Test Your Knowledge part 4 of 4: after this, it’s back to work…

31.  The side kick in The Magic Flute is:

  1. Pinoccio
  2. Popageno
  3. Papa John

32.  William Tell Overture was written by:

  1. Rossini
  2. Mozart
  3. The Lone Ranger

33.  The Sound of Music was written by:

  1. Lerner & Lowe
  2. Rogers & Hammerstein          
  3. Lewis & Clarke

34.  The Dali Lama is:

  1. A famous religious man
  2. A famous sandwich
  3. A famous circus animal

35.  Along with conquering Western Europe, Julius Caesar was famous for inventing:

  1. The ides of March
  2. The Calendar
  3. The salad

36.  The first Western non-Moslem to complete the Hadj to Mecca was:

  1. Lawrence of Arabia
  2. Richard Burton
  3. Elizabeth Taylor

37.  The famous medical explorer of darkest Africa was:

  1. Doctor Livingston
  2. Doctor Stanley
  3. Doctor Spock

38.  The famous Indian practitioner of non-violent civil disobedience was:

  1. Gunga-Din
  2. Ghandi
  3. Gumby

39.  The great Greek philosopher was:

  1. Plato
  2. Plutarch
  3. Pluto

40.  The Victorian terror of London was a person called:

  1. Doctor Jeckel
  2. Jack the Ripper
  3. Mac the Knife

Answer Key:

 Bonus questions: For the rest of it, it is like I tell my kids:  “Go look it up!”  (think of it as additional procrastination time)…

Test Your Knowledge part 3 of 4: The diversion continues…

21.  One of Shakespeare’s comedies is:

  1. A Little Night Music
  2. A Midsummer Night’s Dream           
  3. A Nightmare on Elm Street

22.  The mystery writer is:

  1. Mickey Spilane
  2. Mickey Mantle
  3. Mickey Mouse

23.  Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening was penned by:

  1. Walt Whitman
  2. Robert Frost
  3. Jack Frost

24.  Who wrote At the Back of the North Wind?

  1. George McDonald
  2. Ronald McDonald
  3. Old McDonald

25.  Peter Rabbit was written by:

  1. Harry Potter
  2. Beatrix Potter
  3. Colonel Potter

26.  No fair list of Mark Twain’s greatest works would be complete without:

  1. David Copperfield
  2. Huckleberry Finn
  3. Huckleberry Hound

27.  Who wrote Alice in Wonderland?

  1. Lewis Carroll
  2. C. S. Lewis
  3. Lewis & Clarke

28.  The Little Mermaid was written by:

  1. The Brothers Grimm
  2. Hans Christian Anderson
  3. Walt Disney

29.  The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was written by:

  1. Washington Irving
  2. George Washington Carver
  3. Irving Berlin

30.  Rodeo was composed by:

  1. Aaron Nevil
  2. Aaron Copeland
  3. Hank Aaron

Bonus Question:

3.  The State that lies furthest to the East is

  1. Maine
  2. Virginia
  3. Alaska

Test your Knowledge part 2 of 4…opportunity to procrastinate

11.  The early radio was invented by:

  1. Marconi
  2. Machiavelli
  3. Macaroni

12.  The Peanut was first exploited by:

  1. Thomas A. Edison
  2. George W. Carver
  3. Charles M. Shultz

13.  The flight at Kitty Hawk was accomplished by:

  1. The Wright Brothers
  2. The Smith Brothers
  3. The Smothers Brothers

14.  The first man to fly a plane solo across the Atlantic was:

  1. Limburger
  2. Lindberg
  3. Limbaugh

15.  Who set a foot on the moon?

  1. Buzz Aldren
  2. John Glen
  3. Ruth Buzzy

16.  The Man for All Seasons was:

  1. Thomas Moore
  2. Clement C. Moore
  3. Michael Moore

17.  Robinson Caruso was written by:

  1. Danny Devito
  2. Daniel Defoe
  3. Bob Denver

18.  The Raven was written by:

  1. Edgar Allen Poe
  2. Ralph Waldo Emerson           
  3. The Disney Channel

19.  The Scarlet Letter is the Story about:

  1. The letter F
  2. The letter A
  3. A letter to Santa

20.  Shakespeare wrote many tragedies, including:

  1. Romeo & Juliet
  2. Pyramis & Thisby       
  3. Lewis & Clarke

Bonus Question:

