SHORT STORY - Cousin Nicki, from Long Island, is on His Way

     It was the little things that had happened that made me wonder how I had gotten to this point. The small and subtle, almost unnoticeable bits and pieces that formed over a period of time. Created a whole picture. A picture that left me as the squishy layer between an avalanche of hard places. I had been told of this impending event for weeks. Weeks that seemed to get longer and longer. Now I wished I was still waiting. Still unaware of the full knowledge of what a Cousin Nicki is.

     Greg got off the phone early one Tuesday morning. We were in the middle of going through the lists of deliveries for the day. Trying to get the truck loaded with various couch and dinette sets as quick as possible before Greg decided to rearrange the store for the fourth time that month. Luckily this was a busier than normal Tuesday. We had plenty of deliveries and many that were pretty far away. In fact the whole morning was going to be spent heading up to a little spot up in the mountains called Cherry, a spot off the side of a side road with a gathering of cabins in a quaint little forest area in the foothills of the Arizona mountains. All Greg really had time to do was give us a brief message.
     "Looks like I'm gonna be getting you some extra help here in a few days. Cousin Nicki is heading this way from Long Island. Said he'd be here within a few days."
     "Oh good. So he's your cousin?"
     "Yeah, he's my older cousin. Has had some tough times and just needs a job. Told him if he could get out here, I'd give him a chance. He's done all sorts of work so he should be a good help. Besides he's family. I gotta give him a chance."
     "Sure. Sounds great. We could use the help. Especially on weekends you know."
     "Yeah. OK. Well, I'll tell you when he gets here. Now get going. Need you back as soon as you can so we can get some sets moved around."
     "Sure. We'll try, but heading up to around Prescott first thing so might be a long day."
     "Oh, right, well tomorrow then."
     Not if I have anything to do with it!

     Time passed. A week went by and then two with no Cousin Nicki. Not because he was missing or just didn't show. No, it was one interesting story after another. With each one I dreaded more and more what sort of hot mess was headed our way. Through sporadic updates Greg would relate the ever lengthening saga of Cousin Nicki's tour of America. It seems Nicki had arranged a ride, or several rides, to get him from Long Island to Phoenix, AZ. In what was surely the least straight line ever conceived for a cross country journey, Nicki leap-frogged from on illogical destination to ever more illogical subsequent destinations in a circuitous attempt to arrive. Many times the updates seemed to show him backtracking or, by all accounts, starting over. My guess is that he had never truly started in the first place and was just ridding out the long grift to get the full bus fare. I learned later I was probably more correct than I had feared.
     "Just heard from Cousin Nicki again. Looks like his ride got him to Ohio, but then they had to head back because of a death in the family, so he is stuck at the Salvation Army until he can get someone to send him his wallet. Oh yeah, he forgot his wallet in the car that left him in Ohio."
     "Oh geez, is he OK?" I said out of as much false concern as I could muster.
     "Yeah. Nicki can fend for himself. He'll figure it out. He used to be my lookout back in my New York days. We'd scavenge for all kinds of stuff on the side of the road. Spare tires. Discarded turntables. Ironing boards. Couches. Didn't matter. We could furnish a whole apartment ten times over just from stuff discarded on trash day. Just pile it into the back of the Buick and we were off. Good times."
     "Cool! Sounds fun. Hope he makes it soon." A total lie. I really was hoping he'd lose interest and head back to Long Island. I was already dreading his arrival and I'd never met him. Just didn't seem like a good idea to be working with the bosses long lost cousin. A sentimental disadvantage in the making.

     A few days later and Nicki was on the move again. Left Ohio and made it to Louisiana. From there he hitched across most of Texas. Somehow he then ended up in Montana. Back to Texas. Over to New Mexico. Colorado. Utah. Nevada. California. Utah again. Northern Arizona. Back to New Mexico, and then, after many weeks more than it should have taken, he arrived. At least according to Greg he had arrived. Greg was just letting him crash for a few days and shake off the journey before bringing him in.
     He arrived and I was unprepared for what met my eyes. A scrawny leathery guy with slick backed gray hair and a bushy gray mustache in jeans cutoff shorts and pristine white wife beater t-shirt tucked into the shorts. He seemed way older than Greg by maybe a decade or two. I figured it was actually maybe five years, but years filled with considerably harder miles. He was all smiles and bravado, the perfect stereotype of the Long Island  lower middle class neighborhood part-time thug, full time stoop lounger. It was disconcerting how authentic he was. Greg had long ago shed his Long Island persona, for the most part, but it would pop out when we got him riled up. Nicki never hid his persona. That was part of the problem. Nicki was always Nicki, no matter what.

