what she would not mind personifying. “What do you think, Jasmine?” asked Malachai with some guess as to what Jasmine was thinking. “I imagine we could work something out,” said Jasmine looking back up to her professor, “Thank you for your help, Ms. Banks.”

The two students readied themselves to leave. “I was happy to see you two; I know how well you are doing in my class and others. Keep it up. Remember not to let your extra-curricular fun affect your real efforts regarding higher learning. I have another exciting writing assignment for you on Monday.” “Yes ma’am,” they both said. “I think I am going to major in journalism,” said Malachai, accidentally, he really loved to write. “Good luck to you both; bring your story to me at 4 PM on Friday, here, and I will proofread it.” “Okay,” they both said.

The two made it down the old wooden stairwell and split up after making some plans. The story was not going to be too long of a composition; they did want it to be impressive, however. They had plenty to do during the day including classes and part-time jobs for their university. Malachai and Jasmine had planned to meet at a dining hall at 7 PM; it was hamburger night. They would eat and write out a story afterwards over the dining hall’s generic yet edible coffee.

They ate, got their coffees. “Alright,” said Malachai, “What are we going to bring to life, and how is outer-space going to have anything to do with it?” “I like looking at Ms. Bank’s breasts,” said Jasmine. “They are nice,” replied Malachai, “I guess anything can come to life, in fiction.” “What if we bring some rocks to life to fly shrink rays to outer-space an zap asteroids?” asked Jasmine. “That is fine,” said Malachai, “Where is the story; what is the climax?” “It can be mostly a narrative,” said Jasmine, “The rocks could work for a teenage scientist trying to collect and study space matter.”

“What happens for audience attention, though?” asked Malachai. He was approving Jasmine’s idea and thinking, too. “What if one of the little space travelers accidentally zaps another one? Not being a big huge asteroid, the little flying pebble is handicapped to a smaller and inadequate form?” “That is okay,” said Jasmine, “I think it will be good, though. It will be good enough to submit to ‘Other-Lands’.” “Okay,” said Malachai. They took turns talking and writing and wrote the story. It seemed a little long, but they developed a main character, described the setting, and told the story. It was 2024 words, once done, and both students agreed that the concluding paragraphs were pretty well written.

Time had gone by, and it was about 11:45 PM. “We should give the story one last revision, and we can type it up on the computer together tomorrow after dinner,” suggested Jasmine. “Sounds like a plan,” replied Malachai. He almost blushed – he thought of her, sometimes.  “Would you like to go over it out in the garden of the library?” asked Malachai. “That sounds a little spooky,” said Jasmine. “I will protect you from harm,” said Malachai with manly happiness. Jasmine smiled, grasped his hand, and they walked to the garden of the nearest library.

The two read through the document by the light of the moon and only found one or two able-to-be revised errors. Almost ready to go off to bed, they noticed the various small statues in the shadows of the garden. The one closest to them was an old stone statue of a wiry Irishman. It was a replica of an immigrant who came to the nation to study the English language and biology. He had donated to the original construction of the library, there, and the little structure highly resembled a leprechaun. It was only moments passed midnight, and they heard a shrilling and decipherable whisper in the night’s gentle breeze.

“Speak a limerick to him to see his fun; bring him back before his damage is done…” “I know you heard that,” said Jasmine. “It damn near freaked me out,” said Malachai. “Why did it not freak you out? Do you think that was a ghost?” asked Jasmine. “No, no,” said Malachai,”‘Ghost’ – do not even be so silly. That was some ‘other’ form of howling spiritual voice in the wind sometime around midnight.” “Very funny,” said Jasmine, almost pale in fright, “Well?” “What do you mean, ‘Well’?” asked Malachai, “You doubt my ability to speak a poem? Little did you know, with all my attempted prose, I am quite the ‘anti-poetic’ master.” “You could not speak a rhyme with a ghetto-blaster!” laughed Jasmine. “Oh yeah?” said Malachai, and said,

“There once was a little man of concrete;
he danced and moved about on his feet.
The people were there,
but who could care?
We brought him back and put him on his feet.”