2.  The 51st State is sometimes said in reference to:

  1. The Senatorial Bar & Grill
  2. Puerto Rico    
  3. New York City

Test Your Knowledge part 1 of 4: a diversion…

1.   The Massachusetts signer of the Declaration of Independence was:

  1. John Adams
  2. John Quincy Adams
  3. Charles Adams

2.   The Virginia Signer of the Declaration of Independence was:

  1. William Jefferson
  2. Thomas Jefferson
  3. Weezy Jefferson

3.   The famous Frenchman who helped the Americans during the Revolution was:

  1. The Marquis de Lafayette
  2. The Marquis de Sade
  3. The Marquis de Queensbury

4.   The British Monarch during the American Revolution:

  1. King Charles
  2. King George
  3. King Arthur

5.   The first President elected from outside the original Thirteen Colonies was:

  1. Andrew Jackson
  2. Jesse Jackson
  3. Samuel L. Jackson

6.   Early explorers for the Northwest Passage were:

  1. Lewis & Clarke
  2. Martin & Lewis
  3. Rowan & Martin

7.   The man who lost the Battle of Little Big Horn was:

  1. Colonel Washington
  2. Colonel Custer
  3. Colonel Sanders

8.   The Marshall plan was drawn up primarily by:

  1. George Marshall
  2. George Thurgood Marshall
  3. Marshall Dillon

9.   Which was not a U. S. President?

  1. Lyndon Johnson
  2. Howard Johnson
  3. Andrew Johnson

10.  Who Discovered Electricity?

  1. Benjamin Franklin
  2. Thomas Edison
  3. Aretha Franklin

Bonus Question:

1.  The Capitol of North Carolina is:

  1. Charlotte
  2. Mayberry
  3. Raleigh           

Good luck.  Have fun.  More later this week……………….

One Writer’s mid-week Writing Secrets 1: Tell a Story.

Sorry, I don’t have a link but I would recommend reading the Wall Street Journal, Saturday/Sunday, August 29-30, page W3 in the culture section.  The article is by Lev Grossman, and it is titled:  Storytelling.  Good Books Don’t Have to Be Hard.  And it is subtitled:  A novelist on the pleasure of reading stories that don’t bore… My response is:  Amen.  Whether you are writing fiction or embarked on some journalistic enterprise (or writing journalistic-fiction which is all too common these days) it helps to have a story! 

Grossman blames our view of what constitutes “great writing” (literature) on the modernists in the 1920s who objected to the Victorian novels that tied everything up in a nice, neat ending.  Faced with all of the changes that came with modern life, these authors said, (recognized) that life did not work out in nice and neat ways, and so they produced such works as “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” “The Age of Innocence,” “Ulysses,” “A Passage to India,” “The Sun Also Rises,” “A Farewell to Arms,” “The Sound and the Fury,” and so on.  These all may be great books in their way, but the truth is (and Grossman says it well) they are too hard on the reader.  As he points out, “imagine what it felt like the first time somebody opened up “The Waste Land” and saw that it came with footnotes.” 

To be sure, all of these great works by great writers have produced in us a sense that quality writing must be like theirs:  “Mainstream” or “Literary;” yet, like the impressionist painters that revolutionized the art world, they have had their day.  The day of the “Mainstream” or “Literary” novel (so-called) is over.  To put it more succinctly:  modern literature had its time and place, but we are now living in a post modern age.

Thank goodness story is making a comeback.  Clearly, story is what readers want.    As Grossman points out, “Sales of young adult books (where the unblushing embrace of storytelling is allowed) are up 30.7% so far this year (through June)… while adult hardcovers are down 17.8%.  Nam Lee’s “The Boat,” one of the best reviewed books of fiction in 2008 has sold 16,000 copies in hardcover and trade paperback according to Nielsen Bookscan… (while) the author of the “Twilight” series, Stephanie Meyer, sold eight million.”

My point would be that it pays to have a story to tell.  Readers want this.  Writers – Serious Writers are discovering this.  Agents and Publishers are a little slower, but I believe they will follow the money.  My hope is that someday maybe even the reviewers will catch up.

You remember story:  Beginning, middle and End.  Yes, I said end.  True, these days we might not wrap everything up in a neat Victorian ribbon.  (The lessons of the modernists were valid to some extent).  In our day, Scrooge might have a relapse.  (We would call that a sequel).  But still, a story ought to have some resolution, some conclusion; it needs to reach a point where one can honestly type:  THE END.  It should no longer be acceptable to end a story, “because my fingers got tired of typing so I went to bed.”

