A tasting of an idea for an inspirational book....

It was during those first few days in England that the reality of my finances sank in. In addition to the surprising depth of homesickness, intense worry over my money wracked my emotions. I was sick to my stomach and had to force myself to eat to keep up my strength. There was little joy in making and eating food as there usually had been in my past.

My greatest fear was that I would run out of money and have to go back to Boise, Idaho, my hometown, a failure and a disappointment for not being able to take care of myself. I had been raised with an intense sense of self-reliance and independence. If after only a few months, I had to go back to the United States it meant asking for financial help and feeling ashamed. I cried a lot in those days working through my fear and pleading with God to help me figure out how to make money to survive.

One afternoon, I was worrying and crying again as I put crunchies into my cat’s shiny new food dish. Petey bounded into the room and started munching.

Suddenly, God’s voice said, “Look at your cat! He doesn’t ask how you are going to feed him. When the food gets low he doesn’t run in circles around your feet wailing, “Mom, what are we going to do? What are we going to do?” He just knows that when the supply gets low, you fill his bowl. Do you trust Me like that?”

Pierced through the heart, I crumpled onto my sofa and prayed for that kind of simple trust. I can’t say the rest of the time in England was easy after that, but little by little the fear ebbed and I was able to begin asking new friends at church for help and I was able to get help from people back home. God also gave me ideas to save my money as I continued to live each day, one at a time. I didn’t have the full picture how God would meet all my needs, I just knew He would fill my ‘dish’ when I got ‘hungry’.

'Last Chance Cafe'

            The sun was sliding into the western horizon as I maneuvered my perfectly restored ’59 Stingray onto the crunching gravel. I slowed vigilantly to avoid throwing pebbles from the tires and chipping the sea-foam green paint. It had been a strenuous day of traveling from my hometown to, well, wherever here is.

The sun reflected off the filmy window of a small café and momentarily blinded me. I maneuvered the chrome-trimmed roadster into a slim parking space and stopped. My body reverberated with the memory of the vibrations of the road. It was only now that I took a deep breath and paused to study my immediate surroundings.

            The vehicle door clicked open and I was surprised to find that the air was nippy and laden with a mist that hovered in the tree-lined creek fringe. A thin layer of evening frost was beginning to form over the damp rocks and puddles in the drive-way. I wanted to dash indoors to a roaring fire and a steaming cup of cocoa.

            The diner was nothing special to look at. It was a flat-roofed, squat, square building that covered roughly a one thousand square foot area. Remnants of a flowerbed lined the front of the modest structure. The flowers were long dead from the cool autumn air that had replaced the warm summer breezes that they loved so much. Frozen, hanging low and stiff, the leaf points made miniature rainbow-like arcs against the faded paint. The trim color around the door looked as if it had been neglected for twenty years. It was peeling in jagged slivers that shuddered when the air stirred. The weather beaten wood was faded from seasons of sweltering sun and frigid wind.

            The only distinct sound, other than the other cars blindly speeding past the establishment, was that of a trickling brook somewhere behind the humble shack. Misty wisps of fog hovered in the air above the ambling stream like dancing apparitions.

            In the murky door window a randomly blinking and buzzing neon sign says, “Come one, Come All, Always Open, All the Time!” It beckoned me from the comfort of my plush vehicle. I stretched lazily and took in a breath of the refreshing cool air and began to walk toward the cozy looking refuge.

            As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I sensed something curious about the atmosphere of this café from the parking lot only five feet away. My pulse quickened and my blood thinned. I tugged on the door handle and pulled it open. As I stepped inside I smelled a heavenly scent and inhaled deeply. I closed my eyes to let the memory burn into my senses. It smelled like fresh baked bread, but even fresher. I was transported to a time in my life when I felt secure and loved without any doubts.

            Before I could exhale, someone walking by shook my hand. It wasn’t a flimsy fish grab, but a real ‘boy-are-we-glad-to-see-you! Sit-yourself-down-and-enjoy-your-stay!’ handshake.