Impressed with Malachai’s improvisation, Jasmine almost was not watching the little statue. He came to life! He took one dead stare at the two students, as if he were gazing upon a ghost for the first time, and took off in a dead sprint towards the dining hall. Malachai and Jasmine instinctively ran after the little fellow. There were pretty female students standing around talking. The last thing that Malachai and Jasmine wanted to see happen was the little man being seen by other students.

They almost caught up to him, and the stone leprechaun hid behind a tree in the shadow of a university lamp-post. Malachai and Jasmine were right on him, but could not quite run and catch him.  They would be seen by nearby students. The naughty little guy was trying to see up the skirt of a female student. He could not, though so he inched closer to her to try to raise up her skirt. As he got closer, Malachai inched closer to him. In an instant, Malachai snatched the little guy up and brought him over to Jasmine behind a tree.

“You are quite the dirty little man,” said Jasmine to the leprechaun who did not speak.  Malachai and Jasmine brought the statue back to where it was and it turned back to stone. The name below the small sculpture was Ed Lear.  Malachai and Jasmine needed to return to their dorms. It was getting late. They neared each other and kissed for the first time, just on the lips, and went back to their rooms.  Their story would do fine.

You May Be Wrong But You May Be Right

You May Be Wrong But You May Be Right

One time, a young man named Eustace was proudly considering things others said.  “Never judge a book by its cover,” he heard his teacher say, one day.  Eustace was afraid of his teacher – she could punish him.  “I know what I can do, safely,” thought Eusctace, “I can ask the librarian what the ‘adage’ means.  Maybe she can explain it to me better.”

So, library day came, and Eustace was excited.  He always was; the library was a place he could learn things without talking with real people.  “Ms. Worthers?” asked Eustace, once her announcement spill was over and the students began to browse through the various book shelves, “What do you think the old adage, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’ means?”

“Well, Eustace,” said the librarian,

“I think of the statement in two ways.  For one, I judge a real book I pick up and look at by its cover, title, author, and publisher.  Is it old? Is it brand new?  Is it hard or paperback?  Does it have any foreign languages in its text?  Is it an independent, scholastic, or big-named published book?  We as the readers can already know what to guess about the book we have in our hands.  Can we guess its genre?  What do we already know about, in concerns with the author or people who composed the literary work?  Is it a classic?  All of these example questions relate to what we think is in the text, how good we can guess what is there.  Books are like wrapped presents – you can infer a bit about their contents via their wrapping paper.  You can read an intro or an author-bio and call yourself a present shaker, so to speak.  The other side of the old adage’s meaning has to do with people and content.  What someone looks like or appears to be on the outside is not always who they really are.  Some people are more superficial than others – people like you and me call them actors or fakes.  We all learn from time to time.  A book’s contents can be perfectly composed and tell an absolutely astounding story full of properly used writing devices including plot, climax, foreshadowing, flashback, and, if we as the audience are lucky, even such devices as narrative hook and the intriguing use of well-planned symbols.  A masterful literary composition can easily hide behind a dull and hard-to-notice cover.  You will learn more about writing and devices as you study and pay attention to your teachers.  The adage, to many people, sometimes means that a flashy book cover may not allude to a very enthralling novel.  On the other hand, a dull covered hardback classic may be your most favorite book ever.  The book I am reading has an interesting cover, and I enjoy its stories.  One would have to read nearly every sentence to figure out the cover, in theory.  When people say, ‘You cannot judge a book by its cover,’ they simply mean not to form an opinion from what little you know and see on the outside of a thing or situation – you may just end up becoming the ignorant and surprised individual considering.”

“Wow, Ms. Worthers,” said Eustace.  It was like he already knew what she could say, but actually knew her meaning well when she spoke.  He said “Thank you for answering my question,” and went to go search for an exciting book for his class’ book review assignment.  Eustace picked up a book titled, “My Travels in Norway”, and time continued to pass.

billy joel song

Her Loss, Part One of Three

Cecilia’s Loss, Part One of Three

One time there was a beautiful housewife named Cecilia Evans.  She was a school teacher, married a wealthy stock broker named Christian Evans.  He thought it was best that they buy a house together; they did.  Cecilia loved to teach; she was a 4th grade teacher who endured complicated choices.

Cecilia’s teaching was her dream job; she worked hard in college to complete her degree.  Once done with college, she was grateful to receive an offer to teach.  This was her big loss – she married Christian.  After having loved her job and doing well at it for four years in a row, she met him.  Cecilia was making about 26-k a year and living with herself, her place, and an old Zenith.

