"Budding Lilacs"

"Just believe you are venerable. Somehow you will make it through the cold of Winter." he said, and did, and continues to be... believe it or not.

A magic lamp glows in the night.

Dancing shadows outside whisper strange stories of hideous alien Bummkopf Dopplgangers that troll for nickels and dimes. Inside the fortuitous optimus plays, Bon Melior Föhn.

"They are looking for fresh blood." says the Mic. They meet and eat, and stab each other in the back for more gore."

"Oh really?" says the lassie Maggie Rowan Applebee, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her right ear as she continues to sip her tea. "Toast and marmalade with the little people for us. Let the dead feed off the dead if that's what they choose."

Micky McHamish of Ireland rests easy. Knowing he may not be welcome at some tables is no concern to him. Stories of what was, what is, and what is yet to come, are gifts given freely. Like the chirping songs of Little Tommy Two Toes, a tiny tuffted titmouse who decided to build his nest in a cracked tea cup left on the tall windowsill. Just how Tommy lost a toe is a long story he hasn't told as yet. Knowing Tommy is touchy about his toes is understandable.

"The Bummkopf's of the world may be uncouth ugly blood-sucking leeches with fork tongues and sharp teeth to bite, but...they are slow, and have not a bit of cleaver wit. Steely knifes stab harmlessly in the shadows of their minds. They smack lips at one another, these are the denizens of the deep. Know the dead ones by their unsmiling faces, cold hearts, and lack of helping hand." Micky's adopted sister, Sarah Finnegan of County Dalmation Pok-a-dot barks back.

Maggie Applebee smiles in agreement with her two four legged friends, "The time tunnel is turning, Spring is here. We must prepare for the future and play our wild card. The days grow longer, and the Bummkopfs will be hard at work sharpening their teeth with stolen files."

"Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!" says Micky McHamish.

"We must protect the BaBa Black s.h.i.p.s from the Dopplgangers." agrees Lady Sarah Finnegan curling her lip to show her own white fangs.

"Who knows, maybe Mary Merkin the Brave will show us her magic wand. Now that would knock a pair socks off any old Bummkopf." says Maggie Rowan Applebee with a laugh.

"Woowhooo!" hoots Lakshmi, the rainbow coloured owl sitting on Maggie's lilac lavander velvet robed shoulder.

And so... as the last of Winter's snow falls on the high mountain tops, an oil lamp burns brightly. Soft light is cast on the many pages that will become the wagging tales of: Micky McHamish, the wirehair fox terrier of County Kern, Sister Sarah Finnegan of Dalmatian Poke-a-dot, Maggie Rowan Applebee, Lakshmi, who gives a hoot, and the magical and mysterious Mary Merkin the Brave, who with one wave of her willow wand, is known to cast love spells on the cold cold hearts of many a frozen human hasbean.