From across the room someone yelled to me. They called me ‘friend’ and said, “Here’s your table waiting here!” I was momentarily shocked that they would have a table set and waiting for me. ME!? As I tentatively took my place, an old familiar face said, “Sit on down and welcome to the ‘Last Chance Café’!”

            I glanced at my watch to check the time. I knew I hadn’t been in the café but one minute, yet it felt as though I had been there all my life. I had never been much of one to follow parallel time lines, but I recognized that there was something very different about the way time moved in the café. It was if I were floating on the very edge of time. What a thrill! Suddenly, it didn’t matter what time it was. I sat back and drank in the sweet release from the dictates of societal rules. I didn’t HAVE to be anywhere! Oh, the taste of freedom from schedule pressures was intoxicating!

            As I sat there, I noticed that more people were coming in the diner door. I began to wonder how all these people would fit into this tiny café. But miraculously, they all came in and became part of the atmosphere. It was as though they all belonged there. Still, more people came and yet no one was turned away. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes and thought, “This could only happen here, at this mysterious ‘Last Chance Café’.

            The man who had spoken to me a few minutes before put his hand on my shoulder in a way that was gentle, yet full of power. I never wanted him to remove it. Somehow, just this simple touch was a comfort to my very soul. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Look around, this is a holy place”. A shiver shot up my spine.

I opened my eyes and beheld, as if for the first time, family and friends everywhere! In a flash, happy memories flooded through my mind. The visions of the past swept over me as we laughed and cried in each other’s arms. I knew that I had arrived at everywhere I had ever wanted to be. I was completely satisfied and fulfilled here in this humble café. I never wanted to leave this rapturous place! I felt as though I could spend forever here. I felt no shame as tears of joy streamed down my face without hesitation or pause.

All this time the man with this all-consuming presence continued to stand by me. I was acutely aware of him. I was enjoying the presence of my friends and family immensely, but his quiet strength seemed to press against me. I felt urgency within my self to give my attention to him, too. I felt slightly divided.

            When at last I did turn to face the man, smiling he said, “For two thousand years, I’ve been waiting here for you to come and join me at the ‘Last Chance Café’. It’s been waiting here, throughout all the years, this heaven made for you.”

            Could it be true? Heaven is in his tatty diner? No, it was far more than that. It was my destiny. I was in the midst of the relationship I had longed for all my life. I had finally arrived. I wept openly as all the desires of my heart were met in the company of this man. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, his arms supported my relief-wracked body. The fight, the battle, the tension of all my years was gone.

            “Yes, my darling. Welcome home. Well done.”

(inspired by the song, Last Chance Cafe, by Allies)

Hero

I recently watched the movie Footloose. I was pleasantly lulled back to a time when Kevin Bacon was a ‘fox’, the ‘Brat Pack’ set the fashion trends, and feathered hair ruled the prom.

I love the messages of Footloose. ‘Celebrate!’ ‘This is our time!’ ‘Dance!’ ‘Break free!’ Yet somewhere, between the bouncing music, peach chiffon dresses and frilly tuxedoes, I had forgot that those kids were angry. They were angry at being fenced in, tied down and cooped up. The rules and restrictions placed on them pressed in relentlessly. They just wanted a little space to be young and to dance.

I was one of those angry teens. I was angry that life did not work out the way I thought it was supposed to. I naively thought that if I liked my friends enough, then they would automatically like me, too. Instead, what I learned was that betrayal and mistrust was my ‘normal’.

The weight of the unwritten rules was oppressive. ‘Conform or be shunned’. I felt caught in a boxing match with no training. I was trapped against the ropes, cringing in fear of the next blow.

The best help I received? Well meaning adults telling me that ‘Life is not fair. That’s just how it is.’ In other words, give up. Resign yourself to thinking that “This is as good as it gets.”