Cecilia’s father was a member of a golfing resort group of retired professionals.  She went there with him to eat lunch on Sundays once a month or so; that is where she met Christian.  He also was eating with his older, yet frail, father.  Christian himself was a larger man, 6′ 3”, and had big hands.  Not a body builder, Christian was still large in the gut.

Why would Cecilia leave teaching young minds the beauty of creative development and learning?  Christian’s stock broker job brought in over 250,000-k a year, and he promised her in front of her dad that they could get a big house together.  He would be moving in a few months to a larger city for his job; she could look for a new job once there and tend to the new house.

Cecilia had her thoughts on not going through with this major decision; she went with Christian, nevertheless.  Did she miss teaching?  Cecilia did.  Cecilia missed her students, their parents, surviving on her own – she missed it all.  She liked the new house at first.  It was huge, and the neighbors seemed nice enough when they were around.  The Evans’ mansion contained eight similar guest rooms.  Four of these rooms were on the second floor, and four were beneath them.  There was another bedroom for guests that was larger than the eight similar rooms.  The large house contained a front foyer, a ballroom, many bathrooms and closets, two kitchens, and a den.  There was also the main bedroom for Christian and Cecilia.  They both enjoyed the sex during their first year of marriage; it was no surprise.

Cecilia was not having good success with finding a job as a teacher.  It was a big city; her credentials could not compete.  She kept procrastinating the pursuit of a new career due to a two-fold situation.  Her first problem was simply the big house – she spent all of her time keeping it clean and remodeling.  It was a beautiful piece of artwork – she constantly received high praise for her interior photo-posts from her blog followers.  She posted new digital pictures of her remodeling all of the time.  Christian was impressed with her work from time to time, but usually only tentatively.  Friends and family from all over came to visit, this too took up time and somehow kept Cecilia from returning to teaching.  She cooked in a painstaking manner, became known among many.

Her second problem was the heavy hitter – Christian.  He was such a nice man for so long.  For the first fourteen months of their marriage, he only found more and more success.  He was a genius in regards to market research; he and his men used their power to gain more and more clout.  They became a dominant force in the market place.  “Why do you still long to teach again?” asked Christian all of the time, “Do I not bring home enough ‘bacon’?”  “I just thought I liked it,” said Cecilia.  She eventually found a part-time summer volunteer position teaching art to children one hour a morning, four mornings a week, for the “Y”, a community gym in their city.  This was a suggestion by one of her housewife neighbors, and it did bring some small amount of joy to Cecilia’s life.

Every night when Christian came home he exclaimed things like, “What is for dinner?  Did you remember to get the things I asked you for?” and so on.  He took up drinking alcohol before bedtime; Christian also drank during some business transactions.  He was becoming less considerate of Cecilia; she was trying harder and harder to please her man.  She only knew of their downward spiral subconsciously.  Over the next two years Christian became more verbally confident; Cecilia saw time fly by with little to go along with it other than the physical pains of an aging housewife.  Christian’s dominance was gaining, and so was his nightly consumption of aged whiskey.  What would happen to their relationship if she could not work these things out?  She tried and tried to be a nicer woman.  What would happen to her?  What would happen to Christian?

Her Loss, Part Two of Three

Her Loss, Part Two of Three

One thing that happened to Christian was financial – he began making more money.  He let Cecilia buy a new car of her choice.  She went and got a new fully loaded Lexus.  The car was an automatic v-8 with leather interior, a hybrid.  Her car was nice; her husband was becoming questionable.  Cecilia’s ideas on teaching had pretty much faded away.  “I really wanted to continue to teach,” she said to Christian, one night.  She did not really understand the difference in speaking with a human that had consumed alcohol as opposed to one who had not.

Christian had been drinking his preferred brand of aged whiskey, again – the “smoothest whiskey”, according to the bottle.  Even he did not really consider the consequences of any amount of intoxication.  “There is no need for you to teach,” said Christian coldly, “You cannot even keep a cleanly house.”  She thought he was playing; she had kept their entire house clean for months and months.  Cecilia did not really know what to say, that night.  She hated to be surprised with Christian’s discouraging words.

