There Is No Ferry In A World Without Oceans

There it lay upon the nightstand, glistening wetly as if freshly plucked from the sea, and she knew if she were to touch her tongue to its porous surface that she would taste that salty brine even though the nearest ocean was hours away.

It always returned, this volcanic chunk of basalt. Always. Like some twisted lodestone unerringly driven to come home. Each time it was discarded or sold off (no longer done as it was too hard to explain how it eventually disappeared from a collectors collection only to reappear in her possession again) or destroyed it would play with her, staying away for days or weeks or months. Never a year though. It was always kept locked away, but that didn't stop it from turning up in random places.

It was the wetness that disturbed her. She had been sure this time it would not have returned, having dropped it herself and watching it sink into the fathoms. One would think so far from shore it would struggle to free itself from the muck of the sea floor and finding it's way past sea slugs, fishing nets and territorial borders to her very room. Even if it had surely it would not still be wrapped in that sheen of briny water.

She had no idea of how to break the hold it had on her, a Faustian bargain not of her making. She could feel the years of her life stretched thin like the skin above her thin wrist, so pale it was nearly transluecent. She would have cursed that ancient ancestor who had sealed her to this fate, but knew that they were damned enough already. She had read the journals, matriarch after matriarch, doomed to live out her hundred years of perfect health while the stone claimed it's due. Every seven years it claimed a life, a male of the line. They never knew who would be taken, be it son, nephew, cousin or uncle, the male line of the family were fair game and ripe for the taking.

She was determined to be the final victim of this damning cycle. It was years still she would be forced to endure before her time on came to a close, but she knew she could no longer wait for time to release its hold upon her. So she made a plan and set it into motion. She left the day and the time up to those hands she had given her token thirty pieces of silver, now all she could do is wait. Waiting was easy when one knew her days of suffering had almost reached their end.

And then it came. She did not resist as she and the stone were shoved into a box, the lid nailed shut and the sound of chains dragged across the surface. She endured the bruises as she and the rock slid into one another as the box tilted first one way and then the other as it was lifted carelessly and carried away. She had no idea and was not concerned about where they would end up, only rejoicing that her demise was one of her choosing and that she was nearly free.

The sensation of falling and the jarring thud as the box was thrown into the waiting pit knocked the air out of her, and she could hear wet sounds pouring down. A thin seam of wet concrete forming above her where the box and its lid met. What bliss, she thought. There is no way out of here for you now, she told the stone, and could almost feel it hunkering down and sulking, while loose dirt was shovelled in. When it finally went quiet she could imagine that there would be no trace left above to indicate where they lay.

So she lay quietly, ignoring the bruises and the urging of her bladder and waited for the air to go stale and send her drifting into oblivion. She had no idea of how much time had passed when she first felt movement at her feet and a soft scraping noise as the stone rubbed against the roughness of the wood.

There is no getting out, she told it, a strange and disturbing laughter coming from her chest, muffled in the close confines. Its just you and me now and always.

But the soft noises continued, and the scent of fresh sawdust tinged the staling air. Oh stop already, she told the stone. You'll wear yourself away to nothing digging through, that's concrete around us, there is no getting through it.

The box was too small for her to wiggle around and grab the rock, so she would just have to endure the noise until she passed beyond caring. She should have specified someting larger, and as she shifted her hips she couldn't help but think how she should have also mentioned padding or at least a pillow for her head. Still, a little discomfort was a willing trade for her early release from daily life.

The air grew stale and still she lay, fully conscious and growing annoyed at how long this was taking. Shouldn't she be at least growing tired or dizzy before the suffocating end came, but still she lay there, eyes open though she couldn't see anything anyway, and that persistent rubbing motion next to her right foot.

Not much time left, she told it, though a panic was slowly growing in her chest and she tried to clamp it down. There wasn't enough room in the box for her to fall to hysterics now. And still the steady scrape of stone to wood, and she realized she could now smell damp earth. The rough scrach softened to what she imagined an earthworm heard as they tunneled past one another in the garden.

Its gotten out of the box, she realized. It went underneath the concrete and was making its slow progression through the disturbed earth. She wasn't so bothered that it was making an escape as surely she hadn't much time left to her, trapped as she was. to worry. Let the rock become someone else's burden, she told herself, and make ready for your soul's release. It wasn't as if she was going to be trapped here with the damned thing for eternity anyway. Surely she had minutes only left to suffer with it.

