Get Away...

When people asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, when people asked where she wanted to go to college, when people asked what she was thinking about the answer could always be, “away from here.” For as long as she could remember the constant drum beat of “get away, get away, get away” had played in her head.

 She couldn’t wait to get her first bike at 7 so she had freedom to get away, even if it was just to the end of the block. Her first babysitting jobs at 12 meant money in her pocket and an evening away, even if it was still just to the end of the block. She started work at the diner that was within bicycling distance at 15 ½; the first day she could legally be hired. Her driver’s license came at 16 and a car 6 months after that, which meant a new job at the mall, more money in her pocket and farther away. Get away. Get away. Get away.

She did well in school. Her grades put her in the top 10 of her graduating class. She wanted her choice of colleges. And she needed them to come with scholarship offers. Everything she did went toward that aim. The guidance counselor said she needed to round out her “high school experience” so she added extracurricular activities. Researching which was most likely to get her more scholarship offers before taking them on. She didn’t really feel drawn to journalism, or marching band, or student body government, but those things would lead to acceptance letters. Get away, get away, get away.

When she was deciding what to major in she researched the top jobs in the furthest away cities she could imagine. Where could she work? What would pay well? There. Away. What were people hiring for there? And then she focused on those areas. Chose her major and her minor in leaving.  Get away, get away, get away.

One day in class the professor had written, “You can never go home again” on the white board and asked them to write an essay on that sentence and what it meant. She wrote the essay she knew he was looking for but what she really thought was, “Yes!” she printed out the quote and hung it on her bulletin board in her dorm room. But she changed it just a touch, “You can never go home again!” And she didn’t.  She worked a part time job to make sure she had enough money to stay in a hotel during holiday breaks when the dorms were closed. She took summer internships in a city far away and lived in an apartment with four other interns to make rent. They all went home at the end of summer to enjoy the two weeks they had before school started again, she volunteered to clean the apartment and hand over the keys. Quiet. Alone. Away.

After graduation the company offered her a job. She took it without a moment of hesitation. They offered her a month off between graduation and her start date, to give her time to go home…she smiled and said she’d rather start right away. She rented an apartment to share with one of her former roommates from the intern summers. Her roommate would be joining her in a month, taking the offered time off. To each their own, she thought, but she knew she could never go home again. She was finally away.

Life moved on.

She did well at work. Moving up the company ladder. In her annual reviews there were always glowing reports. She was solid. She was dependable. But there was something to work on, sometimes she seemed a little removed from her clients and her co-workers. Sometimes it seemed as though she was thinking of something else. She should work on being more present. More here.

 She made friends. She was social. But they all would say the same thing about her, she’s a little detached. A little distant. It was like part of her was always someplace else. When her roommate moved out to live with her boyfriend she just left the room empty. She could afford to live by herself and so she did.

Life continued to move on.

They had been dating for long enough that it was time to move to the next level or to move on. Normally she chose moving on. This time she didn’t. He wanted her to meet his parents. It sat like a rock in her stomach. She wanted to get away. He wanted to stay. He wanted to go home again. She never wanted to go home again. But she went. She met his parents. She smiled and shook their hands. She gave a startled laugh when his mother said that was ridiculous and pulled her in to a hug. He watched her with worried eyes. Would she run away?

She sat with a cup of coffee on his front porch. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” he looked to her for approval of his childhood home. “It is. The forest must have been fun to play in when you were younger.” He smiled, “It wasn’t a forest. It was the world.” She smiled at him. “I want to come back some day. Buy a house. Raise my children here.” Her hand shook, almost spilling her coffee. “You can never go home again.” He took the cup from her, “Yes, you can. If you want to.”

The wedding was beautiful. The bride was glowing. The groom beaming. She started her walk down the aisle alone. Then his parents stood, one on each side of the aisle, they walked toward her, each taking a side and escorting the now crying bride to meet her groom. Then they sat, each on one side of the aisle again. She was their daughter now, there would be no choosing sides.

He read his vows in a shaking voice. Swearing to always be there for her. To always love her. To always support her. To always bring her coffee on the front porch. Their friends laughed. She smiled. He placed the ring on her finger.

She took a deep breath and told him how much she loved him. How she would always be there for him. Always support him. Always drink his coffee. Their friends laughed. Then she said the only thought she had every day at work, on the commute home, was that she couldn’t wait to get away. To get back to him. To always go home again. He cried.