     It started off well enough. Nicki was still trying to behave and look good for Greg. He was grateful for the job and he was flat broke. None of us were sure how he had even made the journey at all, because he never did connect with his wallet along the way. In fact it was about three days after he arrived that his wallet was delivered to the store through the mail. Whatever he had done to get here, it hadn't involved any money he had saved for the trip. Even when he got the wallet, he was still humble and grateful Nicki, because his wallet may have had important personal stuff in it, but it didn't have any real cash to speak of.
     It was when he got paid that things began to happen. Things began to take that subtle turn that really put the F-U in fun. Up to this point Nicki had been fine enough. He was strong enough to help with the deliveries. He could be reasoned with. He didn't like taking directions from me or any of the other delivery guys, but would suck it up and just work most of the time. He did like to complain once we were done, but it wouldn't stop him from continuing to work. He complained like a little old man, which for all intents and purposes he was, but it wasn't constant or loud and he could be easily routed to other subjects or silence.

     Then one day it was overcast and had been drizzling on and off throughout the day . On this particular day I was lucky enough to get a full delivery schedule and Nicki as my helper. It was the Monday after payday and Nicki had finally gotten his first pay and was in good spirits.
     "Gonna be a good day today, buddy boy."
     "Sure Nicki. Hope it is a good day. Got lots of deliveries so at least we won't be stuck in the store."
     "Oh yeah, buddy boy, gonna be a good one. Got them deliveries to do all right."
     "Yeah, whatever you say. Glad you're looking forward to it. Let's get going."
     We headed out for the day in the direction of Ahwatukee. The weather was still pretty gloomy with showers here and there. Nothing too serious, just a general dampness all over the valley. Just meant we would need to be extra careful. Try and keep things dry. I am running through the route in my head. Checking off the items and where they are packed. Doing all the typical preparations. Trying to ignore Nicki and do my job at the same time. Meanwhile Nicki is sitting over on his side looking out the window like he's searching for something. I don't worry because at least he isn't bothering me when suddenly he pipes up.
     "Hey, pull over at that Circle K there. I need some medicine. I'm feeling like I got a cold starting."
     "We're kind of in a hurry Nicki."
     "Just pull over there buddy boy! Stop giving me grief. I need my medicine, man!" he says more menacingly than I am comfortable with.
     I pull into the Circle K and Nicki jumps out almost before I can come to a stop and runs in. "I'll be right back" echoing in the cabin as the door slams shut. Maybe 30 seconds and he is back in the truck and he has gone from excited to angry, and his anger is directed at me.
     "What are you doing to me man? This is the wrong place! What are you trying to pull? Trying to play some kind of joke on me?"
     "What do you mean? You told me to pull into Circle K and I did!"
     "They don't have medicine here. You trying to embarrass me or something? It's the wrong one. Find the right one and quick."
     "What's the right one?"
     "The one that sells my medicine. You know? Medicine?" as he makes the universal sign for drinking alcohol.
     "I'm not taking you to buy booze Nicki."
     "Just take me now kid! Take me to the right one and don't embarrass me again or I'll show you why I had to leave Long Island. It won't be pretty, I can tell you that much! And another thing, not a word to Greg or you'll be sorry! Now find the right one!"
     So, on I drove. Under threat of violence. Fearing retaliation. I drove until I found the Circle K that had the additional "LIQUOR" sign below the name to assure me they had the hard stuff he was looking for.
     "Thanks kid. See, now wasn't that easy? Don't worry. I'm just getting my medicine for later. When were done. Now I'll be right back and we can get to that delivery."
     This time it was a minute or two longer but when Nicki came back he was smiling and nice and all the threats were as if they had never happened. He had a little brown bag in one hand which he slid between him and the door as got buckled in. I drove on and was glad he seemed to be keeping his word that it was for some later time.
     Later was apparently another five minutes down the road. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him fiddle with the bag. Remove the lid from the bottle. Remove the entire bottle of what turned out to be gin from the bag. Raise said bottle to his lips, and begin to drink. Then he continued to drink and not stop until he had drained the fifth of gin that had previously sat beside him. Soon thereafter Nicki was in too good of a mood. He was smiling like an idiot and drifting in and out of attention. It was then that we got to the first delivery. One of our nicer couches with nine different throw pillows. Easy enough delivery. Went to the door. Saw where to put the couch. Went back to the truck. Nicki had the sofa on the floor of the truck and was waiting. All fine. Then he started tossing throw pillows rapidly out the back of the truck at me with a stupid, well inebriated, ridiculous grin all over his completely smashed face. As I mentioned, it was wet. It had been raining here and there. We needed to be careful. We needed to use caution. Instead we had Cousin Drinks-a-lot tossing throw pillows into the street. It didn't end well. We loaded the sofa back into the truck and I promised a replacement within a couple of days.
     "Where we going, kid?"
     "Back to the store."
     "What for?"
     "Shut up Nicki. Just go pass out over in the corner of the cab. I don't want to talk to you."
     "What did I do?"
     "Nothin' Nicki. Just needed to go get something I forgot."

