Joyous Publishing - March 2007 Winning Stories

The train had been running at a good speed that winter night. Only the
continuous rattle of its wheels on the rails pervaded the peaceful silence
within the dimly-lit coach. But to the ears of the sleepy passengers the
noise came as a lullaby rather than a nuisance in the quiet of the night.
They were all sleeping inside the crowded coach in all possible ways and
positions, some sitting and leaning against the bodies of their fellow
passengers who had been dozing off in the same position, some stretched with their arms under their heads and legs folded up and sleeping with their
heads in opposite directions so as to accommodate two on a single berth and still some curled up on the floor of the passage and corridor with their
knees tucked inside their stomachs. Most of them were headed for Allahabad where one of the biggest spiritual events on earth was to take place---The Maha-Kumbh Mela. It takes place once every 12 years, drawing some 10 million pilgrims and holy men from all over the country of India.

I yawned and closed the Bengali novel I had been reading in the feeble light of the electric lamps to drive away sleep. But there was no place to recline for a nap. So I looked at the only other person still awake in the coach. He was a sadhu, sitting calmly on the corridor just to my left. He was a middle-aged man with a lean body, a light skin and a face older than his
age. His beard was dark and long and so was his hair that was neatly coiled
like a serpent on top of his head and tied with a string of beads. He wore a
piece of saffron cloth around his waist which crossed his knees like a frock
and another piece was thrown over his bare body in the fashion of a towel. A long chain of rudraksha-beads hung from his neck that rested on a book of religious scriptures he had been stooping over to read.

It was only an hour after midnight and a long night still threatened to pull down my heavy eyelids. Yet there was only one thing I could do to stop
myself from tumbling over the other passengers---draw the holy man into a
tete-tete. But sadhus live a spiritual existence and share no common
interest with worldly people like me whom they generally try to avoid. Most
of them come to renounce this world after being stung by some painful
tragedy in life or some unfortunate incident that had robbed them of the
very aim and purpose of their lives. When a man has no one waiting for his
love and compassion, no one to bestow on the sweet fruits of his labours and no promises to keep, the meaning of life changes irrevocably and he becomes a sadhu in pursuit of the ultimate truth--God.

       "Babaji," I said after much hesitation, "I am going to Kumbh. But I am a lesser mortal trapped in the quagmire of ignorance, greed, lust and envy;
can I hope to hear a few words of knowledge from your pious lips?"
     The sadhu raised his head slowly, looked at me with his piercing eyes and when he was sure I wasn't jesting, a stiff indecisive smile appeared between his drooping moustache and his copious beard.
     "My son," he commenced in a soft voice, "perhaps the two most precious gifts from God to Mankind are silence and loneliness. No wonder, it is only when a man is alone amidst the peace and serenity of nature that he is closest to the Almighty. And it is only then that his mind grasps the unique beauty and mind-boggling diversity of nature on our planet and endeavours to appreciate the power of God.

"Man, being himself the most wonderful product of nature, cannot live detached from it. However, it is only when one becomes sad and is all by himself that he can find time to stand and stare at the uniqueness of the earth, the moon and the sun and everything else which points towards the majestic hand of that Grand Creator called God.

"Aloofness and tranquility help your mind to get detached from the humdrum of your hectic life, your unending duties and desires and float freely into the domain of imagination. Then you get to ponder over yourself, your own very existence or may be your triviality against the backdrop of the huge earth, the solar system, the limitless universe and the endless space in which all float. It isn't surprising that all the great ideas of man emerged
only in times of his aloofness and the concomitant placidity of mind, be it
Newton's Laws of Gravity, the Principle of Archimedes or Darwin's theory of the Origin of Species. Moreover, when Man thus finally starts to think
great, he grows wise and comes to understand the great truth that his
self-esteem, his ego, his riches, his victories and failures have no place
whatsoever in God's scheme of things. In His kingdom of eternal time and
limitless space the existence and the pride of the humanity are but
dismissed with a whiff of indifference.

"However, Man is thoroughly indebted to the Almighty for the simple reason that he has been endowed with a mind sophisticated enough to comprehend it. And perhaps that is why he toils incessantly to unravel the mysteries of the origin of the Universe and his own self as well.

"Nevertheless, God speaks to you through the moaning of the wind blowing across the woods, the resonant murmur of brooks gliding down their pebbly course through the mountains and the humming of bees fleeting over the racemes of redolent wild flowers. He never fails to show you your place in the cradle of Nature.