She got away.

Some Days...

I wanted to write a quick fiction piece. That was my intention when I logged on. I have a piece in a bigger story that the back of my brain is chewing on. It's not quite ready to be written, it's close and I will get something out for Dana this week, but it's still tumbling around in there. Often when that is happening what helps it gel is to write something just front of brain, top of mind, super quick. So that was my intention.

But I had nothing to write about. I'm in a bad mood. I've been in a bad mood for the past few days. Mostly PMS related. I'll admit that. But hormone driven pissed off is just as pissed off as any other kind of pissed off. Probably more so. Politics and stupidity and antifa assholes and hormones and an angry uterus that needs to just stop pinching me...It's not a good combination. And it's really not a good combination for creativity.

But I still wanted to write a quick fiction piece. For one thing a really good piece can make me feel better. I might still be in a bad mood but I MADE something. And when you MAKE something you can look at it and say, the world might be pissing me off but I was still able to MAKE this today! And I not only MADE this I SHARED it with you. Because I'm a good fucking person!

Or something like that.

When I'm in a bad mood I tend to need to remind myself that at my core I'm actually not a violent, raging, asshole who will cut a bitch but a decent, kind, person who really cares if you are having a good day or not. Sometimes it takes a lot of reminding. And Brent agreeing. And cake. But since I've cut back on sugar and try to only have sweets on the weekend cake is out of the question on a Tuesday. Which pretty much is the stupidest idea I've ever come up with and who the fuck thinks sugar is bad anyway? Dietitians? Scientists? Medical Doctors? Idiots...

So anyway...

I wanted to write a quick short story to self medicate because the sugar was out of the question and my uterus is all pinchy (and pinche to tell the truth!) and...well...nothing.

I have a few ideas written down. Death following me this morning is one of them. But that's going to BE something. I want to think on that one a bit longer. I have a pretty traditional love story start written down but it might actually belong in the bigger piece I seem to be writing even though I am not really big on bigger pieces, but anyway I think those people are part of that story and I don't want to break them off and realize, yep, they don't belong here. I've already got one short story I need to search for that I've realized belongs with that bigger piece...which none of you care about because you haven't read it yet and are like, Umm...what bigger piece? If you didn't bring enough to share with the class we're going to have to ask you to stop...

So when no other ideas came I started working on the rest of sabbatical. I have a few more pieces to put in place now that the bigger frame work is there. I'm pretty sure I'm adding a trip to San Francisco, (Francisco...that's a fun name) but I'm not entirely sure what I want to do there. You know? I mean I've never been out of the airport there. I've been to Alameda (where they keep the nuclear wessles) I've flown in and out of San Francisco, but I've never looked around the city itself. So what should we do? Alcatraz. Walking across the bridge. Ummm....what else? Don't know. So that got put on hold while I think about it.

Fine, okay, back to writing. Felt like Winnie the Pooh, think think, think think, think think...and nothing. Fine, I'll just go the easy route. Googled writing prompts. Found a website with 365 writing prompts clicked it and...

Virus warning!
This site is unreliable and possibly unsafe.


Which really is my problem right now.

My ideas are unreliable and possibly unsafe.

Isn't that just the way some days go?

Walking After Midnight...

"You don't want to do that." She tried to warn them. "I mean it, you really are going to wish you hadn't. You should stop now."

The smaller of the two men stopped digging, "Did you feel that? Like a cold chill?"

"Don't pay attention to that! We are going to fix things. We only have a few hours to get it done."

She tried again. "I'm serious. Put down the shovels and walk away now."

Now it was the big man's turn to stop digging for a moment and he looked around nervously. "It's like a breeze on the back of your neck isn't it?"

"Yeah, do you think it's her?"

The big man shivered, "It's not midnight. Nobody has ever seen her before midnight. We are safe."

She laughed at that, "You are safe right now. If you keep digging you won't be safe at all."

Both men shivered involuntarily. "Keep digging!"

She shook her head. They really were going to regret this but what could she do to stop it?

"How long do we have?" The smaller man asked.

"An hour. I didn't think it would take so long. We should have figured out a way to use the backhoe."

"I'm not sure how we could have done that. Just breaking in here was hard enough."