“But what of Great Literature and true Stream of Consciousness writing, and etc.?”  As Jessica would say, with a snap of her gum, a click of her tongue and a roll of her eyes, “That is so last century!”


Writing Tip 1: 

Tell a story.  Tell a good story.  Grab the reader.  Take them through whatever twists or turns exist, and when you are done, let them go.  This can still be great literature, and I believe it will be how the future sees literature.  You can say all you want to say about life, liberty and the pursuit in a story.  You can make great points, Dickens did, but first of all make it a good read, because if it is good enough, along with lasting beyond the lifetime of a blog, someone just might pay you for it.

— Michael

Ghosts part 17-END M/F Story

Series:  Strange Tales   Story:  Ghosts   by M Kizzia   part 17 END 

            Mya was the first to arrive back at the scene of the accident.  She ran the whole way and was not tired in the least.  She never ran in her life before, her foot being the way it was.  Now, maybe she was making up for lost time, or at least she never before had such a reason to run, and she grinned at her own thoughts. 

            She stopped just before she got to the gate and noticed something she had not expected.  The young man and the suicide bomber were sitting side by side on the curb, talking quietly.  She could not hear what they were saying, and she did not intrude, knowing that would be rude, so she did what she could.  She said a little prayer that somehow they might find a way out of the pit they had thrown themselves into – that they might find a solution to the mess they had made of their lives.  Her heart went out to them, but she could do no more.

            Mya looked down and saw that her high heels had become flats, and she was grateful, knowing that she was going to have to climb up the grassy knoll that held the park bench.  She stepped up to the gate and smiled.  It was not that long ago she would have had to stand on tip-toes, and even then it would have been hard to open that big, heavy iron gate.  Now, she simply reached out, and it was an easy thing to do.  As she stepped on to the grass, she was filled with joy and gently closed the gate tight behind her.

            She noticed right away that the park bench was taken.  The minister was there with his newspaper neatly folded beside him, and she almost clapped to see the burly man beside him.  The man’s arm looked fully restored, and most of his face was whole as well.  “Thank you, thank you.”  She lifted that prayer as well.  Clearly, the minister still had some work to do, and just maybe he could add another name to that book of his in heaven.  She thought it was good that everyone had someone, and she had Nathan, except right at the moment, she did not have him.  She nearly doubled up for want of him, and she cried out.

            “Nathan!”  When she heard no response she almost collapsed.  She screamed, “Nathan!”  It was as loud as she could, and then she heard an answering call.

            “Mya!  Mya!”  He had come in the other gate and he was running to her.  He was running!  Mya jumped and started to run as well, but she did not get far before they were wrapped up in each other’s arms and he was kissing her everywhere on her face, on her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, ears, on the tip of her little nose, and he did not neglect her lips, and she kissed him right back before she finally pressed her head into his chest and shoulder.  They were crying, but there were no more sad tears left in them.  These were tears of pure joy.  They had found each other and they held each other so tight it was almost as if they were trying to absorb each other into the depths of their souls. 

            “I am so happy.  I am so happy.”  Mya kept repeating her words into his chest, and he also kept repeating the same phrase.

            “I love you.  I love you.”  He said.

            After a while, Nathan took a step back in order to look into Mya’s eyes where there was no hiding that special smile than showed everywhere on her face.  Nathan returned her smile as they wrapped up in each other’s arms and kissed for a very, very long time.  When the earth began to tremble beneath their feet, they thought it was only a result of what they were feeling.  When that trembling increased, though, they thought they had better look.  There was a hole opening up on the green between this world and someplace else, and they separated to stand side by side and watch in wonder, though they never quit holding hands.

            Neither knew where that other place might be, though they both knew very well.  All they could see was a brilliant light, pure and holy so it made them tremble, but warm and inviting so they knew they were welcome.  As usual, Mya was the first to speak.

            “Perpetual light.”  She named it, but it sounded like a question so Nathan responded.

            “It is.”

            “Do you know how much I love you?”  Mya asked.

            “I do.  And how much I love you?”

            “I do.”  Mya and Nathan squeezed each other’s hands.  “But I was thinking, now that I know what love is, do you know how much I love the one who first loved us?”