Saving Heart

By the time Corissa was thirty-five, she was what healthy people call a pariah, but because of society's lacking of healthy people, most were blind to Corissa's bent nature. At fifteen she ran away from home. She was tired of taking care of her sick mother, her brothers and sisters, and especially the unwanted special attention of her needy father, whom she loved and hated.
Pain and truth were her enemy, and she ran to anything, or anyone that might give her comfort from the cold she felt inside. Her favorite relief, her friend, her true lover that had always worked until she was so close to death was crack cocaine. Being young, exceptionally bright and beautiful helped her survive for many years, but the drugs had begun to take their toll. If there is a God, he appointed an army and fleet of angels to watch over Corissa Kickking, or maybe it was Satan himself who made sure Corissa always escaped death. There are those who enjoy watching things suffer, are there not? Call it schadenfreude, or "whatever" as she would say. She feared love like she feared pain and the dark, most of all she feared being alone. Her energy and smile were contagious to anyone within her grasp, and she honed her skills of using Heart until they were razor sharp. The old man knew all this and loved her anyway. He didn't mind being the fool, just to hold her close made him happy.
Nathniel knew the price a stormy voyage with Corissa would cost him, he just didn't know how much. Many times he would ask himself if he would pay the price again if he knew the outcome would be the same. He always answered, yes! Wild things have a fascination to those who live in society's self-made cages. Because of her, he had walked through a door most care, or know nothing about. Heart hated the pain, but loved the truth even more. Corissa Kickking had been a touchstone to himself.
Corissa had fled to the cities to dance with the dead without love. Nathaniel Levee Heart could not waltz with goblins. That was one dance he would never do, so he stayed put, waiting. He believed that somehow she would find a way to heal the wounds she had no names for. As long as the sun would rise in the east, and as foolish as he may have looked to others, Nathaniel danced a prayer of healing for all the Corissas in the world.
The creek was dry. The winter's snow-pack was thin and so the mountain run-off into April Creek had trickled to a stop in late June. By July the Spring grasses were dry and brittle, the only green to be seen in fields, meadows, and open areas of the highlands were tenacious weeds. Yellow cactus bloomed on the high hot western hillsides as they have since the glacial epoch. Ribbons of unseen sweetness drifted and swirled from waist-high wild rose thickets. Bees and other insects hummed while doing their job, only slowly as if their energy had been sucked dry like the dirt in April Creek. By August the forests and campgrounds were beginning to close to loggers and campers alike. Burn bans were put into effect and strictly enforced. Long time residents and people who worked for the local Ranger District, and the County Sheriffs Department feared it was only a matter of time before a spark would set the tinderbox of Ferry County ablaze. There were fires in the Okanogan, Wenatchee, and Chelan areas, but the dry grasses of the highlands and the surrounding forests lay shimmering in the Summer's heat as if in some state of grace, and in fact they were.
On the six-mile drive to the grocery story in Republic, Heart noted the huge road-kill skunk that he had passed several times that week kept mysteriously changing lanes from one side of the road to the other, and it was getting smaller. He rolled up the windows even though the dogs disagreed and thought the offensive obnoxious odor tantalizing.
Only one car passed him as he slowed the truck at the twenty-five-mile-an-hour sign on the out skirts of town. Being such a small out-of-the-way place, Republic was hard on speeders. Five miles over the speed limit could get you a hundred-and-one dollar ticket. Nathaniel Heart wasn't going anywhere fast. It was a beautiful morning.
Curving around the descending two-lane road into town, he slowed again as he passed the small county hospital down off to his left. On his right, two mule deer were mindless of any road traffic as they enjoyed the fruits of several apple trees growing along the hillside's road edge. The older buck stood on his hind legs dancing in stilted steps, his massive antler rack barely seen through the gray-green foliage of the heavily weighted lower branches. Apples hung like bobbles on an over decorated Christmas tree. A young forked horn lay in the shade chewing it's cud, it's large eyes met the old mans. "Ho mitakuye oyasin, kola(to all my relations, friend), Nat whispered as he passed them. In Republic most lawn ornaments are real. Some gardeners without tall fences call them "yard rats", others think of the deer as symbols of peace and serenity.
At the stop sign he turned left, then made another left onto the dirt and gravel parking lot of the Post Office. Karen Krisp's dusty, rut-weary red work truck was just backing out, as he maneuvered between two shiny Ford pickup trucks, one a metallic silver, and the other brushed gold. He returned her smile. She was one of the few people whose smile had lifted him up on those days when he felt so down. His first year in the small town had been a rough one. Strangers stayed strangers, Heart had been told many locals were leery until they felt secure an outsider could endure the cold winter months. "Why wast time on anyone not tough enough to stay?" Others said, "Dumb enough to stay" in a good-natured raillery. Heart had kept to himself in forced seclusion and endured the cold, his sorrow, and his loneliness. It isn't very pretty what a town without pity can do to a lonely soul. Although they didn't speak, Karen's bright eyes and generous smiles had given him strength. The gift of kindness is no small thing; it is more precious than silver and gold.
Finding his mailbox empty except for a stack of bills, Heart drove the two blocks to Anderson's grocery store, the dogs jutting their heads out the half-rolled-up window to bark at everything and nothing in particular.
It must be Thursday." he told the dogs.Along the less than quarter mile strip of main street, older tried and true four-wheel-drive trucks and cars were parked intermittently between fancy new vacation rigs. People that lived in the surrounding mountains, many of whom lived without running water, indoor plumbing, or electric, came into town on Thursdays. They would fill their water barrels, gas cans, make phones, visit the food bank, the grocery store, library, et cetera. On the first of the month, even more people came into town.
For as smart as Nathaniel thought himself, some things he would never understand, but he was trying to the best of his ability. He knew somethings must not be spoken, for to do so invites misinterpretation. Is not language abstract, filtered through experience and understanding? It's as if words were filtered through a portcullis, never fully open or closed. Nathaniel's thoughts diverged from many directions."Focus Natty Boy, focus." It had been to many days since he had spoken to anyone other than his dogs. Pulling into Anderson's parking lot he waited a moment as a junky looking four-wheel-drive station backed out. It's windows so covered with dirt road mud and dust it, was hard to see the elderly woman who was driving. She wore a dirty red bandanna. Her long grey hair braid hung over her shoulder like a Mexican bandoleer. She was one of the proud fighters that the government system could not break. Her tight jaw and wrinkled face told of her hard life.
Closing his truck door, he patted the dogs saying, "Stay". Turning around abruptly, he bumped into Clovis Waters, almost knocking a bag of grocery out of the eighty-year-old's hands.
"Sorry Clovis."
"No harm done Natt." Mr. Water's blue eyes drilled into Heart. "Don't see you in town much lately." The old man opened his beat-up truck door, depositing the partly torn bag on the front seat then he turned to chat.

