The two have been around since the beginning of the kingdom’s rise and time of prosperity. They were both given the same powers by the King & Queen of Irph.

But after a little while, one tried to take over the throne. This did not sit well with the other party.

The last time they fought~ the ground violenty trembled and even ripped wide open. Folks had to really be careful and watch their step. Not only that, a massive storm poured down across the land. Never before had there been so much destruction.

The King told the two siblings- ‘‘Let this be the last fight you have. You nearly blew us all to kingdom come.’’ They wanted to take their powers away, but because the other sibling was on their side & told them she would watch over the kingdom, they decided to let them both keep their powers. The Queen said to them— ‘‘this better be the last time we warn you two on how to control your powers.’’

The evil one is currently serving her time in prison. She has a really long sentence.

Good triumphed over evil. Hurray!

So, that’s how their brief story goes. Let’s hope they won’t have to face each other ever again.

#Ladernièrefois.

No justification

For my notification

No communication

Or an introduction

This traction, fiction

Option? Discontinuation

Alienation replacing relation.

Wutta setuh saton.

Aunatteral 

AnIsetwEEEEEEEEEEEE!

WuttI wishId

Dusomethimorebetta withachedda.

aTime wshewt

Asetis

Tingsunseemindiffunt

Now

Maybe

Baby

Wuttawatu

Witawate

Go

BabyIgotta

Taagain

Mercewiteleaving

Be kind wittiwittleboi.

I'm only, yasee, aboi.

Burntacsp.

Towdwn.

Tutheflow.

Gotta go.

F'reeL.

Flippem.

Dippem.

Nunsuh quitem.

Her English stinks.

My French, como sé dice, pee-yew.

She eats snail.

She bikes like a turtle.

I need rap to workout and fuck.

She literally still jams to Mick Jagger like it's new music.

Are these people serious?

They watch cartoons like it's regular TV.

They smile for sugar and laugh about bread.

Cheese is dessert and sex partners are friends.

If there's anything we share, it's love.

If there's anything we can't, it's a tab.

She sort of insisted, one time, we go halfsy.

Third-ish date.

What a shitshow.

The front of house came out to see if everybody was alright which was clearly some kind of Michelin Star talk for "is there a problem here?

"Cause if there's a problem here, we can take this outside."

We don't even speak the same language.

"You don't even speak the same langguagggge."

"I know, Ma."

"I'm jussayin, Jorge."

Maybe going Dutch is a thing here.

We're closer to Holland, after all.

If it is though--meaning girls don't mind paying their way through dates, and half of this city has constellation marks from the Michelin Tire mascot--maybe I shouldn't settle down?

Paris is a town for lovers.

New things.

Except tripe.

That shit ain't fish.

And nowhere in Wikipedia is it listed as an aphrodisiac.

Whatever, I'm in Montreal next week and I'm totally getting the cheese fries.

Sorry.

Poutine.

My children say I tell the stories of ten men. But I divide my story into four parts. The first is youth.

My youth began one night, when I was spread eagle on the floor of the Albemarle River. A strand of algae tickled my ankle. It had the width and texture of a dried-together spaghetti cluster as it danced across the exposed skin between the tongue of my tennis shoe and cuff of my rolled-up pant leg. My hands were occupied or I would've scratched it. My left hand was surveying the slippery riverbed floor for a catfish nest: a deep hole in the mud smoothed over by the quick whipping tail of a female flat-head catfish. My right hand was planted beside my right hip, as firmly planted as a boy's hand can be in a muddy riverbed.

I was scanning the river bottom with my left hand when the river rippled, throwing musty water in my mouth and testing my ability to suppress a cough. A boat motor hopped across the water surface, approaching at a speed that sounded uncomfortably fast. I could see a lightpost mounted on the boat's bow, but it was unlit and I only saw it as a shadow against the moonlit backdrop. The boat's edged nose headed towards me at a sharp angle, opening wide the water between us. It seemed to head straight at me, but it's easy to feel like a motor boat is heading straight at you when you're wading anywhere within a country mile of its approach.

I ducked my head, careful not to move too quickly and alert the boaters to my presence. The boat slowed and I felt the diminishment of its progress as a series of large waves slapped against my face. Between the waves, I heard voices inside the boat.

"Too heavy," a man said. "I can't get the damned thing up."

"Here," said another man. "Grab it by the bottom."

A heavy object plunged into the water and there was a pause before the recoiling splash on the river's surface. At that moment, my left hand sunk into a hole in the mud, a deep hole with width to match.