The stone paused, turning as if to look back the way it had come. You have misjudged this, it said, no anger or malice in its tone. I may free myself and come and go as I please, you have no such luxury open to you. But you, had you but known the parameters of the bargain, shall remain. The bargain holds that you live, and live you shall until the hundred year mark is reached. Be content in your new home, for it shall be yours for many more a year still. And it turned back to its slow forward progression, inching towards the surface and the sunlight beaming down upon this spot of earth, a sign nearby proudly announcing the opening of a park opening in the fall.

But she had no way of knowing where she was, only the cold realization that she would spend decades in this cramped box with only the stone dropping by from time to time. She filled her lungs with what air was left around her and screamed and screamed until the air was gone and she was left alone and silent, hands fluttering around the tiny space around her as the years wore on around her. She could faintly sense the passing of time overhead in the soft thumps of children's feet overhead, their screams of delight muffled and unintelligible.

The stone came and went as it pleased, the men of the family still dying every seven years as agreed so long before, and she waited, knowing one day the end would finally arrive, it had to. The bargain had been made and would one day bring her release. But then the stone disappeared. She had no idea how long it had been since its last visit to her, but it didn't come. It must be close, she told herself comfortingly, it must be close to my soul's release, it can't keep me here forever, but without any sort of marker she had no way to count down how long she had left.

Time moved on around this tired little plot of land. The thump of footfalls changing over the years as the world above moved from cultivated playground to a derelict neighborhood where street thugs now loitered. One day even those were gone and she was left truly alone, the silence broken only by the persistent beating of her heart. Surely soon, she thought over and over again, it could not have forgotten me. Surely it won't be long now, not realizing that she had already done so for millenia now.

The world overhead strangely silent, a thick red dust constantly churning in the stiff breeze across a landscape erased through time. the sun only a faint glow that penetrated the atmosphere of a dry and empty planet.

Nearly Home

Autumn leaves swirl around my feet, crunching with every step as if to remind me that I am breaking the bones of the vegetation that just this summer provided the path with welcoming shade. Hints of wood smoke drift by in the air, unsurprising, given how scattered we all are, each of us tucked into our own little hollows of these sleepy mountains. Scent can drift for miles here, and the tang is just enough to remind me that I am not completely alone out here. I didn't even bother to bring a light with me, as I can see the stars shining brightly above as the full moon is just beginning to crest the hill before me. 

I am so close to home now. Just over the hill and down the other side and I will be there. In my own little valley the moonlight will already be streaming down, creating shadows amongst the now skeletal trees. I can already picture the warmth of the fire that will, by now, be burned low, but still with plenty of popping embers as they finish charring the last of the logs I had laid in the fireplace before heading out.

The path is well remembered, from years of travel between my house and Emma's, and I don't mind it's length. It is always nice to spend a day with her, and today was no exception, the two of us taking the time to can the last of her garden's bounty for the year. Tomorrow she will doubtless walk the path to my house and help me with mine, even though she is nearing eighty, and can't see as well as she once did.

Her spritely legs still work just as well as they ever did, and she is always glad for company. "Many hands make light work", she has told me more than once, probably more than a hundred times by now, over the course of our decades long friendship. 

It was Emma who took my clueless hand and showed me how to gather the forest's varying bounty, each item in its season, and what to do with it once I had it safely home. I was so naïve when I first moved out here, having inherited a little parcel of land from my hardly remembered great-grandmother.

Emma came as the most delightful surprise, showing up on my doorstep one bright morning with a basket tucked over one arm. I still remember how I had stood there as she looked around back, noting silently how I hadn't even cleared the old garden plot, even though I had moved in only the day before. She simply handed me the basket, stepping towards the plot and rolling up her sleeves. She had only made it a couple of steps before turning her head towards me as if to verify that I would be following.

By that afternoon we had cleared out the modest space that had been used by generations of my family, and we were just finishing sowing all of the seeds she had tucked into that basket. At first I was dumbfounded to see the folded pieces of paper with precious seeds tucked safely within. These were not seed packets, but rather seeds she had harvested herself from her own garden the previous year.