"Keep digging. We don't want to be here when she starts walking."

She laughed again, "You don't want to be here when I stop."

"There it is again," the smaller man said, "It's a chill right through your bones, isn't it?"

"We must be getting close. That must be it." The big man nodded to show his confidence. If you hadn't noticed how white his knuckles were on the shovel handle you might have been fooled.

"Why hasn't anyone done anything before?"

"Scared. The law says we can't do what needs done here. People are scared. Scared of her. Scared of the law. Scared of their own shadows. But we are going to take care of it. She can't just walk around like that. It's not natural."

She gathered herself together, it wasn't easy before midnight but she could do it for a moment, she gathered herself together and knocked over the source of their bravery. The bottle of Jack Daniels tumbled off the gravestone they had rested it on while they dug.

The big man screamed louder and with a higher pitch than the small man. She hadn't expected that, but it delighted her just the same, "You really should leave now."

"Do you think we should go? It's close to midnight." The big man asked.

Now it was the smaller man's turn to fake bravery, "No. We are almost there. We will finish and she will stop walking."

The big man nodded and kept digging. She had walked this cemetery for the last time. Scaring children. Making old women think the town was evil. Driving down property values. That was really it. The big man's boss wanted to build a high rise across from the old cemetery and he couldn't very well do it if there was a nightly sighting of a ghost girl could he? I mean it was all well and fine at Halloween but every night? It just wasn't right. It was time to put her to rest for good.

"Are you sure this will work?" The smaller man hadn't met with the old woman, the one the big man's boss had found. The one who gave them the answer to their problem.

"Oh it will work," she said, "And you'll be very sorry. And your boss's last thought will be of the old woman and why she was willing to help him. And why he suddenly thought a 100 year old ghost was a problem. But it will be too late for you two by then. Unless you walk away now." She reached out to trace a line on the back of the big man's neck.

The cold was almost unbearable. They should have been so warm, digging and working as they were, but instead they were freezing. Clouds of steam rising from their sweating bodies. Puffs of smoke as they spoke. Any sane person would leave. But the big man was being paid very well to do this and money like that made most lose their sanity.

There was a loud clunk as they hit her coffin. "You don't want to do this." She tried once more. Though by this point she knew it was a lost cause. And really why should she care? She was finally going to be able to rest in peace. The old woman would win. At least in this part of the world. The old man who had sealed her fate was long gone. He had stopped fighting years ago. Too tired. As if he had been walking after midnight for a 100 years.

They cleared the dirt off the top of the casket and the big man pulled the vial of ashes from his pocket.

"We just have to put these on here and it will trap her inside?"

"That's what she said. Just sprinkle them over the top." The big man opened the vial and started to sprinkle.

"Wait! What does that say?" The smaller man saw the words that had been carved on her casket just a moment too late. The ashes were already spread. She faded away. Resting in peace, at last.

The big man read the words, "Here lies the protector. The guardian of the gates of hell. Woe to any who disturb her. May she walk the world for ever."

As he read the last word the church bell tolled midnight and the cemetery burst forth with life...

Or death.

Somewhere the old woman was laughing.

Getting the Wrinkles Out...

She knew she should be in the living room with everyone else but she couldn't tear herself away from the picture hanging in the hallway. He was wearing the navy blue shirt with the paisley print. She remembered the day she bought it for him. It was the first gift either of them had given each other. There was a new guy in the office who always looked really sharp and even though he felt silly about it, he felt kind of dull next to him. When she saw the shirt she knew it would make his blue eyes look fantastic and it would definitely not be dull.

She bought it. Guessing and working with the salesman for the size. But she was sure it would be fine. So sure she brought it home and washed and ironed it before she ever showed it to him. She remembered standing at the ironing board pressing out the wrinkles from the wash. Making sure it looked perfect. She was humming to herself while she ironed. She remembered feeling silly about being so happy ironing a shirt. Wasn't this the life she had worked so hard to avoid? She had never wanted to be domesticated, as she had put it. She liked her career. She liked her single life. Then he had showed up and changed everything.

She had switched out his plain white shirt for the blue one while he was in the shower. Snuck in to the bathroom and put it on the hanger and then snuck back out. She heard him laugh while he was getting dressed. When he came out he modeled the look for her. She was right. It made his eyes look fantastic.