"I can see you've already done a days work." Heart gestured with an upward nod of this chin to the front of Clovis's overalls.
"Been working on my son's front-end-loader since sunup." A big grin spread across the thin man's face. Heart felt guilty about feeling so old. Mr. Waters had thirty years on him and was twice as active.
"I can tell you fixed it."
"A person has to take their time and do things right. My son is smart and strong. I'm a little slower, can't do the bull-work like I use to, but I've got experience on my side...know how. Ya know?" Clovis seemed to stand a little taller. The tan creases in his face made his blue eyes all the brighter. Heart could see the old man was lean with muscle, not the type to indulge in idleness. Heart told himself walking the dogs in the evening and reading every book he could get his hands on, wasn't going to eliminate his gut.
"What I want to know is...how do you stay so young?" Clovis lifted his dirt and oiled stained plastic hat off with one hand, ran his fingers through his colourless short hair, stopping at the back of head for a short scratch. He looked real serious, smiled and said, "I've got a frisky wife...sixty years of experience, ya know?"
Nathaniel chuckled, sucked in his gut and came back with, "Guess I don't Clovis, been married four times." Clovis returned his hat to his head and snugged it in place with the brim while keeping his eyes on Nathaniel.
"Well Nathaniel, that why it's called a reee-lationship..." the old man said with a smile.
"What's the cowboy saying...Women are as worthless as tit's on a boar hog." A gaunt man stepped between the two trucks and stood alongside Clovis facing Natheniel. His eyes were glued to Heart's silver rodeo belt buckle. The stranger had a reddish hue, as if he were over exposed to the sun, or had a drinking habit.
Natheniel was incensed by the crude remark. he could feel his anger rising. Mr. Water's hand patted Natheniel's arm as he said, "Natheniel Heart, this is my son's friend, Mr. Deacon. Mr. Deacon lives with his son just about the top of April Creek, out Curlew way, not far past your place."
Nathaniel expended his hand expecting a clammy, cold fish handshake. He was surprised...Deacon's handshake was warn and strong. Everyone ignored the crass comment.
"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Heart...I'm driving to Wenatchee this morning Clovis, can I pick up anything for you?"
"Getting a late start aren't you?"
"A little...better late than never huh?" Deacon's open Hawaiian shirt and flip-flop sandals seemed a little fleury in the frontier town. A vintage nineteen fifties Hawaiian silk shirt sticks out even in New York, or Hollywood. Republic's unique cast of characters and their diversity seemed unending. The kind of place where Grizzly Adams meets Garbo, marrys and raises a brood of Marks Brothers. Both dogs were vigorously trying to get their heads out the front seat window of the truck. Fearing a ruckus between them, he told the big dog to get in the back seat.
"Say Clovis, where's all that smoke coming from? Look over there, it's getting worse."Heart himself wondered about the forest fires and all the smoke. The greyness and smell of smoke hung over the small town like a big city's smog. Not watching TV, or listening to the radio, he gleaned only bits and pieces of information about what was happening in the area.
"All that is coming from the Tripod and Spur Peak fires near Winthrop." Clovis said. "It's a bad one for sure. Don't know how many acres involved, nowhere near being contained. It's burning in heavy ground fuels and beetle-kill lodge pole pines. There's also the Flick Creek fire in Northern Cascades National Park, but that's a small one". We've been lucky here so far."
"My place is dry. It's kind of scary not having a well. I was meaning to put one in this Summer, butt..." Clovis interrupted Deacon saying, "It ain't to late kiddo." Deacon stood with a blank stare on this freckled face as if the old mans words had rang a bell.
"I'll be seeing you...I need to get my groceries and get back to my trailer. It will be hotter than the hubs of hell without the air conditioner on."
Leaving Clovis and Deacon to continue their conversation, Heart walked into the busy store.All five checkout counters had lines of people waiting. It looked like a holiday weekend...maybe it was, Nathaniel didn't pay to much attention to calenders either. He found the few things he needed and stepped into the shortest line. On the magazine rack the headline of the local paper read, "Big Cougar Chases Mule Deer Up Main Street." The couple ahead of him was discussing the smoke and ash that fell durning the night. With a hint of fear in their voices, they were wondering if it could get worse.
With so many people crowded into the store, all of them seemed to be talking about the surrounding fires. Nathaniel felt closed in, he realized the small group of longtime residences were trying to lesson their fear by badmouthing tourist vacationing in the area, even people who had lived in the county for a number of years were subject to finger pointing. "All it takes is a careless idiot." one said. That started a torrid of complaints from the small group standing by the double glass doors. "Bad enough the coasties can buy property at outrageous inflated prices, sending our taxes soaring so we can hardly afford to live here ourselves. They move up here with their high-minded ways wanting to change everything. They want a Wall Mart...they want a Mickey D's. All it takes is one of those idiots, and they'll change everything all right." One of the others spoke up, "They have no common sense, they don't know what a forest fire under these conditions can do. They'll just pack up and go some place else. Where in the hell are we going to go? I even heard the city council is thinking of letting off-road vehicles access through town. The noise of those damn things will drive the older folks batty.Heart waited as the young short haired blond in bluejeans and a "Go Tigers" T-shirt packed his groceries, and handed him a few coins back in change. Her blue eyes darted back to the cash register, not looking at the three verbose locals who seemed not to notice the long line of heavy-wallet vacationers with full shopping carts behind them. Heart scooped up his two bags and quickly headed for the door.The parking lot was full with a colourful mixture of new and used cars, trucks, and a half dozen RV rigs. They represented just how many new people were in town, which was good in one way. In the Summer months and during hunting season, out-of-town money kept many of the small businesses solvent through the slower months of winter. Nathaniel Heart strolled casually to his truck, nodding hello to several people. Lowering the tailgate, he opened the lid of a large metal cooler then lowered his two grocery bags inside to keep cool.