I often thought, “What?! THIS is God’s best for me? THIS is God’s great plan for my life?” What a colossal disappointment!

Ohhhh…yes. It made me angry.

Though time and maturity have healed many old wounds of my heart, I have made a fresh discovery. I am still angry.

I admit, I am a little angry when I run out of coffee. I am slightly more angry when tools break when I need them most. But ultimately, I am angry when dreams begin to come true but come unraveled. I am angry when I think I’m right only to find out later that I was wrong. I am angry that my friends suffer physical pain. I am angry when my own doubts and fears disappoint me. I am angry when a friend loses a needed job. I am angry when a relationship ends. I am angry when people I love stay mired in their mess. I am angry when a loved one dies. I am angry when I feel guilty for being angry!

However, the Bible says there is a time to be angry. It’s okay to be angry at pain, suffering and injustice. It’s okay to rage against poverty, destruction and death. That’s how bad situations get better. Someone usually gets very angry which turns the tide and breaks the “status quo”.

The question facing me is this: what will I do with my anger? Will I lash out? Will I push it deep, deep within myself, pretending to ignore it?

Or will I choose to run headlong into it with a fiery defiance that channels the emotional energy to bring justice and relief? Will I get angry enough to take a stand against the lie that says, “Life is not fair. That’s just how it is. It doesn’t get any better than this”?

I would like to think that my anger has been refocused and redirected to create some positive change in this rough world. I wish that someone were a little better because they were friends with me. I hope that I have been strong enough to make some sort of impact against the forces of opposition.

In reality, some days I wonder if I am effective in my prayers and my actions. I feel torn between giving up and going on. Some days I feel worn out by the fight. I feel hopeless, trampled down, and completely inadequate. In those moments I say, “I can’t do this!”

That’s when I think to myself, “I need a Hero!”

I need Someone who will be strong for me. I need Someone who’s perfect timing thwarts the onslaught of the fiery arrows of wicked accusations. I need Someone who knows how to outwit the plans of evil; Someone familiar with the enemy’s tactics and will counterattack on my behalf. I need Someone who has the power and authority to bring change that lasts, to bring justice and truth to any situation. I need Someone who is secure enough to not let the dark places of my heart scare Him. I need Someone who protectively watches over every move I make and knows exactly what I need to keep fighting. I need Someone who also knows when it’s time to give me a reprieve from the raging battle.

Sometimes, when I sleep, I dream of a Gandolf-like figure that surges into my desperation on a white stallion and sweeps me off my feet to a place of triumph, security, rest. In my reverie He approaches me with power and gentleness, authority and peace, safety and wildness. Being with Him revitalizes and invigorates me. His presence burns like fire in my blood.

When I awaken, my passion and intensity concentrate into a fierce desire to fight for freedom for the imprisoned, the oppressed and the burdened once again.

In the red-skied dawn my Hero and I charge from our mountain fortress with a purple and gold banner splayed, proclaiming “Victory!” to those who will join us in battle! Joy is our strength! Love is our motivation! Hope is our message!

So, COME! DANCE! CELEBRATE! Our Hero is here!

(Inspired by Holding Out For A Hero, by Bonnie Tyler, from the movie Footloose)

A Writing Assignment...

This story was inspired by a writing assignment for The Writers Guild. (The underlined words/phrases were required for the assignment.) 

I am inviting suggestions for how to show this story more. It seems to just tell the story. Please email me with any ideas! Thank you!

She waited in the shadows at the glossy piano with trembling fingers. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes then curled and uncurled her fingers three times, her ritual. In anticipation of the events of the evening yet to unfold, she strained to control her inner vibrations. The spotlight clunked on with a glare. The emerald dress enhanced her crimson hair glistening in the intense light.

            Gradually exhaling, her fingers began dancing gracefully through their rehearsed routine. They winged over the keys of ivory and ebony with the agility of a ballerina performing a pirouette.