I admit I felt pretty stupid, thinking seeds only came from the home and garden center in town. Of course they had to have been harvested from somewhere, they weren't manufactured. Emma, however, took it in her admirable stride and kindly suggested other varieties I may want to try if I wanted to expand the garden space next spring. She had plenty stashed away, as she delightfully informed me, "You won't want to keep eating the same old things year after year. A person needs some variety, and besides, this isn't the best year to be planting some of them. We're in for a wet summer this year, I'm afraid."

And she was right. Emma was a human barometer, even better than the little Farmers Almanac I had picked up on my next trip to town. The seedlings took, and, despite the wetter than normal summer, I was facing a lot of waste if I couldn't figure out what to do with it all. It's then that Emma showed back up one day, basket in hand, ready to pull a bunch of bottles out from a cupboard I had somehow overlooked. 

That was our first time canning together, and I was amazed by not only how knowledgeable she was, but how fun such a domestic and seemingly outdated chore could be. We've shared canning and baking and gathering off and on every year since, and today was just the latest in finding still more surprises up Emma's sleeve. Today she had pulled out a new recipe we hadn't covered before. I wondered where she kept them all, as I never once saw her refer to anything written down.

My own basket clinked gently, reminding me of the sauce she had sent home with me. Two precious jars to be kept for some special occasion. "It's going to be a long winter." she said. She seemed to think I would understand when the time would come for them, and over the years I've just learned to trust Emma's recommendations, as she hadn't steered me wrong yet.

The night was calm, cool and peaceful as I began to climb the hill. The moon was still  climbing the hilltop before me, and I knew my shadow would be stretching out impossibly long behind me. It was the sudden rush of wind that made me pause. It wasn't a large gust, but the noise of it seemed incredibly loud in the relative silence of the night. I glanced behind me for a moment just as something blocked the moon's light for a moment. My shadow was obliterated by darkness for a moment, and then blinked back into view. I glanced up at the moon before me, but there was no errant cloud above that had drifted across. 

Shaking my head I turned my feet towards home and began walking slowly again, finally reaching the crest a few short moments later. Below me, tucked in safe and sweet at the edge of a small glen, glowed the windows of my dear little home. Faint glow, to be sure, given it was only the remaining firelight that offered illumination, but more than enough to see from my vantage point. In another five minutes the well-worn path I followed would take me straight to my front door, and I wanted nothing more than to stoke the fire, make a soothing cup of tea and settle in for the night.

I owed so much to Emma. I never would have managed on my own for so long without her guidance over the years. There were no thanks large enough to encompass just how much she had helped me to build a new life, a worthwhile life, from the young woman I had been when I first moved in. I still had a few bottles of a raspberry jam I was especially proud of canning on my own, and maybe I would pull a bottle out tonight and set it aside for her visit. It would be delicious with some fresh scones or biscuits.

I could almost taste those scones now, and as I headed down the hill I found my pace picking up a little. It wasn't so late that I couldn't pull the dough together tonight and setting it aside for the morning. That way it would be a quick bake and we'd have more time to finish storing any last items I can pull from the garden. I would rather we get done early, so Emma could get safely back home before dark. As well worn as our path was, I certainly didn't feel well with her walking home alone after dark.

So lost in my thoughts, I almost didn't register that rush of wind again. Given that I was now protected from behind with the hilltop receding behind me, I vaguely knew I shouldn't be feeling a wind at my back, but it wasn't enough to make me pause. A sudden feeling of vertigo, however, threw me off track. 

I couldn't clear my head, and I couldn't feel the earth or the leaves beneath my feet. It felt as though I was floating, but there was a wind now rushing by my face. I couldn't fathom how the wind had suddenly shifted direction. I turned my face towards the moon, but something was blotting it out. Something impossibly close. I looked down and there was nothingness below. There was no ground. 

I couldn't make sense of what was happening. Where had the ground gone? Suddenly a brief flash of light below and then gone- the windows of my home fading fast behind me. Somehow I was in the air and moving impossibly fast. 

Wait, where was my basket? Had I dropped it somehow? Would poor Emma come across it in the morning on her way to my door, lying abandoned in the middle of the path? Would she worry? Would she ever know what had happened to me?