            “Exactly.”  Nathan affirmed her feelings and confirmed his own.  “With all your mind and all your heart and all your soul and all your strength.”

            “That is the first commandment.”  Mya said, looking up at Nathan once more, seeking his assurance, just in case.

            He nodded for her and that brought out her most radiant smile, and they turned and walked into that perpetual light, side by side and hand in hand, forever.

Reflection: The Proof for God: Religion vs. Science continued.

            Is God a Mathematician?  That is the title of a new book by Mario Livio.  I am sure it is a fascinating book, but the short answer is, duh! Of course he is, and everything else as well if I read the PR correctly. 

            In Switzerland, Scientists are touting the new multi-billion dollar, seventeen miles worth of particle accelerator where they hope to find what THEY call “the God Particle” (The glue that holds matter together).  It is all nonsense to equate any particle with God, you know.  Particles, by definition are neither theistic nor atheistic; but I am sure they are just using the name like some manufacturer might use the terms, “new and improved,” or like so many food venders presently use the terms “natural” or  “organic.”  It doesn’t necessarily mean what it says.

            Then, another recent publication is the book by a former Christian Scientist – a reporter who reportedly went in search of the science part.  The conclusion, as I understand it, is she grew closer to some of her Christian Science family and friends, but she did not really find it – not exactly.

            I would have been surprised if she found any scientific evidence at all.

            Science and the scientific method have a marvelous place in the universe.  With mathematics, we may be able to eventually understand everything there is to know about matter and energy and the relationship between the two and science may describe for us the beginning and the end of the universe (especially if it turns out that energy can be created and destroyed after all).  But what it cannot tell us is anything of value (for example):  why we should be interested in science, mathematics and the scientific method, what good are the scientific laws and discoveries, or why we should care.

            To be sure, more of life is understood by means non-scientific than scientific and “proved true” by means other than the scientific method.  A BS degree from the university is a valuable commodity, but there are other places where a BA is much more highly regarded.

            Consider Art, which is about as unscientific a category as you can find.  Greatness (validity) is often a matter of consensus, but not entirely so.  The art world depends on documents, expert and eyewitness testimony, and the jury of history in making its determinations.  Of course, someone can still insist that the Mona Lisa, Beethoven’s 9th Symphony and Shakespeare’s Hamlet  are not great works of art, and they may try to justify their opinion by suggesting it is all subjective and only (no more than) a matter of opinion in any case.  What that suggests to me is one of two possibilities:  either the person is a “Contrarian” which I have defined as people who get a kick out of taking a contrary opinion no matter how irrational or unreasonable that opinion may be, or the person is in some serious need of some asylum time.

            Of course the above mentioned works are great works of art, and whether we like them or not is honestly irrelevant.  The jury of history alone has declared their greatness, as any jury would say, “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

            Consider history, which is totally unscientific no matter how much historians may grumble otherwise.  It cannot be understood by mathematics.  I cannot be replicated under strict laboratory conditions, and while it may produce some good advice, it does not imply laws that can be applied invariably to the future.  History, instead, is again a matter of documents and what the archeologists can discern from their shards.  It is determined by expert and eyewitness testimony to the point where it can only be, “rewritten by the victors” (as is often the accusation for unreliability) only so far before it is contradicted by the known facts and again, by the jury of history.

            Did Alexander once conquer the oikumene?  Did Cleopatra abandon Anthony at a crucial point and thus place Egypt in the grasp of the growing Roman Empire?  Did Victoria once rule over an empire on which the sun never set?  The answer of history is absolutely yes (true, for real); and while you or I may not see what relevance such things have to our lives, that consideration is, to be blunt, irrelevant.  History is one of the only things we have that explains not only who we are, but suggests where we are going, and the jury of history proves the reality of nearly everything quite apart from what science may or may not have to say about it.

            The jury would say, “Proved beyond a reasonable doubt.”  That has always been the legal answer to the scientific method, and keep in mind that justice is also a thoroughly non-scientific subject; and to be sure, no one (other than a contrarian) wants to honestly live in a world where justice is merely a matter of subjective opinion where one opinion is equal to another.  That would put us all in danger of tyranny – subject to whoever was slick enough to obtain the judgeship!

            Do juries sometimes make mistakes?  Certainly.  Juries have been wrong.

            Do scientists sometimes make mistakes?  Certainly.  Science has constantly been revised.

            Is this true even when the appropriate procedures are followed to the letter?  Yes.