The final notes faded amid cheers and applause of the crowd. She stood to her feet with poise and bowed to the eager audience. One tall, distinguished, man stood out from the throng. He smiled broadly through his neat 3-day stubble. He was so strong and being with him made her feel safe. She could hardly wait until she was in his arms.

She turned and floated off the stage with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It was the only time in her illustrious career with no mistakes during the performance. She felt like she glowed, her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Backstage, she waited with the others participants for the concert to end. She paced the floor and looked at the backstage door wishing he would walk into her waiting arms. In reality, the time was shorter than a New York minute.

In a self-confident manner with all the pride he could muster, he slowly swaggered up to her and swooped her off the floor. He kissed her cheek and spun her around twice. The adoration was apparent. She’d never been so happy. She giggled like the schoolgirl she really was.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed.

“Sweetheart, you were magnificent! You played perfectly! I’m so proud of you!” he gushed, re-setting her on the floor and taking her hand.

“Do I deserve a treat, Daddy?” she asked bashfully.

“A treat? What a good idea. How does triple chocolate cheesecake with an Oreo crustsound to you?”

“It sounds good, Daddy, but that’s not even close to what I want!”

“Okay, okay, let me guess again. How about a hot fudge sundae with a cherry and rainbow sprinkles?” he suggested.

“Nope.” She loved this game.

They began walking toward the doors to the parking lot where their blue, faithful, rusty Ford pickup waited.

“Oh, I know what you want; a hot brownie with vanilla ice cream, drizzled with caramel syrup.”

She squeezed his hand and said with playful reproof, “Daddy! You know what I really want.”

“Hmmmmm”, was his reply as if he was deep in thought. They walked slowly in silence for another moment.

Suddenly, he stopped and in one very stealth move, he reached into his coat pocket and said, “Maybe I do know what you want…”

Their eyes locked with full expectancy. He magically produced the long awaited, wax paper wrapped treat. In unison they shouted, “A pickle!”

Circling St. Ives

Optimistically, they thought, “Who doesn’t love a coastal town with the briny wind, the boisterous surf, the confined, winding street lined with touristy merchandise shops?” This was purported to be a magical overnight stay filled with images of pirates and tales of swashbuckling heroics - an idyllic getaway for a hopeful romantic. The lure of these adventure-laden shores had emboldened two wide-eyed American tourists to venture to the southern most tip of England. St. Ives to be exact.

For all intents and purposes, the day started out perfectly despite classic grey April skies and constant rain. These hearty tourists had lived in moist conditions for most of their lives and were emotionally undaunted by a little spitting drizzle.

The rented blue car resembling a used soap bar slipped down the narrow ‘A’ road with ease as the carefree travelers mindlessly hummed along to the only CD they had with them. The jazzy tunes of British artist, Seal, heightened the potential and nearly impending romance of the voyage ahead.

Moment by moment, the scenic English Moors of Dartmoor National Park glided past. Never had the vacationers experienced something as wild and rugged as this. Yes, they had seen the jagged, snow spotted mountains of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks in America. They had also seen tundra strewn hillsides in remote places of Alaska. These locales feel rough and desolate, but are somehow compelling. They invite one to into the mysterious side of adventure.

However, the English Moors were a beast of a different kind. They were desolate, rugged, rough, and wild to be sure. However, there was another element that permeated the atmosphere. It felt eerily majestic. It was as if the spirits of kings, queens, knights and warriors of the centuries past hovered there like a barren purgatory. Gradually, the loneliness and bleakness of the terrain began to envelope the soap shaped vehicle. Optimism waned.

The quaint and artistic village of St. Ives sits wedged into the crevasse of a rocky outcrop of land. The harsh waves of the Atlantic Ocean beat unceasingly against the seawall. Fishy, salty and grassy smells carried up the side of the hill by a relentless wind draw attention toward the stone houses stacked one on top of the other like one massive terraced garden broken up by occasional bits of jagged, dark rocks poking through.