My hand-fishing experience was not yet commensurate with my eagerness, born of teenage naivety and its accompaying notoriety pangs. A more experienced noodler might've expected bad things in this hole I'd found, with its slimy sides and mud-congested interior. But I didn't appreciate the predictive qualities of texture in a river floor cubbyhole. A catfish churns her tail inside her nest, smoothing the hole's sides by sweeping sand and algae off the eggs and out of the hole.

This was no catfish nest. If I'd been underwater with goggles on, I would've seen my attacker rear back. I might've carefully retracted my hand as the snake vibrated its tail and flattened its body to appear larger, in hopes of averting the need to attack my darting fingers. If we'd been on land, the snake might've emitted musk from the scent glands on its tail. As it was, my head was above water and I never saw the snake's mouth open. I never saw its oral lining peel back, white as cotton, that soft breathable natural fiber from which that blasted snake's name originates and upon which my region's economy was once founded. Our cotton heritage is probably the reason North Carolinians say "cottonmouth," although I've heard other folks call it everything from blunt-tail moccasin to mangrove rattler, water viper, stub-tail, swamp lion, trap jack, true horn, rusty mokeson, water pilot to just plain gaper.

One stab into the meaty web of my left hand and I lurched back, my eyes wide as whip cream dollups, and I hopped out of the water stiff enough to make a good photo in Sports Illustrated or National Geographic if those boaters had any illumination or a camera on board.

It turned out the boat's light did work because it flashed on as soon as I stepped ashore. By the time I reached my skateboard, it was too late to go back for my bucket of two catfish. The boaters reached shore and I heard two plops as one hopped into a muddy spot on the river bank.

I had a good lead on the man chasing me when I heard a blast. If I'd looked backwards, I would've seen a spark from his raised gun as he ran uphill after me. But I didn't look back. I skated when I reached paved road and then ran where the paving gave way to gravel again. But running was difficult as the swelling spread across the back of my hand. The flesh seemed to darken with each pulsing throb. Breathing became labored and numbness spread to my chest and legs.

I didn't know where I was running. My father had an acute disgust for the river, especially hand fishermen, so I couldn't go home with a cottonmouth stab in my hand and my clothes wet with the vinegary smell of riverwater.

"A cavity of depravity," Dad described the river, "not worth the sacrifice of personal dignity."

Even as a kid, Dad didn't believe in freshwater mermaids. "Two things about mermaids," he told me. "One, they don't exist. Two, if such a species did exist--and mind you, they don't--then don't you think these magical creatues would find a more idyllic swimming pit than the Albemarle River? The mill run-off enough would drive me from Copeland County."

Dad lost his brother to a noodling accident. Uncle Dan was a high schooler, noodling for a mermaid tunnel in the river's catfish nests when he was yanked underwater. His feet were being held by two friends, but the authorities figured a sturdy-gilled catfish was strong enough to jerk Dan out of their startled grasp. The authorities waited several weeks before pronouncing my Uncle Dan dead. With his disappearance, I lost the only family member who believed in freshwater mermaids. And I wasn't born yet.

Dad said he hadn't been to the river since that night. I believed him. I also believed when he said I'd get no help at home if I was hurt hand fishing for mermaids. So I skateboarded to Dr. Barnhill's at three hours til dawn.

Silent screams in fat lungs imprisoned

Locked up aside real hued faces of me

Rise up, I say, for years now I have risen

Above dredged sewer scythe soliloquies.

Subservient, hierarchical will bidden

Fear naught, in flesh, yet obsequiously

Virtual horn locking, a man gone missing

This diss brings it; fire, fight, flight or flee.

Avoidance of a scorch red leaked hissing

So, no hope, solo stood, post-apocalyptically

In avoidance, deluded siren song I'll sing

Slather a smile while honeyed linguistically.

One special night, we sat together

At the roof top, alone, with no other

Gazed at the moon

like we were in love's weather

I thought of so many things

Not one was like the latter

Why did you end my world

That was not over?

Why didn't I let her understand

Forever, I thought, we still had

A sharp razor blade stopped that time

I kissed the sun goodnight

When she walked pass me

Her eyes, smile made darkness sprint

I fist the earth outermost shell

When she spake gently

Her words, lips made oxygen rich

I thought I over reached

When I became your friend

Stories of your relationships

Made me pissed

My heart was pieces

Yours in particle physics

Why didn't I see the danger signs?

So blind I fell, you took your life

How dare you take what's not yours?