The weightlessness lasted forever or mere moments. I was still trying to gather my thoughts when suddenly I felt ground beneath my feet again, and I stumbled, but managed to stay mostly upright. The clink of bottles broke into my tumbling train of thought and I clutched at the basket I realized I was still holding onto. The thought that, without the basket to find, Emma would never know where I was or what happened.

But what had happened? And where was I? There was no moon or stars, and I could feel the roughness of rocks underfoot. Was I somehow in a cave? My mind seemed to finally register the wrongness of what was happening as my heart began slamming in my chest.

It was only then that I felt the basket suddenly lightening as if the weight of the jars had been removed, as if someone had lifted them out unnoticed.

"I am sorry, my dear", came a kindly voice from one side of me, and I turned in the dark, struggling to see who or what was there. "It's time for me and mine to renew ourselves. We are old now, and our bones ache. It isn't much that we need, or often, but we need to partake in order to grow young once more. It is going to be a long and hard winter and then there will be much to do this spring."

What? Wait.

"Emma?" I whispered, a feeling of relief coming across me for a moment.

"Yes, my dear," came her reply, and her withered hand stroked my cheek.

"Is it time already?" came a voice from behind me.

"Ooh, this one is plumper than the last," said another.

If I hadn't been scared out of my wits, I might have responded to the jibe about my weight. So maybe I had been eating more of the scones and jam than was good for me, but that was my own business.

In the darkness about me I could hear shuffling and whispering as if a multitude of people were slowly closing in around me, and I couldn't help but let out a whimper as leathery hands pinched and grabbed at me.

And then I heard it. The pop of a canning jar lid. It seemed so loud to my ears, and it was followed by the other jar.

"Remember my loves, many hands make light work", came Emma's gentle voice before my world ripped apart and was no more.

The Short But Sweet Reign of Daisy Marsden

Daisy was a destined to be Queen.... she knew that.  Knew it in every fiber of her being.  After all, she had already been one of the local Princess for three years running, and now, with the reigning Queen Dinty Cartwright finally aged out, it was her time to shine.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror (the 6' mirror loomed over her but that was to be expected with a 5-year old), she brushed her hands softly down the front of her blue silk dress, and smiled at what she saw.  Golden hair in perfect curls tumbled onto her shoulders, and her eyelashes were the longest of any girl in the running this year.  Her dress had layers of underskirts that made her dress poof out just so, and the skirt had sparkles in a swirling design that made it practically shimmer in the sunlight.  There was a string of pearls around her neck, and even a stone that twinkled like pink and blue fire on one little finger.

Nodding to her reflection in approval, she turned from her reflection, listening for the sweet hiss of her dress brushing against the underskirts.

Heaven.

Walking carefully down the hall to the kitchen, she paused, took a breath and then calmly walked in.

Her father, sitting at the front table looked up and smiled as she entered the room.  "Ah, I am fortunate to be visited by her Grace, our future Queen", he laughed.  Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek; he had not taken the time to shave yet, and it tickled.  Daisy giggled, and then stood back, holding her skirts wide.

"How do I look Papa?" she asked, and slowly spun in a circle in order to make her skirts flare even wider.

Her father's smile didn't fade, but he took in the girl and, once again, he wished her could do more for her. Her little dress, once someone's Cinderella costume, had been carefully drawn on with glitter glue, but he could see smears where it hadn't fully dried before it had been moved.  He noted the cheap string of imitation pearls, and the ring... he had no idea where Daisy had found it, but it appeared to be no more than a cheap piece of costume jewelry.

Daisy's usually straight hair had been worked over with a curling iron by her older sister, but nature was already making those curls droop and, no doubt, by the time they arrived at the competition, they would be straight again.  Her excitement, however, could not be contained, and it only heightened the sparkle in her eyes.

"Let me go get cleaned up", he chuckled.  "A vision such as you can hardly be seen with me all scruffy.  What will people think?"

Daisy giggled again, allowed herself one more spin, and then carefully sat down, brushing her skirts with pudgy fingers.

Dave's girls were the two best things he had going for him, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for either of them... or at least try to.  While there may not have been enough money for frivolities, at least the mortgage was paid on time and there was always food on the table.  Still, he mused, as he walked to the bathroom and pulled out his razor, it would be nice to have a little extra for things like pretty dresses.  Thankfully his girls seemed to have a good take on what was important, and didn't seem to notice if they were lacking some of the things other kids took for granted.