     I didn't care about Nicki's threats. He was an idiot and I didn't really think he'd do anything. I did care that I was heading back to the store to tell Greg that his Cousin Nicki was a raging alcoholic that I refused to work with. I did care that he might choose family over me and I might be heading home permanently after our little talk. I did care that I had been put in this situation in the first place. Greg had to know. He must have known, or at least suspected, some of what Cousin Nicki was capable of. That made me mad and upset. Gave me that push to be outspoken.
     "Greg, we need to talk."
     "Yeah, why? Why are you back so quick?"
     "We had to trade out the couch for our first delivery."
     "What?!?! What happened?"
     "Nicki happened."
     "What?"
     "Nicki threatened me until I took him to the liquor store. He bought a fifth of gin and then proceeded to polish it off. By the time we got to the delivery he was smashed. Started tossing throw pillows onto the damp street. Had to just pack up, apologize, and leave!"
     "Oh, I see."
     "I'm not working with him again, Greg. Do you understand that?"
     "Yes, understood. I'll fix it. Don't worry. Grab Pete and a new couch and get out of here. Sorry for that. Will fix it with Nicki."
     "OK Greg, OK."

     Goodbye Cousin Nicki. Farewell Greg's furniture store. I have moved on and nearly forgotten those heady days at the wheel of the delivery truck. No more are the deliveries in 110 degree heat. No more are the third floor sleeper beds at the end of the day on Friday. I cherish the memory but never long for the execution of  it. Cousin Nicki came from out on Long Island. Took weeks before we could ever find him. Always his hustle in the air. A mean drunk, he got paid and the gin he sunk. Glad I don't have to ride with you again.

SHORT STORY - Superstitions Ahead

     Buried deep in mountains filled with stories and nestled gently in a bowl of peaks set the goal I’d dreamed of since I was twelve. Sitting in the bed of a rusted out ancient Ford truck atop the piles of camping gear we crawled up the ever narrowing and inclining mountain roads. This truck, despite its dubious appearance, was the only vehicle in the caravan reliably capable of the final ascent to the trailhead. The three old men were packed into the cab, while I and my companions jumbled along not entirely uncomfortable in the overcast revelation of these Sonoran desert mountains lingering on the outskirts of an Arizona metropolis.

     The last mile was a rocky tumble of an excuse for a road laid on top of hairpin switchbacks. It was here that we all finally grasped the tightest to the rusty patinaed sides of our transport. Up until now we had chatted in variations from pleasant to animated sprinkled with jokes and laughter and interjected pointing at the fascinating features passing by all around. During this time what we really hoped for was stories from our resident bard, Billy. This kid could spin a tale. Always innovative. Frequently humorous. With a complexity beyond his years. So we poked and prodded and begged and pleaded for something to fill the time. But he wasn’t our only entertainment.

     In the other corner was Jason, the resident clown, who was, in fact, a professional clown already at 13. He could juggle and do magic and had the dexterity of a chimpanzee. He was even already taking clown classes at the university, which we were all in awe of. As the elder statesman on this journey his words always rose to the top of the conversation. He was thoughtful and kind and distracted and entertaining all at once. The rest of the crew consisted of myself, Berg, and Loren.

     Berg’s real name was Mike, but he was too big of a personality for a common name. Also, at school, there were in the same grade at least four different Mikes at the time, so nicknames were an easy solution. The legend was that Billy had come up with the name by using the commonality between iceberg (his size) and hamburger (his favorite food). Either way it just stuck.

     Loren was the traditionally talented one in the group. He could play piano. He could play violin. He could sing. He was a pretty decent diver and swimmer. He was clean and more fashionable than any of us cared to be at that age. He barely tolerated camping but joined in as if he did. Years later this tedious practice of sleeping outdoors would be abandoned by him, but for now he mostly participated. He was also the most enthusiastic enjoyer of stories and jokes. Always quick to a hearty laugh and engaged wholly in the stories told. An excellent listener for sure.

     Which leaves me. I was the newcomer to the group. We moved around a lot, so I was used to blending in quick to the group dynamic and learning the ways of my new-found tribe quickly and anonymously. My contribution was to participate and be happy and get involved.  Not a false happy, but I was easily entertained and genuinely enjoyed many of the activities I would get involved in. I was not the best looking or the most talented or the funniest, just somewhere in the middle. I was also an observer. I watched and collected the experiences.