            So is science the only arbiter of reality (to determine what is real and what is not real)?  Absolutely not.  “Proved beyond a reasonable doubt” works just as well for reasonable people.  When a jury considers the facts (what hard evidence is available), studies the documents (contracts, affidavits), considers the expert and eyewitness testimony and follows the time tested procedures, they will far more often than not come to a conclusion that is beyond a reasonable doubt.  Science (for example DNA testing) may have much to contribute to considerations of the law in a given case, but be clear about this:  Law is in no way a matter for scientific inquiry or investigation.  Other forms of investigation are involved, and they often relate to motive and opportunity.

            I could go on to subject after subject that is essentially if not entirely non-scientific, but in nearly all of it, the truth (reality) is proved in the same way and by the same method, and at this point, someone must be asking, but what about God?

            Well, clearly God is not a scientific subject, being neither composed of matter nor energy.  God will never be replicated in a laboratory, proved by the scientific method or described by mathematics.  So does that mean God is not real?  By no means (unless you are truly a contrarian who is also willing to insist that art, history, the law and a myriad of other things are equally unreal).  Rather, the “Truth” of God is “proved” by other means.

            Consider the documents, the evidence or facts (such as they may be), the expert and eyewitness testimony, the jury of history, and the fact that there are billions of people alive today who will look you square in the eye and declare that God is “Proved beyond a reasonable doubt.”  You may not agree, but honestly, it is the atheists who have a terrible uphill battle, and all I can see is Solon, pushing that boulder up the hill only to have it roll down again.  I always feel sorry for anyone who has to work so hard to close the mind (and heart).

            I will say this again, science and religion have no business being at odds with each other as long as each sticks to its area of study and understanding.  It is when the Theologians deign to make definitive statements about this universe of matter and energy and when Scientists draw unwarranted conclusions about reality that excludes any consideration of non-scientific life that we all get into trouble.

Ghosts: M/F Morning Story: SF/F

It occurred to me some time ago that there are no markets for Long Stories (20,000-80,000 words); but a writer does not know when beginning how long a story is going to be.  I thought a Monday morning post to get the week started, and a Friday morning post to take away for the weekend might work.  Enjoy.

Series:  Strange Tales   Story:  Ghosts   by M Kizzia   1 of 17

            Nathan managed a foot on the platform, but then he had to hold on to the rail to drag the rest of his decrepit body up the steps.  It always took too long, and though the bus driver never said anything, the other passengers gave him hard and cruel looks.  He couldn’t help it.  He was eighty-four and no longer allowed to drive, so it was the bus or nothing and he feared that soon enough it would be nothing.  God knew how his knees hurt.  He sat heavily on the bench just behind the driver where there were plenty of metal bars to hang on to in the turns.  Once he was settled, his lower back shivered as the muscles let go of their great effort to keep him upright against the hard pull of gravity.  Of course Lisa, his nag of a daughter wanted him to take the metro, but there were steps there, too.  Besides that, even if the walls were white and the lights were bright, there always seemed to be something of a going down into the pits of Hell about the place.  Nathan much preferred the sun, even if the bus windows were terminally dirty and it looked like rain.

            Nathan looked down at his suit jacket.  It was terribly wrinkled.  He supposed he should have it dry cleaned but he had long since given up on getting to such places on his own.  He knew he could ask Lisa.  She would do it, but she would also pay for it and more important than that, he would pay for it because she would use that as an excuse to start going through all of his things and weeding out what she did not like or what she did not think was important.  His hand came up to smooth out some of the worst wrinkles in his suit, but all he saw was age spots and more wrinkles where his hand used to be.  Getting old was as hard as gravity.  He let the winkles lay, like sleeping dogs, and decided that no one would notice an old man in a disheveled suit, or if they did, they would not care.  He might have sighed, but he used up all of his sighs ten years earlier.

            Nathan looked at the other passengers to pass the time.  There was a young man about mid-way to the back.  Ha!  Young?  He had to be forty or thereabouts even if he was still clinging to the outrageous clothes of youth and still projecting the attitude of the disaffected and disenfranchised.  Nathan could read it in the man’s eyes.  He felt sorry for the man who was probably convinced from a very young age that he was incapable of doing anything.  Ha!  He should not feel incapable of doing anything until he was at least eighty! 