The map’s address simply read “14 Rose Cottage Way” to the charming bed and breakfast room awaiting. How hard could it be to find in this tiny, yet attractive fishing village? The travelers’ methodical search began by descending the lengthy hill into town.

The view was spectacular even through the rain. The white-capped waves of the open ocean lay before them on the right mirrored by the white house-covered hill on the left.

At the bottom of the hill the road unexpectedly changed into a one-way system of streets that dictated the journeyers’ direction of travel. Circling through the tiny city centre was fun and intriguing the first time through. There were several shops that the tourists wanted to inspect the next day – kite shops, souvenir shops, historical points of interest, the seawall walk and enticing eateries. They noticed a split second too late that they missed the turn to their necessary street. Amused, they finished the loop through the town and began the second round.

Turning onto the desired street proved an adventure in itself. It reminded the pair of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It forced the travelers to creep past parked cars and stone half-walls to avoid damaging the rented car. Tensions mounted as adrenaline surged with the challenge.

At the end of the row of houses, the deceivingly charming street continued to narrow into what looked to be a bicycle path and seemed to wander off down a precarious precipice. Unlike an actual soap bar, this blue car would not slide gently down the obviously uninhabited ravine wall, nor did the travelers want it to.

Somewhere in the last 30 feet, desperation for a respite crept into the minds of the hungry and frustrated couple. Any trace of adventure and romance vanished. Frustration soon gave way to misdirected open hostility. Angry words were exchanged before the driver extricated himself from the vehicle in order to avoid further escalation. However, after a few minutes to catch their breath, the couple reunited, made apologies and changed their plan of attack for the situation.

Gingerly, they picked their way back to the circuitous city route that was gaining annoying familiarity. The return trip did not change the fact that the map provided by their travel agent directed them to a house that was clearly not a “charming bed and breakfast with ample parking”.

With wry and ironic smiles, they noticed that the appeal was fading as they circled through the village centre yet again. They noticed that shops were beginning to close for the evening therefore, they were rapidly losing options for assistance to their goal. Climbing the long hill back out of the town to a petrol station became their only hope.

After gaining the correct directions from the dirt and grease-laden station attendant, the two now weary travelers once again descended into the village. Following these new directions, they were surprised to discover that they were going in a direction opposite to the other attempts to locate their evening target. Insecure glances were exchanged as they asked an elderly, friendly couple walking the white flower dotted sidewalk for more information. Grateful, the assured travelers tentatively continued on, up a hill parallel to the road leading into the village.

Near the pinnacle, like a lighthouse’s beam of hope, they saw the white sign with black letters: “Rose Cottage Way”. Turning left, they were rewarded with a sign further up the street that indicated that they had reached their ‘home’ for the night – #14.

Snuggled under the poofy duvet after a hearty meal and hot showers, the couple reflected on the day’s adventure. Not any time soon, but someday, they decided, they would appreciate the adventure and enjoy the humor of circling St Ives.

Sounds

Contentment a purring cat on my pillow

Comfort the exhale of a friend during a hug

Anticipation the ‘wah na na na’ of a motorcycle motor

Cheer birds faithfully chirping their reports of winter holidays

Fear a ringing phone at an unusual hour

Empathy a friend delivering bad news through her tears

Acceptance the excited greeting of a parent or friend

Anxiety a thumping heart through an important interview

Confusion snapping & popping of ligaments from a strange illness

Grief silent tears in remembrance of past losses – a spouse,

grandparents, a creative mentor, an inspirational

and beloved family member

Selfishness a squeaking, cracking voice interrupting a prayer for

someone you just don’t know if you could live without

Hope the ‘ding’ on your computer indicating an email with fun

plans enclosed

Confidence God’s voice saying, “Take My hand. We’ll go together.”