"He called that his lucky shirt."

She jumped.

"Oh I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you like that. I just saw you looking at the picture. He called that his lucky shirt. He bought it on a whim while he was on a business trip and ended up wearing it to close a big deal. From that point on it was his lucky shirt."

"I remember that meeting. He was always our closer though, I don't think it was the shirt that made the difference." She smiled at his wife. His wife. This stranger in the hallway was his wife. Though maybe it was more that the man in that picture was the stranger. After all here she was talking to his wife. His wife. If she said it enough times maybe it would stop hurting.

"He was very good at his job. I am so glad you could make it for the funeral. I know most of the people at the remote branches weren't able to come. Such a distance to travel for...." his wife trailed off and wiped a tear from her cheek.

"I know more wish they could have come. I'm sure they let you know there will be a memorial for him, for the company in a few weeks? I know a lot of people will want to pay their respects. I am just so sorry for your loss. I am sorry for all of us, he was a good man."

His wife reached out and drew her in to a hug. She hugged her back thinking to herself, "This is all a bad dream. I will wake up soon."

"Excuse me, Elise? You're needed in the kitchen."

"Oh, thank you, Edgar. Edgar this is...I am sorry, I didn't catch your name."

She held out her hand, "Grace. I work with, worked with Harold."

She saw Edgar's eyes widen just a touch. "Nice to meet you, Grace. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about office contacts?"

Elise smiled at Grace, "Edgar is our lawyer as well as a family friend. Please feel free to tell him anything. If you'll excuse me."

She watched Elise make her way to the kitchen receiving condolences from friends and family as she passed.

"Grace Reynolds?"

"Yes..."

"I have something for you. Something Harold left for you. I am sure you understand why I didn't want to say anything."

"Yes, well, there was a lot of that going around it seems."

"Yes, I understand from the letter he left me that you did not know, well, everything about him."

"It seems that I didn't."

He took a card from his coat jacket and handed it her, "Please call me so we can arrange delivery. And..."

Grace held up her hand, "If you are going to ask me not to make a scene, it's unnecessary. There has already been enough pain. I don't need to add to it."

Edgar nodded, "Thank you. He was a good man. Please believe that."

Grace gave him a tight smile, "I will see what I believe eventually. Right now I'm just existing. Will you be in your office later today? I will be heading back tomorrow afternoon. I can call you later, but if we can arrange a time now that would be fine."

He looked at his watch, "Give me another hour here and then give me a call. I would think this evening or first thing tomorrow would be fine."

"Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to leave."

She started to walk away when she heard her name being called, "Grace! Grace! Please come with me for a second. I need to ask you something."

Grace turned and smiled at Elise, "Of course."

Elise took her hand and walked with her to the garage. There was Harold's car. The site of it felt like a punch in the stomach. So many times she had watched for it to pull in to the drive. He traveled between branches, so many miles on that car, so many times he was on the road while she waited for him to come home to her. Now she saw she wasn't home after all.

"He loved this car."

Grace smiled, "He really did. It was pretty clever. I remember thinking he should have sold the idea at a conference geared toward traveling salesmen. Of course, there really aren't as many traveling salesmen as there used to be are there?"

Elise was opening the trunk and there was the elaborate storage system that Harold had made. It was a traveling closet. He kept his work clothes there as well as files and work items. It was sectioned off with drawers and an area that worked like a hanging rod, but everything laid flat to keep the wrinkles away. Apparently he was very good at keep things separate to keep out the wrinkles.

"He was so clever with his hands. He didn't just make this, he invented so many things in our house. Storage areas, a little set of steps that I could push in and out in the kitchen..."

Grace took a small breath, remembering the day he sketched out the step design. She had never been able to use the upper shelves in her kitchen and he thought that was ridiculous. He sketched out a design for steps that could be folded flat and stored between the refrigerator and the cabinets, they fit exactly in the space and when folded flat they had a designed edge that made them look decorative. It was beautiful. And apparently he liked it so well he made another set.

"He was very talented."

Elise pulled his computer bag from the trunk, "I am sure the office will need this back. It's his work computer and some files he was working on. There is also a box of older items there." She pointed to a corner of the trunk. "Would it be too much of an imposition for you to take them? I could have them shipped out, but since you are here?"