            With that thought planted firmly in his mind, Nathan turned to look at an elderly woman who was probably older than he was, and she was smiling, for Christ’s sake!  Nathan remembered the ninety-three year old he ran into in the supermarket the other day.  She had two gallons of cherry vanilla ice cream, a can of cat food and some other stuff that he could not remember.  When he remarked on the ice cream while they waited in line, that she must really like that flavor, her response was interesting. 

            “Two scoops doused in two jiggers of brandy is really good.  How do you think I got to be ninety-three?”

            Nathan had not thought, so he just smiled and she checked out first.

            Now this elderly woman was like that one, smiling, and Nathan concluded that it must be the brandy.  He could not imagine any alternative that would cause such an old woman to smile and concluded that the little-old-ladies club must pass around recipes.  Nathan rubbed the back of his hand a little as if the age spot was a bit of dirt.  Then he rubbed the back of his stiff neck and held on while the bus came to the next stop.

            “Stupid car!”  The man virtually swore and Nathan heard, everyone heard, before they saw the man.  Nathan noticed the collar right away, and he supposed that the man was a priest or a minister of some sort.  He had practically shouted the words “Stupid car!” as he dug for the cost of the bus ride, making everyone wait and dig out their hard and cruel looks in response; but evidently the man wanted everyone to hear and see.  Nathan understood that it was the man’s way of saying that he did not normally ride a bus and he would not be caught dead on one now if his car had not behaved stupidly.  Nathan was not sure it was just the car that was behaving stupidly, and he watched as the man looked down the aisle, noticed the young man and the old lady, looked at Nathan, and took the seat in the front, opposite.  Before Nathan could speak, just in case he had something on his mind to say, the minister pulled the Washington Post from under his arm and ignored everyone.  The bus started again.

            Nathan coughed and produced a large bit of phlegm.  He even disgusted himself, but he had a handkerchief in his suit pocket so he kept his disgust to a minimum, and while he was at it he rubbed his nose before putting the handkerchief away.  He imagined that it was a remarkable thing that he did not embarrass himself more often.  He had lived alone for too many years and was of an age where he should not care, yet he did care about others – not what they thought of him, but to not disgust them if he could help it.  Too many men, once alone, went to pieces.  At least most of Nathan’s dishes were currently clean and put away.

            Nathan straightened his shirt collar and sat up a little straighter for a minute.  He had not worn a tie, of course, since he retired all those ages ago.  He leaned out to look down the aisle once again and noticed the minister with the newspaper slid a little closer to the window which was beyond touching distance, just in case Nathan wanted to touch, and the man turned the newspaper page as if to say, “I’m busy, leave me alone.”  Unfortunately, there was little more to see beyond the young man and the old lady.  There were other passengers, but they were hunkered down to where Nathan, with his not so good eyes, could hardly catch their hair color.

            A man stood.  He was a big, burly kind of a man; the kind of man Nathan never was.  He staggered a little in the swaying bus and jerked a bit as the bus came to a stop.  He sat behind Nathan and Nathan guessed he would be getting off at the next stop.

            The air whooshed and the bus door opened.  Nathan turned to see a little girl who came slowly up the steps.  Nathan waited for the mother or father to follow, but none came while the bus driver asked for his money.

            “Please, sir.”  The little girl spoke softly like she was shy or embarrassed and Nathan would have had to turn up his hearing aid if he had not been sitting so close.  “I missed the school bus, but I have to get home.  My grandmother is very sick.  My mother will pay you when we get to my stop.”  That took real courage.  Nathan admired the little girl

            “Sorry kid.  You’ll have to walk.”  The bus driver looked sympathetic, but it was his job, and Nathan wondered how many rotten things were committed in the name of doing one’s job.  He hated that expression.  “It’s nothing personal, it’s just business.”  Here is the little secret.  Business or not, everything in life is always personal.

            The little girl looked about ready to cry.  “I can’t.”  She said and both Nathan and the bus driver were drawn to her feet where one shoe looked stiff and metallic.  Nathan did not know if it was a club foot or the result of some disease or accident, but come to think of it, the girl did seem to limp up the steps.

            “Listen, kid.  I’ll lose my job.  I’m sorry.”  The bus driver spoke kindly but shook his head before looking back into the bus as if to suggest that someone from the city might be there spying on him.  Nathan knew no paper pusher would leave the warm security of an office to ride a bus, but he allowed that the bus driver might have thought this was a set-up to see who they could fire, given the current state of the economy.  “I need my job.”  The driver said honestly enough.