And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon

If for some reason you to find yourself in the middle of nowhere one early morning and turn right on a dirt road, the road just before the one that leads to the county dump and landfill, you would pass between two rusty paint-peeling cattle gates on which a wooden sun-bleached sign hangs askew. It reads, Panther Valley RV Park, both P's are colourless and unreadable. It is a place scooped level probably by the same bulldozer used down the road at the dump. It is a short drive down the hill, then the road loops around and brings you back to where you started. Only the adventurous, or very lost, or those lacking in the money to find a better place to stay, would pass through those deleterious paint-peeling gates. If you're the resort type, drive a few miles father down the highway to Curlew Lake to the Golden Eagle's RV Park, where everything is neat and clean and green.

The Panther Valley RV Park could double as the seventh hole on a golf course in Hell. Other than several small patches of uncut grass withered by the lack of water, or the half dozen waist-high wooden posts which support electric outlet boxes and water spigots, the place has the look and feel of any unkempt abandoned lot.

A lone travel trailer is parked amid the tufts of parched grass clumps. The trailer isn't long or short, new or old, but somewhere in-between. A red and white stripped awning snaps in the wind, frayed and torn in places, but still serves the useful purpose of providing shade in the hot months of Summer. A dusty truck is parked next to the awning, it too isn't new or old. On the back bumper of the trailer sits a two-foot high chainsaw carved piece of wood in the form of a feather, as a symbol of truth. The trailer doesn't have the look of a Summer vacationer, and it isn't. It is the last possession of Nathaniel Levee Heart.

If the old saying that you don't have to ride the garbage truck all the way to the dump is true, Panther Vally RV Park is about as close as one can get and not be there. A peaceful quite place, except for muffled traffic sounds that filter down from the old highway above. On the far side of the highway, a sheer rock cliff rises hundreds of feet, topped by changing shades of blue throughout the hours of the day. Clouds of whipped meringue moisture pile high where eagles circle. The air is fresh and clean, despite the closeness of the dump...a juxtaposition of incongruities one might say. Nathaniel Levee Heart sees the beauty in it.

On an August morning, like any other day, was a knot on the string of his life, nothing had changed...everything had changed. The dogs whined to be let out. Twisting and tucking his hand-woven wool blanket just right so no heat would escape, he told the dogs to...Hush! They were not accustom to waiting, and sat by his bed wagging their tails in the dark. The bigger dog Sarah had a long tail and it thumped hard on the trailed floor as if it were the heart beat of a mother drum at a native ceremony. The little dog Micky, forced air to escape from deep down in his throat...it was a silent whine. The man opened his eyes slowly. He was thinking of the cold of winter.