“Maybe I can teach online, somehow,” thought Cecilia.  The closest she came to that was answering support questions for new bloggers everywhere.  Though it was fun and actually helped a few people learn to write better; her loss was still that she was no longer a school teacher.  Was Christian making all of the money?  Sure he was; Cecilia could go out and buy anything.  He never minded; she paid the bills well and managed some of his private accounts.

Cecilia joined a book club.  It met weekly; it was named “The Wormers”.  To join, participants were to submit a book review and pay a 10$ annual fee.  The club sold t-shirts for 5$ that said “The Wormers”.  Cecilia was a proud “Wormer”; she reviewed James Patterson’s new novel, “Unlucky 13”.  Cecilia joined the book club, because her neighbor said it was an interesting and intelligible small gathering of young women who loved to discuss the mastery of new best-sellers.  Cecilia’s neighbor’s name was Muria Thorngood.  Muria’s husband was a wealthy defense lawyer; she had taken nine differing forms of martial arts before becoming an instructor of her own mixed style in her own dojo, downtown.

Cecilia continued to keep the house clean; she read books; and she remodeled.  Cecilia became an expert with interior design; Christian’s monthly liquor bill was almost as much as the wallpaper Cecilia replaced from time to time.  “I want you to fill these papers out,” said Christian, one night.  It was a life insurance policy for 5 million.  Christian traveled over twelve times a year by plane for business reasons; the policy was an idea presented by his company.  Cecilia filled it out; Christian drank himself to slumber.  His drinking had become a daily habit; he did not drink before he went to his office.  The stocks his company invested in continued to make more and more money.

Christian became more and more verbally abusive to Cecilia.  He, without noticing, became demanding.  She learned to cook various gourmet dishes from high-class recipes off the web.  “These dinners are not worth the money you spend cooking them,” he would say.  She was usually a little proud, anyway; they looked and tasted splendid to her.  Her blog followers were usually at a loss of words to view her cooking photos.

One night, the inevitable occurred.  Christian came home from work; it was a Friday.  On the way home he stocked up well on aged whiskey.  He finished off 1/2 of a 5th by the time he made it to their mansion and found Cecilia reading.  “You and your damn books!” he said, “Cannot you do anything with your life?”  “Why do you not start a private school so I can teach?” she asked in fright.  He was drunk and mad; he really needed to find a good reason to increase his anger.  “All the schools in this city and you cannot even do it at one of those?  You think I can just say ‘wham!’ and a new school appear so you can sit on your rump for a year making what I do in a week?”

“I do not see what is so crazy about that,” said Cecilia, feeling justified, “All you do is sit around or talk with investors and come home and drink – what do you care, anyway?”  This really upset Christian; his not really having something significant to be proud of other than financial success hit home.  It upset him even more to be accused of over drinking; the truth hurt.  He fore-handed her, as she was standing there, trying to be accurate with her statements.

Cecilia fell to the ground in pain.  She cried; she did not think he would do such a thing.  What a terrible surprise.  Christian went off to bed with a 2-liter glass bottle of aged whiskey thinking, “That showed her.”  He passed out drunk within the hour, and Cecilia slept in the large guest room, half of her head discolored and one of her eyes blackened.  What was she to do?

Her Loss, Part Three of Three

Her Loss, Part Three of Three

The Evans had certainly had a rough Friday night.  Christian woke up early, did not know that his blow to Cecilia had bruised her.  He left at sunrise to go play a game of golf and drink whiskey with fellow golfers.  As exciting as that was, Cecilia woke up as he was on his noisy mission to get to the golf course.  Her head was in pain.  She took some aspirin and longed to go back in time.  “I could have just remained a teacher,” she thought sadly, looking over her large and multi-colored bruise via the 3,000$ mirror in her guest bathroom.  “What am I to do?” asked Cecilia.  She thought about it a while, got dressed, and walked the four-acre walk it took to get to her neighbor’s house.  She would see a fellow Wormer; she was going to pay Muria a visit.

Cecilia wore a hat with a laced veil to keep her big bruise from view.  She walked to her neighbor’s and knocked on the front door like an Avon salesman.  Cecilia had only been over to see Muria a few times, before, and she was unable to figure out other options.  Her bruised eye was not even functioning perfectly – Cecilia had a small twitch in her harmed eye.  Muria answered the front door in her Saturday morning dance robe; she had been doing aerobics-dancing with a video for the last hour or so.  “Cecilia!” exclaimed Muria; she was happy to see one of her most favorite people.