"It isn't astonishing then that when you are confused and your mind is
agitated or sulky, the mountains beckon you and the seas draw you towards their timeless shores. At every step He reminds you that you are inseparable from Mother Nature and warns you against riding on your misplaced pride and arrogance to establish a separate identity away from the vivid colours of flowers, the songs of birds, the swashing of the seas and the pristine
silence of the woods. But unfortunately, the naive and the foolhardy, of
whom there is no dearth in this world, always miss the point time and again.
Fuddled with the ill-conceived notion that Science has the power to do and
explain anything and everything on the face of the earth, they brashly
dismiss the idea of God, forgetting the simple truth that science itself is
nothing but Man's endeavour to understand God and his mysterious ways.
Although, armed with the power of science, Man has been able to carve out for Himself the most favourable niche on earth by subjugating or destroying all other life-forms and has also succeeded in protecting Himself to a great
extent from the vagaries of nature. But still the catastrophes like earthquakes, cyclones, floods and droughts remain outside the manipulating
power of humanity. Moreover, has science yet succeeded in building a single living cell?

"The crux of the problem lies in the unfortunate situation today where the atheists have become the self-appointed godfathers of the scientific
community and these arrogant people, because of their invincible ignorance
about life and the unique conditions that made it possible to evolve on this
planet, have been systematically driving Mankind towards its own extinction
by using their half-baked infantile knowledge of science in destroying our
eco-system and natural habitat which took millions and millions of years to
take shape. Isn't it then pretty amusing to hear Man speak about his future
with such confidence and arrogance when even the mighty Dinosaurs could
become extinct after having roamed the globe for a time 70 times longer than Man has been around so far?

"Nevertheless, dazzled by the innumerable material benefits of science and the unforeseen comforts it has made available to man, he more often than not gets himself into thinking that he is the supreme intelligent being in the universe. But the moment he tries to unravel the mysteries surrounding the gigantic events unfolding in the skies every moment, he is faced with
problems the solutions to which are perhaps beyond the cognizance of the
human brain. Naturally, that is precisely the amusing situation when you
wonder what is awareness and how your brain thinks what you wish to think. Perhaps you shall never find out the truth because in understanding your brain the creation is trying to understand its Creator.

"Nothing, however, affects a man more drastically than a personal tragedy. It even metamorphoses the scientific man into the philosophical man. It reminds him of the limitations of his powers when dealing with the inevitable and the foreordained path of nature.

"The point is that the arguments in support of the existence of some supreme power are far too strong and overwhelming to be dismissed with the present level of man's knowledge and intelligence. True, God just cannot stop you from building or using an Atom-Bomb or say, step in to save the world's poor from hunger, pain and injustice. But He has certainly given you a brain superior from that of all other animals and sophisticated enough to foresee and understand the situations which apparently make you to lose faith in Him are but the direct consequences of mankind's grave indifference and dispassion for the eternal forces of nature.

"Quiet contemplation can even turn the hardcore atheist into a believer. If you have the time and disposition to stand and watch a chick hatch or a
caterpillar withdraw into its cocoon and emerge a butterfly or a bird build
its nest or a cat shifting its kittens to safety by the scuffs of their necks, you can no longer ignore the concept of God---the supreme driving force that ensures the harmonious coexistence of each one of the tremendous variety of life forms including the meekest and dumbest of nature's creatures.

"With the advancement of science and the break-neck pace of technological development, man today is in a position to look deeper and deeper into his own body as well as into the mysterious depths of the universe. Ironically, however, the nearer he gets towards understanding the complexities involved in either case, the further he finds himself from the truth and his ultimate goal! The ancient Hindu religious texts rightly say that while knowledge increases by arithmetical progression, ignorance simultaneously increases by geometrical progression.

"Whereas this by no means should be construed as an argument to stifle the indomitable curiosity and inquisitiveness so inherent in man, it must though convince man to proceed towards enlightenment both without forgetting his humble roots in nature and without a prejudiced mind that rejects the Supernatural--the mother of anything and everything natural.

"The great Indian Epics of Ramayana and Mahabharata and the ancient books of wisdom like The Upanishads and The Puranas have been stressing this approach in Man's quest for knowledge. Isn't it astonishing that scientists today are confirming the same old truths which the ancient religious scriptures of the Hindus had written about nearly five thousand years ago? Don't you get the vivid descriptions of flying-chariots, sound-seeking and fire-spitting arrows in The Ramayana and that of the telescope in The Mahabharata? And in The Mahabharata, Sri Krishna--The Lord and Charioteer tells Arjuna that there are millions and millions of solar-systems in every hair of his body. Today, it is known that every atom is a miniature solar-system while astronomers say that there are numerous solar-systems like our own in the Universe.