Summers didn't last long in the northern mountains. An August frost was not unheard of, and winter temperatures of twenty to forty degrees below zero wasn't something to joke about. he wondered if the fear of cold and hunger would ever leave him, it was something he carried from childhood. This place would change all the fears he had ever had about himself, and the world around him. This was the place he had chosen to make his stand against all the falsehoods he had mistaken for truths.

Many times while shaving he would look closely at that pie-faced man in the mirror, peering through the steam that fogged his glasses. Most mornings, a smiling ageing mask with warm eyes of sadness nodded acknowledgment; on some days it was the cold eyes of fear, or the strong eyes of anger, but eyes always looking. With a soapy bent finger he would balance his glasses across the bridge of his nose, then lower his now callused palm to swipe first one stubble cheek, and then the other. If he could grow a proper beard he would never shave, but his beard was thin and patchy in places, so shaving over the years had become a sisyphifistic routine, like letting the dogs out, or praying.

Sarah nosed her square head under the man's suntan arm that lay atop the frayed Navajo blanket. Her tail now banging a heyoka(clown) round of missed beats against the wall of the narrow trailer. Bang! Thump, Thump, Bang! He gently scratched her soft long ear, which quickened the tempo. Micky had founded his voice and yodeled in a high-pitched yapping that would have earned him a smack from most of those who call themselves dog-lovers. "Hush, little brother" the man whispered through his tobacco stained teeth. "Let me pee first and get my pants on." Swinging his feet to the floor, he winced as he slowly stood up. In a stoop he shuffled down the short hallway to the bathroom, his hand running over the light switch along the way. The dogs sat waiting, quite now, for they were use to being let out first. Their confusion in the change of habit must have stunned them to silence, as an owl hooted from somewhere in the tall pine trees along the road bank.

Nathaniel Levee stood barefoot in front of his less- than- palatial trailer door. He arched his back and stood on this toes, trying to straighten the effects of sleeping curled up in a ball all night. He fastened his trophy silver belt-buckle slowly, the one he had never worn before, because it reminded him of something he thought he could never achieve again. With a gnarled hand the old man opened the trailer door to the blue-gray of morning. "Well, you gotta pee or what?" Both dogs bolted, each to their own way.

It would take several minutes for the water to boil for his coffee. The man sat down on the trailer step rolling a cigarette, thinking of other mornings. "Don't go there Natty-Boy" he said, through the hacking cough of his first puff. "Damn things, gonna kill me one of these days." He took another puff to ease the spam. In the quite of morning, his bare feet rested in the cool dirt, an old man waiting...for what he did know. With a gravely voice he sang, "Wakantanka unsimalaye"...a song for mercy. The dogs came trotting up to sit next to him, and they waited too. After saying good morning to the blood-red sun rising slowly in the smoke-gray sky, he drank two cups of coffee with half & half and the last of his brown sugar. He tinkered with this- and-that then said, "Come on kids, we're going to the store. This man can't live without his sugar." Saying this, he chuckled to himself. His wife Corissa has left him almost three years ago to the day, their tumultuous ten-year marriage had been one he had gambled everything on and lost, or so it seemed.

He told himself there must have been a time when Corissa Kickking was happy, he just couldn't remember when, no...that wasn't true. There were happy times, just to few. Nathaniel understood many things about his wife, things maybe she didn't even understand about herself. There had been something about the way she had smiled at him on that first day in his classroom. He knew better, he understood and had learned to deal with his student's occasional infatuations. He had no time for such foolishness he told himself, and yet all during that tedious semester she sailed her moon-shadowed dhow closer into his heart. Nathaniel was a veracious student in areas she cared little about: he enjoyed making love, she had sex, he liked expensive wines and exotic foods, traveling to places where tourist are seldom seen, She was happy with a six-pack, ordering a Big Mac with fries to take home and sit in front of the wide-screen. He shuddered and married her because he loved her.

She had been born with a gross defect that had required multiple surgeries to correct. By the age of four, she had experienced more pain than most people experience in a lifetime. A thin hidden scar attested to the world-renowned surgeon's skill with a scalpel. Corissa was a miracle baby, but the scars she carried within had never healed, and throughout the years of her life, she had acquired new ones. Those deep scares were unseen yet fully known icebergs that gashed open the hull of Nathaniel Levee's life.

The Bald Bomb Shell

"He's hold up in that mountain bunker looking for a fight. Many natives say he's mad, wasp-shook-up-in-a-jar-mad."

"How deep is that mine shaft bunker?"