"Oh, no, no trouble at all. I will be leaving for the main office tomorrow anyway, I can bring these with me. I'm driving so it's no problem. Not that my car is set up for traveling like Harold's is, but it will do. I'm sorry, I'm rambling, I just don't know the right thing to say right now."

Elise patted her on the hand, "I know. I understand. I've been rambling a lot myself for the past few days. If you are comfortable rummaging around a bit feel free to load any work items in to your car to take back with you. I know he wouldn't want anything to slide due to him...."

Now it was Grace's turn to pat Elise's hand, "We will make sure all of his clients are taken care of and nothing slips through the cracks."

"Thank you so much. I am so glad you made it." With that Elise gave Grace another hug and went back in to the house.

Grace picked up the computer bag and put it to the side along with the box of files. She started to look through the various drawers when the smell reached her. His smell. The trunk was filled with his clothes. It smelled like him. Like he was there. In the garage with her. She picked up a suit jacket and held it to her face and breathed in deeply. He was there. She closed her eyes and tried to keep from sobbing. He was there. He was here. Here. In this house. With this family. And these people. And she had never known.

She finished looking through the trunk and moved a small pile of things to her car to take back to the office with her. She smoothed back out all of his clothes and slowly closed the trunk. Leaving no wrinkles she walked away.

The Trouble with Girls...

Stacy leaned against the door frame and watched her daughter sleep. She was above the covers and would get a chill soon. Stacy was debating if she should go in and cover her up or if that would risk waking her. And right now sleeping Daisy was the best kind of Daisy. Her husband George came up behind her and put a hand on the back of her neck. "What are we going to do with her?"

Stacy sighed and leaned back in to George. "Survive. That's what we are going to do."

"How did your parents do it? I can't imagine it was any easier with you?"

Stacy laughed quietly, "I would be insulted, but it's true. It wasn't. And they sent me to boarding school at 12 and welcomed me back home at 18."

"That seems kind of cold."

"It is the Wilder way. And it could have been worse. They sent me Couraboton. My mother went to St. Agnes of Farenholt. That would have been a nightmare."

"You say these names like I should know what they mean."

"There are three main choices that can be made for schooling. There is Couraboton where order and quiet are cherished and St. Aggies where the strongest survive and then, of course, homeschooling. Usually the religious go for that. We weren't particularly religious so that was never a consideration for me."

"If your mother went to St. Aggies why did she send you to the other?"

"Fear."

"She thought you weren't strong enough?"

Stacy laughed again, "Oh no. She was afraid without constraints I might get too strong. Strong without boundaries is an issue. And she was probably right. Though I chafed against the rules at Couraboton it did teach me quite a bit. And the one scandal I was caught up in made my mother feel as though I had proved her point. After all if I was going to get in trouble at Couraboton I would have been incorrigible at St. Aggies."

"Scandal? Oh do tell, my wild Wilder girl."

"So, you know how Daisy reacted tonight? That is what Couraboton is actively trying to teach control over. It's the temper flashes. The teen girl attitude on steroids part. Well they work to tamp that down. The buildings are designed to instill control. And each girl is given a necklace that you are to wear at all times. There was a Latin phrase on it about conducting yourself with control above all else. And the only time you took it off was in supervised areas, where if you lost control someone was there to mute the response. You can see how badly it could go if you lost control alone."

George thought back to earlier in the evening when he had been helping Daisy with her homework. She had been getting more and more frustrated and was starting to lose her temper. He had told her to take a deep breath and calm down and they would try again. Which was when their youngest child had come running in to the kitchen, bumped the table, and knocked over the glass of soda Daisy had been drinking. As the brown liquid spilled across her math homework Daisy melted down. Thank goodness right at that moment Stacy had walked in the door from work. She got everything stopped, cleaned up, calmed down and situated within a few minutes. Daisy was sent to the back yard to calm down. Paisley was kissed and fussed over to stop her from crying then sent in to the other room to play until dinner. And George's arm was examined to make sure the burns were superficial.

When your daughters were Wilder lineage the teenage years brought on their powers. And when they came in, they came in hot. So to speak. The wild fire had erupted from Daisy and would have burned the table and possibly the house down if Stacy hadn't frozen it in its tracks. As it was just the hairs on George's arm were singed. But it was the final sign that Daisy was in puberty and would need to be educated in more than just math.