     If you don’t know the place, there is something unreal about the Superstition mountains in Arizona. There are more stories per square mile associated with these mountains than most and the name betrays a lot of the feelings around the whole place. These are mountains that are allegedly filled with gold, but you better not look for it or it will kill you. The Mogollon monster roams these mountains too, and it will kill you. The weather can change from summer to a blizzard from one valley to the next, and that could kill you. Oh, and the aliens, the ghosts, more monsters, treasure hunters, bears, cougars, bobcats, rattlesnakes, scorpions, steep cliffs, and flash floods are all ready to get you at any second. For all of that it is a beautiful and wonderful natural wonder full of excitement. The reason for our visit was one of the exciting things that is hidden here in the Superstitions. Old Ed the mountain man that my dad worked with at the State Land Department, was guiding us to the cliff dwellings at the bottom of Roger’s Trough. A nice little four mile hike to see an amazing relic still just sitting up in the cliff wall for anyone to explore. Of course, that was if you didn’t die first.

     We felt good about our chances. Maybe because we were young and ignorant. Or maybe because we were dumb and trusting and there were adults there. But most likely it was because we were young, dumb, ignorant, and fairly certain we were invincible because of all of the above. Thus we looked forward with eager anticipation to the adventure ahead. We didn’t know the secrets contained in the mountains. We weren’t aware of the numerous deaths that awaited. Old Ed had tried to warn us of some, but then Berg’s dad went on about an 8 foot wall of water taking us out and all seriousness was lost. Well, all seriousness was lost as soon as Billy commented. Or rather, repeated Berg’s dad but in a sarcastic voice. It didn’t help that Old Ed looked annoyed by his input, but he had to acquiesce the point that flash floods did indeed happen, though irrelevant to where we were headed.

     About those secrets in the Superstitions. I learned later there are myriad tales told of these mountains and probably twice as many realities. For example, my father showed me that the topographic maps that you can get of the Superstitions publicly are in fact inaccurate. They are intentionally inaccurate because there are many natural wonders that they are trying to preserve. Like a really fantastic waterfall that is hidden deep in the hills. That was just the one he would show me, but he left me maps when he passed that can’t be obtained by the general public. Maps with many secrets.

     Another friend told me there is more gold stored in the Superstitions than in Fort Knox. Oh, and aliens are real and the evidence is also stored there, wherever there is. All these secrets are the kind you don’t try and prove. Those who do and who get obsessed are those that disappear. I understand this feeling. The way these mountains are is intoxicating. There is always the feeling that bigfoot might wander in and join your campfire, but in a cool way. He would just wander in and ask if he could hang with you for a few and by the way he has a bag of apples and some deer meat to contribute if that would help.

     Bigfoot didn’t show up this time. Maybe he had a better offer. Or maybe he and Old Ed weren’t on speaking terms, though I’m pretty sure they knew each other. Whatever the reason, we had a good evening once we arrived at the trailhead and woke to an overcast sky that would fade in and out of a drizzle for the whole day. Pretty good hiking weather. Keep cool but not drenched and no hot Arizona sun beating down on you.

     The hike was basically a walk straight down the river bed. Easy to know where to go, but sometimes not so easy to hike. Of course that was after the first two miles. The first two miles were a traditional trail along the riverbed that led to the junction of two distinctly different choices. It would be years before I took the other path, a four mile journey up the adjoining canyon to the old Reavis Ranch. Old Ed told us of apple orchards growing wild for acres and acres up in the hills. No one to attend and yet they grew and grew. The tale came with a warning that deer would eat the fallen apples that would ferment and then they would stumble around. It was at these times the bears would come and get themselves an easily caught, pre-marinated feast. Not a good place for casual observers. We instead stayed straight for the shorter two mile trek to the cliff dwellings.

     Though we seemed to be entirely alone and unthreatened in our journey, there was an air about the place that made for a more quiet journey than was usual for our crew. Maybe it was the gentle drizzle that made things even more quiet naturally, but the whole canyon was hushed. Any loud sounds created a muffled echo that seemed unwelcome. Soon enough we were to the bottom of the canyon, and just around the last turn the dwellings came into view.

     It is hard to describe how unexpected it is to wander through a wilderness and then suddenly arrive in someone’s front yard. There was a more managed air about this widening in the canyon. A sense of design that was almost imperceptible. Just some slight adjustments for convenience, but still something had been manipulated here once upon a time. As we stood still for a second and took in the view, we were soon able to focus in on the dwellings that were affixed into an indent of the cliff wall about 75 feet up the face. A perfect location to stay out of flooding and see if anyone was approaching.