            The little girl began to cry, softly.

            “Look, I’ve got family too.  I have to get home.”  The burly man spoke over Nathan’s shoulder.

            “Yes, can we get on with this?”  The minister spoke from behind his newspaper.

            Nathan glanced back and saw the young man turned toward the window, ignoring the whole scene, while the old lady was digging through her purse.  Nathan preempted her, pulling a bill from his pocket.  “Here, child.”  He said.  “You sit right up front with me and sit by the window so we don’t miss your stop.”  Nathan pulled himself slowly to his feet while the bus driver made change.  The little girl hesitated and looked once into Nathan’s sad, old eyes while he looked into her sad, young eyes.  They understood each other in that moment, and the girl scooted past him to sit next to the window.  Nathan barely got his change pocketed and sat down again before the bus driver shut the door and took off.

            After that, Nathan put the rest of the bus out of his mind as he looked at the back of the little girl who was dutifully staring out of the dirty window.  He judged her to be about seven or eight and he wondered what kind of world we had become to have school busses leave without their passengers accounted for.  Surely the school must have some resources for those inadvertently left behind; and especially for a little girl like this, lame as she was.  Nathan understood being lame even if both of his feet were normal for his age.

            “Do you know which stop is yours?”  Nathan asked, not certain if he would get an answer out of the child.  She had to be scared, all alone with strangers as she was.  He was pleased to see her able to respond.

            “Yes, thank you.  I have ridden this bus before, with my mother.”  The girl said as she gave up on the dirty window and turned to face front and the hard plastic translucent board that separated her from the bus driver’s back.  “And thank you for paying.”  She added as if remembering her manners.  She looked up into Nathan’s old face as if seeking his adult approval of her polite words and Nathan, catching that look in her eyes, smiled in response.

            “So what are you, eight?”  Nathan asked.

            “Seven.”  She said.  “I’m in the second grade.”

            “Second grade.”  Nathan repeated as he thought a long, long way back.  Fortunately, the ancient days were easier to remember than that morning’s breakfast.  “So you know all about reading and writing.”

            “Oh, yes.”  The girl said.  “I love to read, but my writing needs some practice.”

            Nathan nodded.  “Do you stick out your tongue when you write?”  He asked.

            “No.”  The girl shook her head.  Clearly she did not know what he meant.

            “Like this.”  He let his tongue a little way’s out of the corner of his mouth and pretended to have a pencil in his hand.  “You see?”  He pretended to write on the translucent plastic in front of them.  “A-B-C.”  He spoke as he wrote.

            The girl put her hand quickly in front of her grinning mouth.  “That’s silly.”  She said.

            “But it helps.”  Nathan insisted.  He did it again.  “D” he said, and he pretended to have trouble with the letter and let his tongue move as his hand moved.  The little girl giggled and Nathan smiled again.  He had a grand daughter – no – a great-grand daughter that was seven.  “My name is Nathan.”  He introduced himself.

            The girl paused to examine his face before speaking.  “Mine is Mya.”  She said as she lifted her little hand up to touch his wrinkled, craggy face.  “You are very old, like my grandmother.”  She said.

            Nathan lost his smile, but slowly.  “You grandmother is not well.”  It was a question though he said it like a statement.

            Mya nodded.  “She is in the hospital.  My mother is going to take me to see her tonight.  I think Grandma is dying.”  Mya took her hand back and straightened up.  Her eyes looked once again near tears.  Nathan thought we are all dying; only some of us are closer to it than others.  He forced a smile.

            “Now, enough about dying.”  He said.  “You just give her a big hug when you see her and tell her that you love her.  That is all that really matters.”  He wanted to hug the little girl himself and pat her hand to comfort her in her distress, but he did not dare.  Surely someone would accuse him of terrible things, and he wondered again what sort of world they had become.  All he could do was lift his heart in a kind of prayer for this little soul while the bus brakes brought them to the next stop.  The big man started to get up as the doors opened, but before he could move far, someone jumped in and ran right past the driver babbling something about paradise and Satan and you demons.  The minister hid behind his paper.  The Bus driver grabbed and missed.  The big burly man also made a grab, but it was too late.  Nathan instinctively threw himself over the little girl like a shield of flesh and blood.  There was a deafening sound, a moment of pain, a brilliant, blinding light and then nothing.