He knew Daisy hoped to be crowned Queen this year, and while she had a good chance, seeing as how there were only a couple of girls who actually cared to enter this small-town contest, he knew that there was also every chance that someone else would get that coveted crown.

In short time they were all ready.  Missy, as usual, had her nose in a book, and she graciously offered her little sister the chance to ride shotgun in the beat-up truck.  Daisy paused for a moment and then declined; as it was, with the air conditioner working only sporadically, sitting in the middle offered the best protection for her curls.  Missy smiled in amusement... a smile so like her mother's that Dave found himself once again being so grateful for these two little miracles that held him together.  He reached out, lifted Daisy gently to keep from wrinkling her skirts, and set her on the bench seat.  Missy, nearly 8, was able to hop in on her own, not even lifting her eyes from the story that she was reading.

It was a short drive to the park where the factory's annual summer picnic was being held.  In no time at all Daisy found herself on stage with four other little girls, all dressed in their royal best.  Tiny Maddie Comstock, only four, was tottering around in what appeared to be her older sister's high heels in order to appear as tall as the older girls, and she was doing a pretty good job of it; even if she couldn't lift her feet up to walk, but rather slid her way across the pavement like she was roller skating.  Her older sister followed along, grimacing at every scrape her shoes made on the asphalt, until, finally, she scooped her sister up with one arm, snagged the shoes with the other hand and carried her sister the rest of the way.  Apparently, some sacrifices were just not to be made when it came to footwear.

Things were about to get underway when a girl Daisy had never seen before quietly made her way to the stage.  Appearing to be her age, this little girl seemed to be nervous about being in front of the crowd, and was determinedly keeping her eyes on the ground before her.  Daisy couldn't see her face at all, but it was obvious this girl was new as no one in the area had flaming red curls.  In fact, Daisy could hardly take her eyes off the girl and failed to notice the concern now registering on the judges faces.  As the girl came to a hesitant stop next to her, Daisy put on an even bigger smile and whispered, "Hi, I'm Daisy."

The girl looked up, timidity momentarily forgotten as her blue eyes met Daisy's brown ones.  A smile crossed her face as she whispered back, "I'm Meredith".  With that, Meredith's gaze went to the crowds and she quickly put her head down again.  Daisy's heart went out to the girl and, impulsively she reached out a hand and squeezed Meredith's hand.  Meredith, squeezing back, did not look up, but she did not let go either.

It seemed to only take a few minutes for the judges to come to a determination, and then Mr Schultz, the factory owner, was calling Dinty to the stage.  The former Queen marched forward, her cheap plastic crown shimmering like burnished gold in the sunlight, and the paste gems flashed shades of red, green and sapphire blue as Dinty turned to the girls clustered on stage and wished them luck.  Daisy felt herself coveting that glorious crown, forgetting everything, including her new friend in the moment.  It will be mine, it will be mine, she repeated to herself, over and over.

Suddenly Meredith was pushing her forward. "They called your name", she whispered, and Daisy found herself stumbling forward so that Dinty could place a crown on her head.

A Queen's crown.

Daisy's hand reached up to touch that coveted crown, hardly believing it was now on her head, as the assembled parents applauded.  Turning to smile at Meredith, Daisy was dismayed to see that all of her friends wore the smaller, silver princess crowns.... all except for Meredith.  The girl was looking straight at Daisy, applauding her new-found friend, but apparently there had not been enough crowns to go around.  Daisy had not known that could happen.  The few years she herself had participated every girl had received a crown.

Without a pause she walked straight over to Meredith, plucked her crown from her head and whispered, "this belongs to you", and rested it on Meredith's head.

Meredith looked surprised, and tentatively reached up as if to be sure that the crown was really there.  "But they gave it to you", she whispered.

"And now I give it to you", was Daisy's simple reply.  With that she clasped Meredith's hand in hers and pulled the girl to the front of the stage.  Dinty hesitated a moment, glancing at the judges for direction before walking up and offering Daisy her own crown, but Daisy shook her head.  Dinty shrugged, not really understanding, but she quietly walked back to her spot on the stage, happy that she didn't have to surrender her own crown after all.