Novocain Life

Paralyzed

Empty

Useless

Ineffective

Bloated

Limp

Lame

This Novocain life

 

Temporary

Escape

Lethargic

Apathetic

The nitrous of my soul

 

Urgent

Tingling

Thrill

Alive

Free

Just one breath of holy

oxygen to fill my spirit!

The Great ‘L’ Road Incident of the Year 2000

I affectionately call it the Metallic Easter Egg, the Irish Emerald Geo-de, and on one occasion, the Jolly Green…Miniature. For, it was the tiniest car ever to hold 2 very American tourists, their travel gear, and an ever-growing bundle of ‘On Holiday’ souvenirs.

The valiant and spirited underdog zipped like a top let go from a toddler across the Irish countryside. It reminded me of tinny wind up mice that cats play with….whirring and circling and eventually unwinding themselves to a stop. To this day, I feel like it should have been plugged in at night or like we should have fed peanuts to the squirrels on the wheel in the engine compartment. Perhaps, we should have been using a plastic dipstick style cord to insert and then yank out to wind up the internal rubber band mechanism. No, it never did feel like a ‘real’ car – solid, sturdy, dependable, smooth or agile. But, come to think of it, an ‘L’ road somewhere outside Galway, Ireland is no place for a luxury automobile!

Picture it, a hazy sky hanging low like contented cat’s eyes. The knobby clouds covered the horizon like a woolen blanket produced in the finest Merino mills. It was April in Ireland after all.

The aforementioned Americans breakfasted heartily and were abuzz at the thought of a day trip excursion into the countryside of Connaght. Optimism grew to a feverish pitch as they effortlessly pointed the green orb toward its halfway mark for the day, Connemara National Park. Navigation skills were sharp on day 16 of 30 in this magic land. Many a lesson had been learned by missing turns, missing landmarks, and all too frequently, signage that was completely missing. But these tourists were naïve and enthusiastic as they ventured out with only a light snack, map and passports in hand.

The tranquil, olive hillsides slipped by one after another on through the morning. There was no cell phone coverage, no radio reception and if memory serves, no power lines….

An eerie little doubt began to nibble in the wee dark recesses of the mind. Signs in English AND Gaelic began to dwindle. Soon only Gaelic could be seen. Nervous titter was exchanged between the thrill seekers.

The steel egg continued to buzz along without a care. It seemed fueled by the freedom of the country space. The clean air like nitrous to the motor. This life so opposed to the forced labor in the city of Galway under which it usually serves its sentence.

The mood in the tiny jade rocket flagged only for a moment until cresting a knoll, a pub rose into view. Even after consuming cheese, crackers and drinks, hunger had began to motivate these hearty travelers to seek a tavern for a meal.

After a satisfying repast and confirmation of the route chosen for the day, the journeyers were again underway.

However, soon realizing that the day was more than half over and the trip was not, the navigator began to look for alternatives to shorten the distance. The pilot of the spherical machine was eager and trusting. Both had experience with ‘M’ named map lines – they were freeways, ‘A’ referred to highways, and ‘N’ were side streets. But on this map was a new assignment to a passageway. The little white line beckoned the trekkers like the siren song of Greek mythology. The temptation to veer off the known path was too strong. The hapless wayfarers turned off the familiar ‘N’ designation. It was time to live on the mysterious side of adventure with this 'L' road.

It was ‘ON’ now. The challenge was accepted with gusto. No one but the locals knew what lay ahead. With hearts swollen with adrenaline and dopy grins on their eager faces, the metallic rubber ball-like contraption seemed to float over the surface of the earth. The vehicle may have left the ground at one point as the hysterically laughing pilot and navigator were bounced and tossed like a rudderless vessel in a perfect storm.  Up on its side and thrown over a hill, tossed to the left suddenly, then pitching back up and over small rocks. The delight in the machine, paved surface and human exhilaration was intoxicating! The bottle green bubble had subtly taken control of the passengers. The dashboard and steering wheel had become the safety bars on this world-class roller coaster! The passengers were simply along for the ride! And what a ride it was! When the road stopped at the next intersection, they were left stunned and giggling like junior high girls as the unadulterated high began to wear off.