     We wandered all over those dwellings for an hour and then sat on the cliff at their doorstep and had lunch. It was then that I saw something interesting. A peek of sun came out and lightened the valley before us just a little. The stream ran here a little wider than it did further up the valley and it sort of meandered into different pools, all of them murky and dark as is expected in mountain streams. All that is except one. One pool was not like the others and it was this that showed more than a passive involvement of the previous residents. One little pool was almost perfectly round and the water in it was a clear blue, like a small swimming pool. It was the same water as everywhere else, but this had been worked into a pool with intent. I am not sure what struck me most about seeing that perfect little pool, but it was not insignificant. It was the type of thing that makes for a perfect day.

     Soon after the adults were ready to go, and all of us boys had to abandon the paradise we were in and head back to out former reality. For me the seed was planted. A hook was placed. An allure exists in my soul that is tied to the Superstitions. I want to be in them and be surrounded by their wonder. I have tried to do so for years. It is not a perfect relationship. Each adventure seems to take a little for all that it gives, but never enough to make me abandon my love of this wilderness. It is not a relationship I will test. I will not seek to extract her secrets that she won’t give, but I will ask for any she is willing to share. I will cherish any she is willing to impart.

SHORT STORY - Weather or Not

     Rain on Wednesday . . . of course there is rain starting on Wednesday. I really need to talk to her about that . . . no, the children are more important, but, well, don't want a repeat of last time. Maybe she could hold off just enough that I could make my connection this time. Probably a good chance. She really, really didn't want me to go last time. Special circumstances and all. This Wednesday rain is just the normal pre-travel gloom type of weather I think. Not the rearrange-the-universe type of event we had last time. 
     I really have to talk to her . . . 

     "Dear heart of mine. The reason of my joy. Could we have a little chat?"
     "No. I'm mad at you."
     "I know, but it's important."
     "You're leaving and I'm upset."
     "You told me to."
     "I know, but I'm still upset. And it doesn't have to make sense. I get to feel how I want to because you are leaving."
     "I will be back. I took the quickest flights. No long layovers in fun places. Can I get credit for that?"
     "Maybe, but I haven't decided yet. Have to wait and see how much of my list you get done."
     "Yes, I know. Making progress on it. Anyway, could we talk about Saturday? The one after I leave?"
     "What about it?"
     "It's just that there is an outdoor activity for all the young kids at the park, and the committee was wondering if you might see fit to help them out for a couple hours?"
     "With what?"
     "You know . . . the weather thing . . . "
     "I haven't the foggiest what you even are talking about," she says with a barely perceptible smirk.
     "Yes, I'm sure you don't . . . and I suppose it is no coincidence that I leave on Thursday and a storm starts rolling in Wednesday night according to the weather report? Just like it does every time?"
     "Mere speculation and happenstance is all."
     "Still, could you happenstance your way to a few hours of limited precipitation on Saturday morning between 8 and 2 let's say? I mean that probably will mean a blizzard Sunday night, but I think it would be nice if you could try."
     "Oh sure, I will try, but the blizzard is happening Sunday morning. I hate going to church when you aren't here. Such a drag!"
     "Suit yourself. It'll be 95 and sunny with 90% humidity for me regardless of what you do here, so I will be paying a price. That should help you feel better . . . "
     "I'm sure you'll manage."

     We used to joke about it at first. Maybe the full strength of her power hadn't been realized. Or maybe you dismiss what seems incredible at first. But the evidence just kept piling up. Lately, it had gotten downright factual. I had to endure several calls a week from concerned citizens asking if I was leaving town on such and such a day, and if so could I talk to my wife on their behalf. Hey, at least they aren't burning her at the stake. I think they know she is a good witch, and she has come through now and then.
     We have been trying to figure it out. Best we can tell it is her great-grandma from France whose family had the ability. In the old days they were a lot more open and accepting of supernatural gifts. The arrival in America in the late 1800's took the openness away. It didn't do anyone any good to be an immigrant that had strange powers. Not openly anyway. It was the type of thing that got you blamed for crop failures and ostracized to a life of poverty and persecution. So, the talk of it stopped. The secrets were hidden. The memory of the reality of the power was suppressed and all but forgotten. For a time.
     But the great-grandmother would whisper in her granddaughters ears funny little secrets. Subtle encouragements. As soon as she notice the glint in her eye and the way the wind moved around her in respectful and penitent way. It was these small things, these things that had also happened to her, that let her know the gift was not lost. It was their little secret, but the granddaughter got older and forgot the special whispers and tiny moments. The great-grandmother also left and was all but forgotten and years passed without incident.
 