Daisy grinned as Meredith impulsively threw her arms around her and hugged her tight. So she didn't have a crown, and so what if she wasn't Queen this year; she knew she had done the right thing for Meredith. The girl was now smiling at the crowd, shyness forgotten.

 Mr Schultz looked astounded, but recovered quickly enough and announced to everyone attending, "I present to you this year's Schultz Manufactoring Pre-School Royalty."  Turning, he smiled at Daisy and then added, "Daisy Marsden you stay up here as well.  You are just as much a part of this royalty as anyone else."

With that he stepped back and the girls all came forward to the edge of the stage, each waving back to the audience.  Five crowns, but six little arms waving under the bright July sun.

Little Reminders

I looked down at the old cookbook page; stains from previous cooking endeavors had left colored tints of pale pink and burnt umber across the edges; the remains of delicacies long since partaken and gone.

I hadn’t looked inside this particular cookbook in ages. Mostly because it was so old and delicate, with pages slipping away from their binding even as I had pulled it from the shelf. It was nearly forty years old, and many of the recipes were for strange sounding things like noodles encased in gelatin, and every image showed some kitschy kitchen contraptions in psychedelic colors.

The cookbook was my mother’s, at least it had been, back when she was still amongst the living and the baking.

Frankly, I wasn’t even sure why I had pulled it from the shelf now. It was one of those books that was faithfully packed away with every move, only to be put back on the same shelf at each new residence. Permanently parked between a vegetarian cookbook I had flirted with once, ages ago, and one on baking your own bread; an endeavor I fully intended to take up one of these days.

Whatever my reasons for opening this relic, I now found myself sitting at my kitchen table, gazing at a recipe I had not thought of in years. A recipe for cookies that my mother had baked faithfully every Christmas; a cookie that I waited in anticipation for as the holidays approached each year. Every year, that is, until I turned eighteen, when my mother died suddenly.

There was no joy in that holiday, or in the one to follow. By the time I was able to look forward to holidays again several years had passed, and I forgot all about this tradition...until now, that is. I looked down the page, and was surprised to notice spidery scrawls, made with a ballpoint pen in my mother’s handwriting. “Robin’s favorite cookies” she had noted in the margin.

Tears welled up as I remembered the innocent and carefree days of my youth, and I found myself skimming over the list of ingredients. Surprisingly, I had everything on hand, and found myself pulling bowls, measuring spoons, flour and sugar from the cupboards. I began pouring ingredients, sifting, mixing, and inhaling that rich, buttery smell I remembered so well from my youth.

I followed all of my mother’s notes; changing a teaspoon of vanilla to two, adding an extra egg, and even the quaint-sounding “dash of nutmeg”. Unable to resist, my finger slid along the side of the bowl, scooping out a taste of this confection. A burst of nostalgia struck me and I remembered a kitchen of years ago; Bing Crosby crooning about his dreams for a white Christmas, my mother handing me one of the mixer beaters to lick and my greedy wishes for just a little more dough to cling to that precious metal.

I rolled, and cut, and baked per the recipe instructions, and breathed deep as the air filled with the scent of baking cookies. I could hardly wait for one to cool, and found myself juggling a still hot cookie from hand-to-hand. I broke off one soft edge, and then found I couldn’t eat. I sat down, holding that cookie, as the tears came, hot and fresh. The cookie had cooled by the time I pulled myself together and finally took that first bite.

I looked back at the cookbook, back at that scribbled notation “Robin’s favorite cookies”, and I wondered what other things I may have forgotten. I began to thumb gently through more of the pages, nibbling on my cookie as I went, lost in memory. I found a recipe for a beef stroganoff that, according to mom, was good for feeding a large crowd, and that dad must have really been nuts for pecans, because there were several nut-filled recipes noted with reminders of “try making these for Don” next to them.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over those pages, inserting scraps of paper on recipes she highly recommended that sounded as if they would be nice to try. Some pages mom simply changed an item or two, others were more heavily marked up through her own trial and error. I reached the end and was amused to see dozens of my impromptu bookmarks now jutting out from the cookbook’s I once consider not worth my time.