"So my junior year I discovered that the necklaces had to be activated to work as dampeners. I, let's say, came in to possession of one that had never been switched on and started wearing it instead of my official necklace. So I had access to my powers while no one else did. It led to being able to make things go my way more often than not. It took them awhile to figure out what was happening.

When we were sitting in the headmistress's office discussing my punishment she snarled at my parents that 'this sort of thing might be okay at someplace like St. Agnes...' then my mother got to inform her that she was a St. Agnes alumna and the entire reason she had sent me to Couraboton was their reputation for being able to control their school. If they could not handle one teenage girl then perhaps their reputation was undeserved and should be corrected in the public record.

It was an uneasy detente. My mother was basically telling her that she would let every one know that I had found a way around centuries of work on power dampening procedures. An agreement was reached. I could not tell anyone in school about the necklace. I had to do volunteer work with the younger students, some parents sent their daughters long before puberty as a precaution and, of course, I had to give up my contraband necklace. But by then I had figured out how to control myself with or without the dampening effects of the school or the jewelry so it didn't matter.

My mother told my father that if they had sent me to St. Aggies I would have been running the entire organization by graduation. That was the St. Aggies way. The strongest destroyed the weakest. Power will out. My mother did not agree that that was the way it should be. She had spent her years there protecting those that were not as strong as she was. She was worried I wouldn't be as kindhearted."

"That's a little harsh. You are extraordinarily kind."

"Now maybe. But not then. I was extraordinarily strong and I had very little patience for anyone who was not. Now I see that strength needs kindness to balance it out. But I needed to learn that. Couraboton helped me get there, ironically it was my punishment and working with the young girls who were sent away before they even had a taste of power that got me there. That was where I realized that being kind was a different kind of power and strength."

"So how soon do we need to make a decision?"

"Soon. I had already scheduled a visit with Couraboton for next week. I will call tomorrow and see if we can move it up a few days. But I think as a day student, not a boarder. Between her necklace and me I think she will be okay."

"Should we put her under the blankets? She's going to get cold."

"Do you want to risk waking her?"

George remembered the fire erupting around her earlier today, "Maybe not. She can cover herself if she gets cold. She won't hurt herself if she falls will she?"

"No, she'll be fine."

And with one last loving look at their daughter George and Stacy left her to her dreams while she floated two feet above her covers.

You say cult like it's a bad thing...

When she was younger she thought everyone heard God speak to them. After all people in church prayed, which is supposed talking to God. The minister said you should ask God for help and He would answer. Everyone acted like they talked to God. But she learned pretty early on that for most people He didn't talk back.

Her parents took her to a child psychiatrist when what they thought of as her imaginary friend didn't go away. Her psychiatrist recommended that she be institutionalized when it became apparent to her that the child must be some sort of psychopath. After all she had some how found out very personal and private details about her life that no child should have had access to. It was especially troubling when the child insisted that God told her the information.

Once when she was 8 or 9 she thought she had found the answer. She was watching an old TV show where someone was getting radio transmissions through their teeth. Maybe all along that's what had been happening. She was disabused of that answer fairly quickly when God pointed out that 1. She didn't have any fillings and 2. This wasn't some sort of random radio program speaking.

It was pretty annoying at times. He really liked to talk. Like really liked to talk. And He would change his voice depending on his mood. She normally heard him as a He but sometimes He was a She. Usually He spoke English but sometimes He switched it up a bit. When she took Spanish in high school he stopped speaking English and only spoke Spanish to help her study. And there was that really annoying time the first year of college where He spoke ancient Aramaic just to show off.

Oh yeah, God was a huge show off. He probably couldn't even help it, but the whole, "like that? I made that" thing got old at times. And yes, she was very aware that her casual relationship with Him struck a lot of people as blasphemous. But you could not live with His voice in your head all day every day and not feel more casual toward Him. Everyone speaks like He is always with them, but if you've had food poisoning and He still won't shut up for a minute so you can sit on the pot miserable but in peace, well, you know He's always with you.

She learned to live with it though. After the incident with the child psychiatrist she and her parents had a little conference with God and they worked things out. After all she had been a miracle baby. Her parents had not been able to have children until her mother had gone old school and prayed and promised she would dedicate any child she had to God. Then she got pregnant. When God reminded her mother of that promise (which she had never told anyone, not even her husband) she realized that her daughter's imaginary friend wasn't so imaginary after all.