     The granddaughter grew up and became a mother to three remarkable girls. She only knew that two of them were remarkable and one of them didn't quite fit in. She also knew that this bothered her for a reason that it shouldn't and she had memories of something she should have remembered but had nearly completely forgotten, and this also upset her. So the third daughter made her uncomfortable and made her distant. It was hard for both of them. They never seemed to be able to be close but neither knew exactly why. They were cogs that never engaged completely. A relationship that always was out of sync.
     Still, the mother did notice that her third daughter had an odd brightness in her eyes. A curiosity that never waned. A kindness that was unbreakable, and that the wind seemed to flow around her in odd ways that almost seemed like deference to a fairy queen. So, though she didn't understand why she felt at odds with her daughter, she could never be cruel to her no matter how frustrated she got because her daughter didn't fit in to the family mold. Something told her she needed to find out a way to remember that thing she forgot that she forgot. So, she was cold but never cruel, and though she stayed at arms length from her daughter, she never pushed her away. Besides, they had their own secrets and special moments. She seemed to be able to do certain things around this daughter that the other two just didn't get. Especially the secret trips to the drive through to buy forbidden deep fried delicacies and colossally caloric milkshakes. She tried with daughter one and two, but they were always worried about appearances or health or boys or some other nonsense, and never embraced the adventure like third daughter did.
   
     At 20 she married the boy she had met when she was 15 and with whom had always almost been the best of couples, but never totally hit it off until both had left home for a season and learned just exactly who in the world they were. Or mostly who they were, but enough to fall deeply in love. Maybe it was this that made her powers manifest so perfectly on their wedding day. After all, if you told anyone that you were married in August in Arizona, they would immediately wonder if it was as miserable as they imagined or likely even worse. It wasn't for the weather that they chose that day, it was for convenience. School was starting and they had to get three states over before then and it would be very nice if they were married since they just had the one bed and were old fashioned about that sort of thing.
     Instead the day was 75 degrees and partly cloudy with intermittent sprinkles that only occurred when the two of them were inside buildings or inside vehicles. The weather was miraculously perfect for both comfort and picture taking. Never had such a day happened in August and never likely would it happen again. It was just too unbelievable. So much so, in fact, that something happened that day. A spark in the mother's memory. A voice from her long forgotten grandmother. Little whispers fluttered in her ears as she watched her third daughter stand in the reception line, all smiles and joy and twinkling eyes. The whispers grew into words and the words into thoughts and the thoughts into memories of quiet moments when the most special of secrets were told to her in hushed and conspiratorial tones.
     It was then she knew what she should have known all along. It was then that the distance between them began to close and disappear. When a mother with two remarkable daughters and a confusing daughter became a mother with two pretty great daughters and one very remarkable and amazingly powerful and gifted daughter. A daughter she finally understood. A daughter much more like her than she realized. A daughter she had some new secrets to share with that were even better than drive-thru onion rings and egg rolls.

   

SHORT STORY - Writing Prompts All in a Stack

     In the midst of cleaning up a far too cluttered garage left fallow while life happened in other areas of the home, treasures long forgotten were excavated, retrieved, and rediscovered.

     "What's this box of papers? Trash?"
     "No, look, they are her stories. Some of them anyway. A lot of these are just beginnings."

     "Cool! Wish she would keep writing. I mean, some of these really meander, but most have some pretty great ideas."

     "You should use these. Like, use them as writing prompts. You've been wanting to start back up again, take up your hobbies. Just take the idea and expand it."

     "I don't know. . . "

     "Come on! It will be like when you rewrite research papers for everyone, only fun."

     "That is fun."

     "Only for sickos like you."

     "Yeah, I know. Guess this might work."

     "Take them or I'm throwing them away."

     "No, no, I'll take them. You know I can't throw anything away. I've got the perfect place for them."

     "Your nightstand?"

     "No. My intermittent temporary storage staging area for undetermined and unclassified materials of recent interest. It just looks like a nightstand. At least when you can see it. You know, when I leave town and you do my filing?

     "I hate you."

     "I know. I love you too!"

     The stack of miscellaneous scribbling, comics, drawings, and  half started stories lay fallow on my side table teasing the corner of my mind. I liked the idea of building something out of these preserved efforts from my eldest child. She had long ago stopped giving us her writings. Didn't leave stuff laying around anymore. She had found the digital realm and could share her writings elsewhere with others. Mistakenly she thought this had kept her true nature hidden completely. She was wrong, but it was a fun game to let her think she had fooled us somehow. It always came in useful  in arguments when we could suddenly read her like the open book she inevitably was, and thus demonstrate that we may have some insight that would be of benefit, even in our advanced aged and with these decayed and addled brain buckets atop our sloping shoulders.

     "It's hard not to get caught up in the great drawings."
     "Un-huh. Wish she knew. The dragons are the coolest."
     "Like at the bottom of the page on the one she wrote with her brother."
     "I know, right? Remember when she was nice and did things like that more often?"
     "Yep, exactly."
     "Talented little turkey!"