"Boss, please don't go down there, he ain't worth it. He ain't alone neither, he's got a snotty kid with him. They're religious fanatics boss, and dangerous, trust me boss, I know. The village people say, he only comes out at night. He sets bombs, starts fires, and ravages innocent women. Nobody sees the kid, he never lets her out. If what they say is true, she's nuts too."

The heat of the midday sun shimmered above the jungle canopy. A canvas of greens and yellows painted a picture of what was needed to stay alive on the island. Kill, or be killed, was the jungle motto. The small farmers around the village plowed their fields, and raised what they could. Fear ruled their lives. Babies cried from hunger pains. Off planet land owners and the military looked away, as if they were blind to the situation. Things were bad, real bad...add in a blood-sucking pit viper with a taste for human cruelty, and more people were going to get hurt.

Standing six-foot-two with pecs flexed, cable-steel arms raised two gold cup forty-five automatics, two colt guns, with the kick of a Missouri mule. It was going to be a fight to the death if necessary. So many greedy power hungry bastards made slaves of the poor, causing suffering among good people. Raw power ruled. A pair of broad purple shoulders vowed to change all that.

The two big cats snarled, rubbing their sides along his muscled thighs, deep purrs followed.

"Who loves ya babies?" He said, as he ran the butt-end of his pistols down their arched backs. "Now stand back, I have work to do."

"Boss, that old gold mine has a trap door. I was down there myself, you'll be breaking the planet's military rules. The mining guild in this quadrant stickily forbids outside interference in local affairs. You'll be breaking the law."

"I need a rope, a long rope. Get me two ropes, we'll shinny down that hole somehow."

The Magic of Love

Not so long ago in a place East of a great ocean, and West of the rising sun, a strange story is ofter told about the magic of love and courage.

Deep in a dark pine forest on the side of a raggedy mountain sat a little shack, an enchanted house filled with many wonderful things. It was surrounded by a high hedge of long thorned briers to keep unwanted guests out. Welcomed guests saw only roses of many delightful colours.

On a dark and stormy night when all the evils in the hearts of men were chasing as snow white unicorn, it leaped the high tangled fence in her effort to escape from blood thirsty hunters.

As soon as the unicorn's hooves touched the ground inside the magic garden, she changed into a little girl. Her wavy mane became long blond hair, her four feet, two, her brown eyes, blue. Still shaking in fear and not knowing what to do, the little girl drawing up all her courage, knocked on the old battered door.

The house was dark, yet the door opened, and the little girl stepped inside. Outside the most hideous and evil demon and monsters flew round-and-round the tall thorn hedge. They could not enter the rose-ring garden because of loves magic.

She could hear their screams of anger, hate, and frustration, but they could not enter the garden because the magic was to strong.

"What have we here?" Said Baba Yaga, holding a small lantern in her hand. The girl tried to explain that had happened to her, but a fever of fear and confusion held her words as if caged. The little girl felt like a dumb-bell, a block-head, a fool, and yet out of all the places in the world, she knew she was safe there.

Baba Yaga was not pleased at being awakened so late at night, however, being a kind soul she ushered the little girl into the kitchen, and ask her to sit at the kitchen table. The house was very dark, except for the light Baba Yaga held in her hand.

"What do you want?" she ask.

"Please help me." said the frightened little girl in the only way she knew now. She tried to explain, but it was as if her language was from another realm, and in truth it was. The little girl didn't want to frighten Baba Yaga. The things that had chased her were to horrible to describe.

Not long after their short conversation, Baba Yaga walked the little girl to the fence gate. She murmured words, but the frighted little girl could not understand what she said. Closing the garden gate behind her, the once beautiful snow white unicorn had only forgiveness and love in its heart.

The animals and the trees of the forest whispered to her, "We will protect you, have courage. We will teach you to fight those who like to kill for sport. We will teach you real magic."

The little girl learned many things from her friends in the forest. The magic they share, she used to help others. She returned many times to Baba Yaga's house. They laughed, sang songs, and told many stories together while learning to use their magical gifts.

I Love to Fly

I know how to pilot a plane. Getting off the ground is easy, even in bad weather. I'm just not very good at landing. Now here is a beauty you could land in a hayfield with no problem... as long as no one asks to see my pilot's licence. Hours in the air costs a lot of money...maybe someday I'll be legal again.
"Why walk when you can fly?", as my friend Rita (Bird) is known to say.

The Dance of Pain

Thumb-size cottonballs float,

Q-tip teardrops flick fast from high,

Through grey morning open eye.

Humble blanket warmly awaits the touch.

Nothing sticks, that time is yet to come...

Weeping, seeping, oozing hot from fever wound remembered.