"You can hear God, you can feel God and you can even see God every time, everywhere once the understanding seeps into your consciousness that everything in this Universe has been created from nothing and shall ultimately dissolve into nothing, which is called 'Parambrahma'."

The shrill cry of a hungry child shattered the quiet and interrupted the
discourse. It roused the passengers who began to move up and down the
corridor to the toilet and that ended the peaceful ambiance of our profound
discussion.

"Baba," I said, "you have taught me a great deal today; I would have been so happy if you were a teacher."

"I had been a Lecturer of Physics for 12 years," he said before a deep long yawn.

I looked at him now with great awe and veneration. "Indeed! Philosophy begins where Science ends," I mused.

There was a man who returned from the war and looked at himself in the mirror. What he saw there was murder, mayhem, mindless violence. He saw the memories of what happened "over there," but they didnt stay "over there." They returned with him on the transport across the Atlantic Ocean. They followed him home. And these memories, these visions, assaulted him every night in his dreams, allowing him no rest.

It's quiet. Minutes ago this street was almost bustling, but now, quiet. Weird. A van pulls around the corner. It's shitty and old, just like all of the Iraqi cars. A white van with no markings except for dirt and grime turns slowly around the corner of the next block, about 60 meters from where we are. It straightens out coming toward us and guns the engine, the driver floors the accelerator and directs the old shitbox directly toward our position. I can see his face. He's young, around my age, no more than twenty years old. And then the shooting begins.

I turn ninety degrees to my right and I can see barrels sticking out of windows. Why the fuck did we stop here? We're sitting ducks as insurgents shoot down at us with AK-47s; laying cover fire for the suicide bomber in the van to drive his payload directly into our convoy.

I try to yell out a warning, but there is no time, the attack is orchestrated perfectly, and we're caught off guard. The van strikes our head vehicle and explodes. I watch it like it's in slow motion. The van hits the Hummer head on, the grill and engine block on the van crumples, the driver of the van cracks his head on the steering wheel just as the back of the van explodes into a ball of fire, sending shrapnel flying directly into our unit. The insurgents are still shooting at us as I feel myself being hurled into the street by the explosion. My ears begin to ring, and the last thing that I remember is the worst pain I've ever felt in my life. I look down and see a jagged piece of metal sticking out of my right side, just below my lungs.

The same dream every night, without any variation. When he slept he was afraid because he knew that the dream would come, and he knew that he couldn't change what happened. He had to relive the moment every night, in his sleep.

He woke up every morning, sweaty and cold from a night dominated by that one moment, that one dream that gave him little rest. The news was always on; he wanted to know what was happening to his fellow soldiers, the brothers he'd left behind to fight without him. He would look at the faces around him, at the bank, at the supermarket, at the gas station buying fuel sold to us by our enemies; the faces looked back at him but didn't really see him. They saw him as he saw his own face in the mirror, a reflection with nothing behind it.

But he hadn't always been this way. He was young once, with dreams and potential. He wanted to play baseball or, if that didn't work out, football. He was athletic, he was never the smartest kid in his class, but he also was never the slowest either. Normal, average, ordinary, but that's not to say he couldn't have done anything he wanted to. His father had instilled in him the kind of work ethic that makes Amish mouths fall open in disbelief, which is why he mowed lawns, delivered papers, and bagged groceries to make extra money as a kid. "Industriousness is a virtue," that's what his father liked to say, "those that work harder get ahead, and the lazy ones are the ones who fall behind". So he worked hard and when he graduated from high school he could think of nothing better than to join the army and serve his country.

The drinking. When he went to Fort Bragg in North Carolina he was a child, eighteen years old. He had his first drink of alcohol with his brothers in the canteen on base. A shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer, kid. You're in the army now; it's time you started acting like it. He loved the camaraderie, he loved hearing the stories that the officers told about past conflicts, past battles. He loved the way he felt in the canteen, exhausted from training hard for war, relaxing with men that he would go to war with, men who would tell stories about him one day or men he would tell stories about. Drinking was an affirmation back then, he would drink and listen to the stories and imagine what war would be like. That was before he went "over there".

It was not as romantic as he had envisioned. There was carnage and death everywhere. The exaggerated stories told around bottles of Budweiser and shots of Jack Daniels did not prepare him for the reality that he experienced. Everyone was an enemy, women, kids, old folks; they were all suspects, monsters to be feared. And so he started drinking more, every night. Drinking helped him forget, he could get drunk and escape the terror and the danger, the fear of the job, get drunk and sleep without dreams. But that was "over there," here he could not drink enough to get rid of the dreams, not that he didn't try.