     A dragon was helping knights and then another bad dragon hurt the dragon that was helping knights and then a knight shot the bad dragon and then the first dragon that was nice went to see a wise dragon and found the wise dragon doing something to the bad dragon at the bad dragon's dying spot where the knight had found the bad dragon and shot him and it turned out the wise dragon was making the bad dragon good, and that's the end.

     Once a very good dragon lived a very good life and tried to do good wherever he went. The good dragon was friendly and would even help good knights do good things, like rescue maidens from very tall towers (because he could fly) or make very good meals for the starving poor (because he could breathe fire) or even clean up after natural disasters (because he was very clean and tidy).
     One day his best knight friend stopped by to bring some fresh brownies and the new quilt he had been working on (after all the help from the good dragon he had to do something with his spare time and he had really found himself in pastries and textiles). However, it turned out he was not there just to bring crafts and baked goods and spend time with his friend. He also had some troubling news to discuss.
     It is best to understand that even in the best of places and the most mystical of realms, dragons are at best uncommon, and more often nearly non-existent. They are large beasts of magic that have voracious appetites and exceptionally large dwelling needs if they are to be truly comfortable. Even if they can avoid the urge to hoard gold and eat villagers, they still need a goodly amount of room to turn around and keep their spice collections and entertain guests, often distant dragon cousins from foreign lands, who are also sizable and unwieldy in tight quarters. This meant that the knight knew that if there was a dragon problem someplace, there were very few options to go to for expert advice. Because of this he also knew exactly where he was going as soon as he had heard of a bad dragon wreaking havoc in the area.
     As soon as pleasantries had been dispensed and a proper and appropriate amount of time had been allowed for the easy silence between good friends as they reveled in the simple joy of just being close, the knight explained that word had arrived of a bad dragon committing despicable and unspeakable crimes in a distant corner of the land. The knight was wondering if the good dragon could pop over and get the lie of the land, since after all, he could fly and spoke dragon and the knight was all tied up that evening with commitments to the Virtuous Maidens Charity Ball and his monthly armor oiling and hot bath, which, as the dragon knew full well, was a difficult and unpleasant time each month for the knight, who wasn't getting any younger.
     The good dragon was glad to help, as he always was, and after a lovely tea and a quick game of chess, and the most polite of farewells, he was off. It always felt so right to the good dragon to take flight and explore the vast and endless sky. When he had a good deed to do it was even more right, if such a thing was possible. The good dragon was, it should be noted, a lovely jeweled green color that looked like liquid emeralds when he moved. This was the color of most good dragons. From the knight's report, the dragon that was causing such a ruckus was red, like fire soaked rubies. This was a bad sign. Dragons, because of their nearly eternal nature and magical properties, had long ago learned how to change colors, much like their distant relative, the chameleon. The dragons had, of course, taken it to a much more dynamic level but the principle was basically the same. The main difference was that in order to control what color they wanted to be, they had to adopt certain behaviors and these behaviors in turn dictated the color they would eventually obtain. Good and kind dragons were shades of green. Bad dragons became shades of red. Thus the good dragon was concerned and knew that this was not a simple misunderstanding, this was really a bad dragon and there was most certainly trouble ahead.
      It wasn't long before the good dragon was sailing over the land where the bad dragon was known to roam. It also wasn't long before the good dragon had found the knight's friend. The good dragon and the knight thought it best, given the bad publicity in the area around dragons, that the good dragon meet with someone who knew he was coming first so as to limit any possible negative interactions that were understandably a real possibility given what the bad dragon had been up to in the area. The knight whom the good dragon met was kind and welcoming, and to the good dragon's shock, told him that the problem was now solved. No further action needed. The bad dragon was good as dead, if not dead already. The good dragon was dubious, but was reassured the matter was well in hand. He was welcome to investigate on his own, but this knight seemed fairly confident of the facts of the case.
     The facts were laid out thus. It seems one of the younger knights had happened to acquire the knowledge of the bad dragon's secret lair. This was seen as a great blessing from the gods and the young knight wasted no time in using the knowledge to his advantage. He found the lair as had been told and seeing it was empty, crept inside to lay in wait. The young knight barely had more than to wait until early evening before the bad dragon returned. In short order the young knight had shot the bad dragon and returned to the village victorious. In the days that followed a new peace settled on the land as each day was marked with no new dragon attacks. Each day the joy of the citizens increased and multiplied. It was the first real happiness they had enjoyed in years. They began to smile and have gatherings and sing songs of praise and rejoicing instead of lament and sadness. Life, it seemed, was becoming sweet after ages of being bitter.