My love for you terrified the gods

Why did I panic and walk away?

The chain reaction was built with clay

My actions solidified your cruel mistake

As I gently listen to these tapes

Reliving the moments

Of the thirteen excuses you gave

I sought justice for your name

Life is hurt, life is vain

I'm sober, yet tipsy I feel

I can't get over you

Not now that I bleed

I'm puking all over

College dreams and SAT's

Can barely feel my feet

You're still here

Like a cancer in my body tissues

How can I test negative

To a broken heart analysis?

You can't love someone back to life

No buckets of tears will bring them back

It's a mystery that science can't reply

I can't truly explain how I feel

Just knowing I will never see her again

Makes me confused

Like I used.

Hulu's announcement of The Handmaid's Tale series and the book strategically positioned in my favorite book store prompted me to buy and read this 1986 publication. I wanted to read the original story before viewing today's interpretation. This book surprised me. How I missed the "hubbub" about this publication when it originally was launched is beyond me.

The reader is plunged into a society where woman can't read, aren't allow to work, and all women are placed in a caste system. It is a must read for all teenagers and their mothers (great material for discussions).  

Yet this dystopian theme attracts readers of all ages. It is a tightly written. It is a reminder of what happens when a culture despairs and looks for security in lock step rules and societal roles where the slightest deviation is punishable by death. 

I enjoyed the book. This story offers the opportunity for lively book club conversations.

"I wanna rock your gypsy soul,

just like way back in the days of old

And together we will flow into the mystic"

~ Van Morrison

The song hits me where it hurts tonight, reaching places I needed to find. Tears flow, and I wish that I was 17 again screaming these words out the window of my old beat up Benz driving down country backroads. Wild auburn hair blowing in the warm Texas breeze, wind burnt, sun burnt, yet so fresh and new. I can't go back physically, but I can find that place in time forever. I can sing and remember and pretend that I'm that girl again- the one who didn't give a fuck, who thought she was invincible, who felt beautiful, alive and free. She was free of regret and responsibility, she just didn't know it. Free of the chains that come with all of the things she was chasing- the things she thought she needed. There was nothing stopping her, so she didn't stop. She got those things she was chasing, but in return she lost herself.

I don't know what happened to her...one day she was there, and then suddenly she vanished. I reminisce of our time together and try to dig deep to see if I can still feel her. Bits and pieces of her come to me in bursts of beautiful memories that bring rivers of silent tears, memories of a time when life really was like a song. She is the soundtrack to my life. I find her sometimes lost in a memory, deep inside. I beg her to come back- even for a little while. We sing the songs, dance the dances, twirl, laugh and cry until it's time for her to leave me again.

"Everything dies, baby that's a fact,

But maybe everything that dies some day

Comes back.

Put your makeup on,

Fix your hair up pretty,

And meet me tonight in Atlantic City"

~ The Band

I Hold on to her,

Smell her, I touch her hair.

I Tell her she's so beautiful,

Her voice is lovely,

The body she's sometimes afraid of?

Embrace it, it's gorgeous.

The loud voice of reason that she uses,

Even in the face of opposition?

It's the greatest tool she'll ever have.

The boy that made her cry?

Forget him.

I tell her she'll always love him but greater loves will come.

We hold on to the moment.

She fades away deep in my soul,

She's gone.

The world keeps turning without her,

it's just me again.

With each spin

she's one day further away from me.

The records keep spinning

and I wait for our moment in time.

Until next time, you 17 year old gypsy soul.

Everything changes, but you're the only thing that stays the same. Come back soon.

This endless rain is falling

Every dusk when night is calling

This vicious cycle circling ’round

Until one is six feet in the ground

Before he even enters the fight has begun.

An utterance of words triggers the rerun,

Of many nights before and many to come.

Different but not the feud is never done.

And the child prays to not be afraid,

As she holds tight to both her French braids.

“Mommy please stop, Daddy please no” but the cry is unheard,

And she’s forced to listen to every word.

There’s no hero to save her not even unsung,

Only her teddy to which she clung.

Feeling no hope inside,

Silently she escaped and cried.

What awaited ahead was pure solitude,

Where all her unheard feelings brewed.

Although alone the fight rages onward,

In her mind and also out yonder.

She hid by the window to drown out the pain,

As she sat she focused on only the rain.

Screams that always poured through her ears,

Were they finally fading after what felt like years?

This endless rain stays grieving

Every day that they're still breathing

This vicious cycle circling ’round

Until one is six feet in the ground.