So her parents knew she talked to God and God talked to her. And they helped her to understand that unless she wanted to get in to a lot of sticky situations she might want to keep some of the things he said quiet. Though they did finally have to stop going to church when the constant refrain of, "never said that, didn't mean it that way, who do you people think I am?" got to be too much for her to be able to focus on the sermons.

She hadn't intended to start a cult either. It had just sort of happened. Though she kept a lot of what He said quiet, she didn't keep all of it to herself. And after awhile it wasn't even just Him speaking, it was who she was. She got a reputation for being a calming voice in tense situations. For knowing the right thing to say to bring comfort to those who were wounded. The perfect way to speak to someone to bring them back from the edge of chaos. And after she spoke with someone they would bring someone else to talk to her. And then they would bring someone else. And eventually she was speaking to large groups of people everywhere she went. And those people were following her to her next stop.

They took her advice on what to do with their lives. They spent their money on helping others. On making the world better. Through food, clothing, houses, sure, but also through art and science and teaching. And then one day a newspaper article came out about her cult. That people were treating her as some sort of messiah. And when the reporter called she said it really depended on your definition of messiah. Did they mean like THE MESSIAH the one that was supposed to save the world or did the mean A messiah as in one that God anoints to speak on His behalf? Because she was not THE for sure, but she felt there was a good case for being a.

That didn't go over so well.

Suddenly she was the leader of a cult.

Churches preached against her.

Parents worried about her brainwashing their children.

The IRS got involved.

Of course nothing ever came from any of the investigations. Well not nothing. Always a few more converts. They would start out wanting to expose her and end up exposing themselves, so to speak.

She still spoke to large groups. She still offered guidance and counseling to those that sought it out. But she was getting older. And she was tired. And she really just wanted a break. But it didn't happen. God assured her she would speak for Him until her dying breath. She answered, "oh joy." He laughed. At least He had a sense of humor about her blasphemy.

Today she was cleaning her kitchen while a younger convert visited with her. The third time she straightened the jars on the shelf to get them exactly right the teen said, "You're a little OCD aren't you?"

"A little."

"Have you asked Him to fix that for you?"

She laughed at that. "Well since it's His fault I'm like this I don't think He feels there is anything to fix."

"What do you mean?"

"I could get deep and philosophical with you about how each of us is unique and brings our own perspective to the world. And that we shouldn't be trying to fix other people when we ourselves still need work. But instead I will tell you the truth. Or my truth. I'm a little crazy."

The teen looked shocked. "Crazy?"

"Yes. Crazy. You cannot live with the voice of God in your head all of the time and not be a little crazy." God laughed. The teen didn't. "It's okay to laugh. I've dealt with it. But cherish the time that you have alone with your thoughts. Don't ever let people tell you that being by yourself is wrong. It's a blessing. It really is."

As the teen packed her books and headed out she smiled, "I needed to hear that."

She smiled. Of course she did. God had told her to say it. She thought, what was that about? God replied, "She was feeling a little pressure to go along with something because she was afraid to be alone. She just needed a reminder that alone can be better." She thought to herself, and to God, I wouldn't know about that. God laughed again, "Someday you are going to hurt my feelings talking like that."

She rolled her eyes and thought, how does one hurt the feelings of the great and powerful Oz? God laughed again. "Oh Lord it's hard to be humble..." And this time she laughed as well.

It was His fault she was crazy. But it was His blessing she was never alone.

I have questions...

So by now you all have seen the United video and formed your opinions about it, what happened, what should have happened, who was right, who was wrong and this isn't a piece to make you change your mind.

But I have some questions...

As I have watched the reactions on my feed I've seen something happen over and over that doesn't seem compatible to me. It's an ideology thing. Now, I'm not saying this is everyone, I want to be clear about that, but it has been enough that it stood out to me. And I'm talking about the people who feel passionately enough about this to post about it. If you are a sideliner on this one I am obviously not talking about you, okay? So unbunch your knickers and move along. Now on to my questions...

There are the law and order people, the ones that say he should have just done what he was told and it's his fault it escalated and what did he expect was going to happen and he should have read the fine print and then there are the no fucking way was this okay how in the world is getting bashed up and drug off of a flight that he paid for, that he was allowed to board, that he had every reason to believe he was flying on that day okay?