Asciepius scalpel held ready....

Another scaring scar?

Naja coils to strike, somber slumber,

Niki's wings of knowing is nearer than we know.

Truth Bear

In a parallel worlds, reality is not always easy to define. The few who share the ancient blood line of a people from a parallel hidden planet, are able to travel through the dimensions of both worlds.

I am bound by a sacred oath to reveal only what is necessary, for to say more could cause a rift in space to open, spilling matter into antimatter. There are others like myself who were raised on this parallel world thinking something was terribly wrong. A world of angelic-demonic humanoids, devoid of common sense, hellbent on destroying their planet by greed and the enslavement of all what they call, "lesser life forms."

Yes, I was raised on the planet called Earth, but Earth is not my only home. With the aid of a famous Captain, who held my hand, and guided me to the portal between worlds. I am equipped with the ability to travel through space easily. As you may have guessed, the Captain is my hero, and my secret love. He lives on the other side of the one world which is forbidden to me at this time. It is his choice to shoulder the responsibility of saving Earth, and the many who fight for the Republic Federation.

Perry's Pirate Pilot

"If they catch you down there, they'll hang you, or throw you out an open air lock. One way or another, you'll end up dead meat...savvy?"

How does one describe a genetic hybrid humanoid? Captain Björn's name was the only thing normal about him. If he was from Earth; RU-22, 4k9 of the Snoopelite system, or one of the many colonized planets and asteroids in the Republic Federation was a mystery. A six-foot tall, heavy-built hairless sauropod with nasty habit... cannibalism. Being notability known as a killer who ate his enemys, his reputation had followed him from the farside of many galaxys.

"A runt like you won't last a day down there."

Three inch upper and lower yellow incisor-tusks mashed together spraying viscous mucus as he spoke. Stefn Perry wiped his face off with the full length of his shirt sleeve, and stepped back half a dozen steps. Now his back was against the obiting space station's bulkhead. If the big lunker stepped forward, it was going to get real messy. Perry frankly wasn't packing.

"Tell me this, Captain, how do you communicate wearing a space suit? Let me guess, some type of natho-dental-vacuum unit. Am I right?" Perry smiled to himself, knowing Böjrn would either kill him right there and then, or he would negotiate.

"Eh! You, you..." Björn snarled. His black leather outfit creaked when he moved, one boot scraped on the metal floor louder than the racket coming from the bar lounge down the hall. Perry slid his back sideways along the bulkhead as the Captain stuttered in rage. With forty-four discoloured gnashing pearls gaping, Bootstrap Perry hoped he was reading the creature correctly; anthropomorphic communication was his forte. Guareyes popping, large circles of pungent moisture suddenly became visible as the beast lifted his massive arms in a threating posture.

"That hunk of junk you call a cargo freighter probably couldn't make it to the Aragnan star system. I bet you've never set foot on BloriX, have you? You're big, so you like to intimidate...am I right?"

"I kill you Viceroy boy. Sqeesh you like a boeufbug."

"I've never been afraid of drowning, and I like my sourmash with a milgoo chaser. Come on, mama's boy...cut the bad-boy act and let me buy you a shebe brew or two at the bar."

"Whatfurrr..."

"You're a cunning linguist Captain, a loquacious loofah of the lubber line...we have business to discuss.

Chances Are Very Good

Stefn Perry had always been a small man with a big dream. Using his head and his heart, and all the courage he possessed, he had found a perfect Blanchfeur touchstone on a world where life was a memorable adventure, or you died alone with no friends. True, the gem had cost him more than most space travelers were willing to pay. He had paid four years of his life fighting for a chance at happiness. Knowing Captain Bjorn's spacecraft would soon be orbiting above BloriX's blustering stratosphere, Perry prepared for what he hoped would be a new beginning, his second chance. There was only one hitch to his plan. Before discovering the priceless precious gem stone, Stefn Perry was just an ordinary guy... now he was something different, and he was not alone. Deep, miles deep down, while exploring regional ice caves on a journey from his station's outpost, Perry had discovered a clear crystalline crypt of unknown origins, a portal to another world.

Durning the winter months on the spherulite planet, howling storms raged across dark wind swept ice fields. Subzero temperatures dropped below weather instruments reading ability, on those days, only God knew how cold it really was. Even the giant woolly beasts indigenous to BloriX, hybernated in subterrestial ice caves that honeycomb the planet's northern hemisphere. Being the most dangerous planet in the Arangan star system, it is a place of dread and terror. Few had ever dared land a ship on the little known planet, and of those that did...few, very few ever returned to Earth. Stefn "Bootstrap" Perry was one of the lucky ones.