Every day was a fog, without direction. He did what seemed necessary: go to the bank, to the supermarket, to the V.A. office, talk to fellow soldiers, come home and drink alone.

The only real job he'd ever had was as a soldier. When he was younger he used to cut his neighbors' grass and shovel their driveways in winter, but he couldn't live off of that. Jobs would come and go. He worked in factories, in stockyards, driving around making deliveries, he even tried construction at one point, but they all ended the same way, he would get fired for fighting with his boss or his coworkers, he would disappear for hours at a time, or he just wouldn't show up at all. He was unfit for the job market, he'd heard it was called PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder, the vets from Korea at the V.A. office called it shell-shock, but it didn't matter what it was called, he was unhirable, and so he was unemployed.

He was forgotten by the very people he fought for, neglected by the ones who sent him "over there." He talked to a paper pusher at the V.A. office who very politely told him that he did not qualify for a disability pension, and they questioned whether he had actually seen any action in Iraq at all. When he told them that he was part of the Fourth Infantry Division, the division that led the fucking invasion of Baghdad, the paper pusher asked him to quiet down. When he took his shirt off to show the paper pusher the five inch long scar down his ribcage, he was asked to leave the paper pusher's office. Abandoned, he was left to fend for himself.

The eviction notice came two months later. He packed what hadn't already been sold into his Jeep and took one last look at his face in the mirror, one last look at the shell, at the man who had once been a boy with dreams, who had become a man with nothing but nightmares. A man with nothing.

He got fifty dollars for his war medals, mainly for the little amount of gold and silver within them. The pawnshop owner liked the gold star best and asked him to tell the story behind it. He politely told the owner he'd rather not tell that story, that it wasn't that good any way, and asked where the nearest liquor store was. His dress uniform and his fatigues he sold to a collector he'd met at the V.A. office, an asshole named Anderson who liked to reenact the Civil War on weekends, who visited the V.A. office to hear stories from the vets and buy the uniforms they bled in for his collection. Anderson had American uniforms going back to the Revolutionary War and paid him $500 for the whole get up, including shoes and socks. He wondered if Anderson had a room full of mannequins wearing the uniforms, a room full of life sized G.I. Joes.

When he sold the last things that identified him as a soldier he was surprised at how much his stuff was worth to other people. He lived for a month off of that money. For a month he drank and slept, and sometimes he slept without dreaming, but the dream always returned in the end. He didn't think of himself as a soldier anymore because he no longer went to visit other vets at the V.A. office after that day he talked to the paper pusher, he didn't think of himself as a soldier because he no longer looked like a soldier without his uniform or fatigues.

And he drove around looking for menial jobs, handy-man jobs, field hand jobs and alcohol until his car broke down, and he decided he didn't care if it ever ran again. He walked after that, and he began begging for change and living on the street. Under overpasses, in alley ways, hidden back in wooded vacant lots, squatting in abandoned homes, sometimes in shelters run by the church. That was where he lived.

That's where he lives now, and that's where he'll die. The world goes on around him, and the war he fought continues. But he is forgotten; he no longer looks like a soldier because he sold his medals, fatigues, and dress uniform for booze. He looks like what he is: a shell, a ghost haunted by his own experiences and memories.

We walk past him and look away without making eye contact. We try not to see that he is even there at all, and he stares back at us because he doesn't see us either. When he first started living on the streets he was angry, all he could see in the faces of the people that walked past was money, clothes, cars, furniture, Starbucks, sex, houses, decadence, and materialism; the things that he fought and others died for. Now he just sees ghosts, walking shades that he looks through and past, he sees nothing at all. America.

Charlie woke in his cluttered bedroom, and decided he'd like to re-read all the wonderful books he'd read as a boy.

Stacks and shelves of paperbacks, hard covers, and classics stuffed his small apartment, confirming his love of books. Rose, his ex-wife, called it an addiction. To Charlie it was "love," a word she never used in their book-littered bedroom she called a "pig sty!"

Charlie, on page 237 of Victor Hugo's, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, muttered: "Could we talk later? I'd like to finish..."

Rose threatened divorce many times in their twenty-year marriage. Then one weekend, while Charlie's nose and thick glasses were deep in Shakespeares "Richard III," she left without a word. She took suitcases, silverware, bankbooks, and her collection of salt-and-pepper shakers. Removing the collection, the latest copy of TV Guide, and their cell phone and charger indicated she wasn't coming back, confirmed hours later after Charlie finished "Richard III" and found Rose's farewell note, in that order.