In reality, the thoroughfare was nothing more than asphalt-like substance poured out over grass tuft, rock, hill and dale. I can’t with 100% certainty say, but I would almost swear that one hump actually ‘baaaa-ed’ as we passed over it! No thought of going around any obstacle had remotely entered the, and I use the term loosely, engineer’s mind during ‘construction’.

It was a highlight of an already wonderful excursion to the Emerald Isle and I will repeat it if ever given the chance such was the delight of that hazy April day in the year 2000.

You'll Never Guess...

This short was inspired by a black and white photograph of a theater full of laughing children on a postcard. Who knew I could do this in just 10 minutes?!

Chrissy had never laughed so hard! She had been led to believe that this was a serious film. But what she was seeing couldn’t be, could it?

Sure, she enjoyed dreaming about the future as much as her friends next to her. They all hoped that one day there would be flying cars. But she could tell by their laughter that they doubted. Even the boys were laughing. If anyone could comprehend the magnitude of the scenes before them, surely it would be the boys!

Faced with the contents of the film she was forced to mock or consider the possibilities presented to her. With technology evolving exponentially every day, she guessed that it could happen.

In the dark theater she felt safe among the other scoffers. However, it would be at home later that night, lying in her familiar bed, that she would allow her imagination to take flight. She let the scene unfold in her mind over and over again.

Maybe, just maybe, someday the newsies would proclaim the day’s newspaper headlines, “Christa McAuliffe: 1^st Female Astronaut”.

Shredder Tales

The day started like any other. I reluctantly oozed out of bed, groped for the stair rail while avoiding the blinding light of dawn, ravaged the coffee can, impatiently waited for caffeine to surge into my veins while in the shower, performed the appropriate albeit mundane ablutions, sprinted the last few precious minutes of freedom to the office and took my dutiful position in the corporate workforce.

While the windows developed prison bars, I set about the tasks awaiting my attention. Today corralling paperwork and details felt like herding felines since my attention was repeatedly summoned by “The Leash”, cynically referred to as the telephone.

Then it happened. From across a wall partition wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard! The end of the world having been announced by many scruffy street dwellers was upon us! It was being heralded aloud!

"Armageddon is nigh!"

The paper shredder was jammed!

Whatever shall we do? Who will save us from certain doom?!

I leaped from my helm, donned my equipment belt and hard hat and headed to the source of the catastrophe. Along the way, I wondered if, perhaps, just perchance, the bin was full and the shredder, not really jammed. At every turn on the route the feeling of calamity became palpably concentrated.

OHHHHHH, it was JAMMED. No amount of cajoling, supplication or entreating would turn the sadistic metal teeth free. I wrenched and jabbed and flossed the living whoopee out of those ferocious incisors.

Time passed. I was repeatedly reminded that ‘the leash’ was securely fastened around my neck and that there was no life outside the walls of this dungeon.

After much brow mopping, flailing of paper ribbons and occasional swearing, the violent fangs gave way!

I had done it! I had conquered, triumphed, surmounted the impossible!

My coworkers cheered, threw ticker tape into the sky, and cavorted in the street. Two raised me onto their shoulders and walked throughout the building chanting, “Dana is the queen, Dana is the queen!”

“The Leash” yanked me back to the stark reality that I was lording over a mechanical monster with nothing but a letter opener. It was not my coworkers singing my praises, but my own little inner voice reminding me of a single fitting phrase. A self satisfied smile crept over my lips with the memory of it.

“More than merely a secretary – only slightly less than a goddess”.

Keep Checking In!

I WILL have postings in the near future! I plan to do A LOT of writing this summer and will post as much as I can! Don't give up on me!