Which is normal. There are always the divides. But the thing that I found puzzling was the people on either side of this divide tend to hold opposing views on another issue and they aren't really compatible in my head.

The law and order just do what you're told people tend to be the government can take my guns out of my cold dead hands people, while the fight authority people tend to be the you don't need a damn gun people.

And this puzzles me. Because if you are a firm believer in just do what you are told when law enforcement tells you to do it then if they come to your door and demand your guns shouldn't you just turn them over? I mean, they are telling you what to do right? If you believe that people just need to do what they are told and everything will work out then you cannot also believe that you won't turn over your guns when you are told to do it, right?

And if you believe that you shouldn't do what people in authority tell you to do but you have no way to defend yourself if they are knocking on your door what prevents them from just rolling over you?

They seem incompatible to me.

I also have other questions...

One of the first things that happened after the video was released was a dig in to the man's past to try to justify it after the fact. We're used to seeing this when an unarmed man is shot by the police for what seems like a minor infraction. Oh no! people tell us...He was a REALLY bad guy and this is why he was shot. Okay...but they didn't know that at the time. So now they use the tactic with this guy. Dig up some dirt. Get it out there, he wasn't a good guy. But the people dragging him up the aisle after knocking out his teeth (He fell down was the official Chicago Police Department release) didn't know that. You didn't know that. But some how what he has done in his past is justification for actions taken against him. Or at least a way of making him seem like a bad guy. And one of the stories I read said that the dirt they dug up wasn't him, it was someone who shares his name, so now is it not justified again? Or does it not matter because THEY HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING ANY OF THAT. I get it, if you are a just do what you are told person you think bad behavior means he's always bad. But...what would they dig up on you if something happened to you?

I thought about this last year when a few of my friends posted the picture the news would use if they were shot by police. Not the picture of them working with their kid's soccer team, or leading the praise service at church, or the one holding their newborn in the hospital, but the picture of them where they were standing in the shade but staring in to the sun so their eyes were squinted up and they looked bigger than they are and meaner and well, honestly, blacker. That would be the picture that was used. Scary black man shot by police. And then the next step would be what would they dig up about your past to justify what happened?

We all have things that we aren't proud of. That we are ashamed of. And if those things are public record somewhere? What would it be? Your DUII conviction? Your shoplifting record? That time you got fired from a what ever job it was you got fired from? Your next door neighbor telling the media how you were always violent? You know the one that let her dog shit under your porch until you told her you would be bagging and depositing said shit on her porch if she kept doing it? For me? Easy. They would pull up blogs. I've written things that would, in the right or wrong context, paint me in whatever light you wanted to paint me. Hell, they could pull lines out of my fiction pieces and show that I wrote openly about murder!

United has realized that the normal vilification and justification route did not work as well as they had hoped it would and is now in the pay off zone. They have a billion reasons to try and make this go away. But they took some giant missteps at the beginning and so it's much harder to do. One of the biggest was they missed the mood of the country. The one where most of us know that the TSA screens are security theater, but we still have to do them. The one where we have to get a background check and pay a fee to just keep our damn shoes on. The one where we are hit with stories about enhanced pat downs being allowed. The one where we are crammed in to smaller spaces with fewer basic amenities. The one where we are tired of paying A LOT of money to be treated like an inconvenience.  The mood shifted and they didn't pay attention. Which is our fault too. I mean, we've put up with all of it because there weren't other choices. You have to get places. You have two or three options. None of them are any better. Every airline is cutting and squeezing. Every airport has security theater. We are all trained to just follow along.

To just get off the plane when we are told.

Until someone doesn't. And we see him "fall down" and we see the stories about his sordid past come out. And we wonder, what would I have done? What would they have said about me?

(For the record, I would have gotten off the plane. I would have pitched a fit at customer service. I would have not gotten my way. I would have been sloughed off to the land of disgruntled passengers. United would have been relegated to the area where Delta sits in the "not unless I have no other options" airline choices. And we wouldn't have had the moment where people are all discussing what is too much? When is it too far? And United wouldn't be changing their policy. So I am glad he didn't do what I would have done. He made a difference. And he gave me more questions to ask about myself.)