As an amature spelunker, Perry had spent several remarkable years searching for the fabled Blanchfleur touchstone. As a private entrepreneur with no strings attached to any company or government, he had made arrangements with the Captain of a Catalan cargo vessel hauling illegal ore through the outer limits of the Arangan system. Having little to lose, and everything to gain by booking passage with the known scallywag of a pirate, a parley under the most unusual circumstances had taken place between them.

The current rawbone snowstorm continued to batter the lone outpost settlement. For over three weeks grey skies generated tons of new ice, blanketing the already deeply-covered survival station. Stefn wasn't a man to roll over and give up in defeat. Born on the planet Earth, his Scotch-Irish and Native blood ran hot against adversity. His older half brother, Commander Norton Dean Sisiyou had called him a fool. Actually, Stefn enjoyed the planet his brother had nick-named, "The Arktos Ice Hell."

Weeks earlier, Stefn had received an unexpected and somewhat garrulous communication from the Catalan ship's Captain. Translation computers mangled parts of the message due to the atmospheric storm, but enough was readable for Stefn Perry to know that Captain Woodstick Björn had returned as per their agreement. The smisauropod savage with hair may have earned his reputation by "hook, or crook", as the old saying went, but a "deal is a deal."

Ingenuity

Take a Native, mix in a little Canadian Scotch-Irish, and presto! Teamwork.

Window Between Worlds

"You have no idea what I had to go through to earn these gold bars on my shoulders."
"The fruit salad array on your chest gives me a clue to your ranking Commander. I have been told, Special Force Units are on standby alert, and shield forces are holding strong."
Dressed in blue velvet, the spy master's cape draped artfully over the arms of his overstuffed office chair. His smooth voice revealed no emotion, and yet his cold steel-blue eyes were expressive. Wheeling quickly he pointed to the star grid map that flashed on the wall screen.
"You can be assured we are doing everything in our power to find a solution to this delicate situation. I have been informed of your personal involvement."
"Have you? There are things even you don't know. If they harm her, if they hurt her in any way, I will hold you personally responsible."
"Surely Commander you don't hold me responsible in this matter? She is being held prisoner in a fortress of almost unfathomable depth. Just getting messages in and out of that wormhole is tricky business. A faithful courier was killed relaying her recent communication. Do you expect me to send in another courier after that?"
"I expect you to do your job." A meat-hook sized fist slammed down on the oak desk with determination. You have the ability, you must bring her out yourself. "She is...she is my, my..." Bracing both hands on the desktop, Commander Norton Dean Siskiyou leaned forward, his broad shoulders and bull neck ridged.
"Just suppose I get lucky, and suppose you give me access to a warship fitted with special military password protocol...again the spymaster pointed a finger to the star chart. My getting through that outlaw space quadrant is going to be risky business, very risky." The evergreen grid flickered as Commander Siskiyou walked over to the wide-screen. He touched the target area where the women known as Faye Grimm was last reported. Bringing his clinched fist up to his graying temple, he closed his eyes and sighed. "If you get through please give her this, and order her...no, ask her to engage her electro-heating atomic unit. I advise you to stand back, and have your personal shielding unit on high. The Hodag's will have planted one, or more nano bugs. Whatever is bugging at that time will be sent to another plane of existence."
The small blue marble glowed with swirls of white as if it were somehow live. Darou Rudof Treacle closed his bronze fingers over the object that gyrated slowly in the palm of his hand, and carefully slid it into a inside pocket of his lavender velvet robe.
"I will take the brunt of any backlash that may result. What you hold in your hand is classified, top secret; only the scientist that made it, myself, and you know of it's existence."
Standing to his full height of four-foot-three, Darou Rudof gathers several rolled cylinders under his arm, touches his chest, his lips, and his forehead in one fluid motion. "May the spirit of the cosmos guide our steps."
"One more thing Mr. Treacle, I suggest you first visit the planet called Arctos. There is a man, he may be hard to find, and he may not want to help you. If you can convince him how important Faye Grimm is...

The Real Men In My Life

"The Roaster Spit and Newmar's chiffon dragons."

I'm starting to work on a story about my miss adventures as a (excuse the pun) cocktail waitress, and bartender during the seventies in San Fransisco... a happy time before most of my sweet princes died.
This one will cost me a new pair of windshield wipers...

Sometimes it takes several fairy god mothers to give this chicken the courage to take Belly Dance lessons.

"Vida Girl, strut your butt out of that rut, and shake that fantail." They whisper...rather loudly.