     The good dragon congratulated the knight on the new found peace and bid him a found adieu, but the good dragon was bothered. If the bad dragon was truly dead, well he sort of deserved it for all the tragic acts he had committed. But, since dragons are so rare, the good dragon always lamented any loss of dragon life, even if they had not been particularly exemplary during their lives. Being a dragon is not an easy thing to be, and the good dragon understood that and was always willing to get the whole picture before he passed any judgement. And even then, he was a generous and forgiving creature as a rule, and liked to give a little extra leeway to dragons who never chose this lot in life in the first place.
          The good dragon felt like he needed to understand things. Needed to have some guidance. Needed to seek wisdom. Needed to find the wise dragon. That was what he needed to do. So off went the good dragon seeking the wise dragon. For the good dragon this wasn't a difficult task. Dragons can find dragons. Maybe it is smell or a supernatural sense or maybe a interconnection on a subconscious level, but dragons can find dragons and it wasn't long before the good dragon had honed in on a direction.
     Interestingly enough the location was not far away. In fact, if he didn't know batter, the good dragon felt certain that the area had not one dragon, but in fact two dragons. On the good dragon flew and soon was approaching a lair that, because of his dragon senses, he knew was a dragon lair. As the good dragon approached he could sense the wise dragon, but there was something more. Maybe someone else. So the good dragon approached the lair and caught a glimpse of blue sapphire back in the darkness of the lair. This helped the good dragon to relax, because everyone knew that the wise dragons were shades of blue. The good dragon had found the wise dragon and soon, hopefully, some guidance as well.
     What happened next was not what the good dragon expected. As he approached the wise dragon cloaked in blue, he noticed the wise dragon was hunched over something and muttering ancient words from ancient spells, and being a polite and good dragon, he felt that perhaps he should not disturb such a solemn scene. Then as the good dragon stepped further into the lair, the scene became clearer and he was even more confused.
     It had been many days since the young knight had attacked the bad dragon. Enough days that if the bad dragon had been injured only, even accounting for a nearly fatal wound, the bad dragon would easily have healed and sought revenge for the attack. Yet here laying at the feet of the wise dragon was a living, breathing second dragon that was a confusion of color. There was a hint of red in the tail and on the toes and maybe around the ears and the chin. The chest and torso and up the neck had many shades of green from nearly yellow to something like a forest at midnight. Around the head and eyes the color flowed as well, but this in shades of blue. It was a confusion of color looking for resolution. The wise dragon stirred while the good dragon watched and pondered. The wise dragon turned to the good dragon and beckoned him closer in a reassuring way.
     Still with a somewhat quizzical look on his face the good dragon sat and waited. As he did the multi-colored dragon opened a lazy eye and looked at him and giving a slight nod, began to slowly rise to a seated position with the others. The good dragon explained that he had been asked to check into the actions of a bad dragon in the area, but upon arrival had been told that the bad dragon was destroyed. In order to understand better he had sought the wise dragon he had heard of and that is what brought him here. The wise dragon then explained that he had heard of the bad dragon as well and had also heard of the efforts of the young knight, and had arrived at this lair to see if the bad dragon still existed. He did, but was gravely wounded. Not so seriously that he couldn't recover, but there were more wounds than physical that the wise dragon found. So he helped the bad dragon heal physically. In the process he also felt it might be nice to help the bad dragon see if he could maybe not be such a bad dragon anymore. It had, as it seemed now, had somewhat of an effect.
     And truly it had. The formerly bad dragon had learned much and had done much and was becoming a wiser and better dragon and maybe something more. Something yet unresolved. Something beautiful and amazing to behold. The good dragon and the wise dragon and the formerly-bad-and-now-something-different dragon talked a long time. They had many easy silences and many deep a moving discussions and a number of particularly good meals and always a brilliant afternoon tea. Soon it was time for the good dragon to depart and make his way home, though he really enjoyed his new friends, he did have a home and his favorite knight to get back to.
     On the way home he stopped and explained to the knight in the land of the formerly bad dragon that things had been worked out. That although the dragon had not died, there would be no return of the old bad times. The good dragon also suggested that perhaps the knight could make a visit the formerly bad dragon in a few weeks and maybe find some common ground and develop a good working relationship. The knight was agreeable and happy that the temporary peace seemed to be now a permanent peace with a bright future.
     So it was with much good news and many conversations that the good dragon returned home. He found his knight in very good spirits to receive him and many exclamations of how worried he was and how much he had missed his old friend. The good dragon said the same. The knight also noticed that the good dragon seemed to have a slight blue shimmer around the edges since his return, but perhaps is was just his eyes playing tricks on him.
     Perhaps it was, but the good dragon would just say, "Dragons are an odd thing. You never really can tell with a dragon, can you?"
     And the knight would wink and nod and say, "No, you never really can tell with dragons."