I carried the book to my office, set up my scanner, and copied those pages before carefully tucking them back into their proper places. Maybe one day I would find a way to preserve the book; until then, I would have to content myself with tying a string around it in order to keep more pages from falling out.

I gently placed the book back on the shelf; this time in a new place, next to the cookbooks I used more often. I gathered up the dozen or so loose pages I had just printed out, and set them in my “most-used” recipe folder.

All except the cookies.

That sheet I pinned to the front of the refrigerator with my favorite magnets…. a gentle reminder of things that were not completely lost.

The short, pointless end of Winifred the spider

Based on a true experience of my sister...sorry sis!


I came in because it was warm. I hadn’t felt good for days now, and I thought no one would mind; after all, the house looked big enough to include someone as small as I was. I would be unobtrusive, warm up for a bit, and while I was certain my time was coming to a close, there was the faint hope that perhaps I would start feeling better.

I guess I wasn’t quick enough, for the owner of the house saw me and freaked out. I’m not sure why, after all, she was miles taller than me. She even pointed me out to her pets and tried to get them to attack me. Thankfully they weren’t interested and I was able to drag myself wearily out of sight.

I heard some camera snaps, but I have no idea why she would be interested in taking pictures of someone as ordinary as I. I was warmer than I had been in days, and now I just wanted somewhere soft to lie my head.

I found it in the bathroom. I laid down on a throw rug until one of the cats found me and started poking at me with its paw.

“You can’t stay here”, the cat told me.

“What if I moved somewhere else?” I asked.

The cat must have noticed how pale I was looking, for she sighed and told me that if I could get out of her reach then there was nothing she could do to kick me out. She then wandered off on her own business, and left me looking about for where to go next.

I noticed a soft towel hanging from the wall, the bottom of which was right above me, and found that this was far easier to climb than going directly up the wall. Maybe I would find a new place to rest when I reached the top and could get a better view of my surroundings.

It took all night, but I was nearly to the top of the towel. I was exhausted, shaking with the exertion, and took a few moments to gather the last of my rapidly dwindling strength before tackling the last part of the climb. From there I could see it wouldn’t be much farther to climb into the windowsill and hide behind the things placed there. Surely no one would mind if I was up there, as the items looked mostly decorative, and not for regular use.

To my surprise, the light came on, and the owner of the house came in. She turned on the shower and didn’t notice me hanging there as she hopped inside and pulled the curtain shut.

I began to climb again, urging my tired muscles to go faster, but it was a losing battle…. my strength was gone. I looked down at the ground far below me and grew dizzy from the height…to my shame I found myself crying at the stupidity of my situation.

The shower curtain opened, and the next thing I know the towel I was clinging to was pulled from its hook and I barely had the presence of mind to hang on for dear life. Everything got fuzzy at that moment as I was shaken up and down and from side to side rather vigorously. My head cleared and I realized that I was no longer clinging to the towel, but was now half in and half out of the girl’s mouth!

I was hit with a blast of hot, fetund breath as she turned towards her mirror and noticed me lying there, limp and unmoving. I’m not even sure she knew it was me at first, for she calmly spit me onto the ground as if I were nothing but a clump of hair. The pain as I crashed into the hard tile was excruciating, and I blacked out for a moment.

I regained consciousness to the sounds of screams, as the girl realized what I was.

I squinted, trying to get my eyes in focus as she pulled away, and from her horrified reaction I worried that her next step would be to smash me.

Honestly, the pain was so intense that smashing might have been a welcome release.

I managed to wave one leg at her, beaconing her closer so she could make it a swift kill, but she let out another shriek and ran from the room, leaving me there on the cold floor in pain so intense that I had never felt its like before.

There was a roaring in my head and I felt light-headed. I knew I couldn’t leave myself on the floor like that for her to find. I felt bad about causing her the problems I had. After all, I had only wanted to die quietly in a warm place… preferably within a wall where I wouldn’t be a bother.

I stretched forth my front legs, and somehow managed to drag myself slowly across the floor. I don’t know where the strength came from, but it seemed like ages before I finally pulled myself under the dryer.

Here I lie. Unable to crawl further as my crushed body finally gave out on me. Here I will stay until I am allowed to die…

..here…..

….among the dust bunnies…..

…….but at least I am finally warm.