“What a nice surprise,” said Muria, “What brings you here?”  Cecilia went with a “non-euphemistic” philosophy and raised the silk from her hat.  “That angry drunk got me good,” said Cecilia, “What more does he want from me?”  Cecilia stood in tears; she did not even know she was crying.  Muria was all she had, really.  “Oh honey, come inside,” said Muria.  Muria consoled Cecilia holding her and rubbing her back and listening to all of the terrible things that had been happening.  The two cried and talked for a while, shared a tea, and Cecilia went back home.  They had made plans to see each other again later in the week.

Christian went on about his normal life, too busy to even care about his lonely housewife’s bruised head.  Ten days went by, and Cecilia’s bruise healed.  One night, she went to her book club.  “Anything happens to Christian, and Cecilia gets paid millions,” thought Muria.  Muria was not even too worried about many things; she thought Christian was not good enough for Cecilia.  He would never give up his bottle according to Muria’s opinion, and she was growing older, anyway.  Muria was an intelligent and deadly woman; she skipped the book club that week, as she sometimes did.  Muria got out an expensive bottle of bourbon, put it in her purse, got dressed, and walked to the Evans’ to ring the front door bell.

“Who is there?” asked Christian, he was intoxicated and had been watching CNN.  He opened the door to see Muria in sexy lingerie and a loosened night robe.  He let her in.  She gave him the bottle; he put that aside.  Muria lured Christian into the kitchen; they did not speak too much.  She caressed him and raised her right leg up to the counter; he came closer to her warmth.  Muria reached behind him and grasped a serrated steal bread knife, pulled him closer, and slit his main aorta with a one-inch deep wound.  Christian tried to grab and strangle her before he bled to death.  Muria was agile enough from martial arts instruction.  She was able to get his arms behind his back; he bled to death.

Muria cleaned the kitchen; she only had half of an hour and Cecilia would be back from the book club.  Muria put Christian’s body in a tall, thick outdoors liner bag.  She cleaned the kitchen really well, drank some of the bourbon, and made sure their was absolutely no sign of foul play.  Muria got the body into the Evans’ backyard and double-checked all that she could consider before leaving the mansion.  Everything was the way it would have been.  Muria dragged the body to a dark part of the yard – it neighbored her own yard.  She kept dragging him until she got him into a secure location, and Cecilia returned home from the book club shortly thereafter.

Muria cremated Christian’s body late in the night.  Cecilia called the police; no body was found.  Christian was pronounced dead, though there was no body to prove it.  Muria did not get caught.  Cecilia received a life insurance policy check for 5 million within good time.  Cecilia opened an art museum downtown, and she opened a private school for children the next fall.  Cecilia missed Christian from time to time; her counselors said that it was not a healthy notion to dwell on.  Muria, her husband, and Cecilia lived happily ever after.

My Thought Capsule, Longing for Gravity

My Thought Capsule

Once I was out of our atmosphere, I was free. My days of research, all my interactions with others, any people or places I used to love – all gone. Why was I on this trip to Mars? Who could have stopped me? Once the other scientists and doctors inspected the laboratory, why would I care?

“They can never catch me!” I thought to myself – I was on a suicide mission of my own creation. Mars would now have life. It would only take about twenty years to really get things going, and in a few hundred years the whole planet would be covered with lakes, rivers, jungles, and prairies.

How could this happen? I took the pill. I designed it. Inside were tiny spores that would one day turn into many different life forms. These would be mostly micro-organisms and animals. The spores would gather moisture from the air for life and planetary development; there would be no humans. The humans on Earth could study this life, could farm on the prairies of Mars. My days were over.

A question came to mind, though. What would I miss the most? For me, it was another hard toss-up. I would watch the development of Mars in spirit. I was excited about that… I figured I would miss the people, most of all. I enjoyed fine foods, the science of making things from other things, and remote locations able to bring peace to the mind of a human. I would miss going off to sleep to exist in other realms. I would be fine. After all, they could not stop me.

daily prompt, mission to Mars