That was four years ago. Now retired a month, Charlie was no longer head bookkeeper of the town's paper mill. Forty-three years was enough.

It was a beautiful day, clear and warm, the way Charlie liked mornings. His long bout--the doctor said it bordered on pneumonia--was suddenly gone; his cough, too, and his chest no longer hurt, or rattled.

He put on his best suit and tie, and donned his bowler hat, but left his cane by the front door. A hip begged for surgery, "Thank God it doesn't hurt today," he said. "Feels great!"

He wished he still had his old dog to walk. Rose's allergies had long ago sent "Hugo," his beloved golden retriever, named after author Victor Hugo, to the pound where he died a week later.

Charlie decided to walk downtown to the big-chain bookstore. The exercise might reduce his growing paunch. It was only ten blocks. He felt so good he almost bounced. He whistled, too, something Rose hated. In no hurry, he took a shortcut through a side street.

The small frame building, squeezed between two office buildings, was in a block Charlie hadn't walked in months. He thought he knew where every store was in town--especially bookstores.

"Never felt better. I don't remember seeing your shop before. How long has it been here?"

"Glad I found you." Charlie's eyes searched the long shelves, then turned to the proprietor. "Been thinking about re-reading all my childhood favorites. Do you have a copy of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn? I'd love to..."

Charlie stopped in mid-sentence. "Well, I'll be. It's right in front of me here on the counter. What a coincidence."

"Yes, it is." The squat shopkeeper came with a pixie smile, wire-rimmed glasses, and a round head ringed with white fuzz. He wore a bow tie, multi-pocket vest, and sleeve garters like Charlie's grandfather used to wear.

"The very book I wanted."
Charlie read it in one day. "Now, I'd like to read Tom Sawyer," he told himself. The bell above the shop door signaled his return.

"Anyone reading Huckleberry Finn and returning a day later, smiling...must want to read Tom Sawyer."

Charlie took the book home and laughed and cried with Tom, Huck, Jim, Becky Thatcher and Aunt Polly. A reading hunger always gnawed at his stomach. "Now," he told himself, "I'd like to re-read all the adventure books I had as a kid: Last of The Mohicans, The Rover Boys, Swiss Family Robinson, Call of The Wild, Kidnapped, and Treasure Island."

"Last of The Mohicans is on the shelf behind you," said the shopkeeper when Charlie returned. "It's been waiting just for you."

The proprietor gestured toward an adjacent shelf containing The Rover Boys, Swiss Family Robinson, Call of The Wild, Kidnapped, and Treasure Island.

The man patted a thick volume of Sherlock Holmes: "Elementary, my dear boy. Elementary." He released a cherubic smile. "See anything else youd like?"

The overflowing shelves contained Charlies favorite authors: Shakespeare, De Maupassant, O. Henry, Jack London, John Steinbeck, and more.

"Incredible," chuckled Charlie. "I never knew your bookstore existed until days ago, and I've lived here for years. Your shelves contain every book I've ever read."

He caressed the volumes, and stopped on Daniel Defoe's, Robinson Crusoe. "Looks just like the copy I had when I was a kid." He opened it and gasped: "My name and age are on the flyleaf. This was my book! Mom gave it to me on my tenth birthday. How did it get here? Unbelievable."

Charlie smiled and shook a finger at the bookseller. "Did the guys at the mill put you up to this? Those jokesters would love to..."

The shopkeeper interrupted and gestured toward the rows of bookcases. "These books are yours, Charlie. Every one. Read by you and locked in your 64-year-old memory."

"Where did all these come from? They weren't here minutes ago." Charlie searched the titles. "These are all the books I've ever wanted to read."

Charlie's hand delicately brushed the titles: "The complete works of Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, John Steinbeck, James Michener, Faulkner, London, Thackeray, Hugo, Dickens, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Melville...all here; and biographies, philosophers, the great plays, too. And history: the Civil War, the World Wars, Lewis and Clark, the great explorers, and David Lavender's Bents Fort. All his books on the American West I never had time to read."

"I'm retired," grumbled Charlie. "But still have things to do. Can't just sit around all day and..."

"Remember the first morning you walked in here? Didn't need your cane. Said you'd never felt better."

Gabriel touched Charlies coat sleeve. "I'm here to help you transfer to a mystical world of untold beauty behind a door you've wondered and heard about all your life."

"And that you'll now have all eternity to read all the books you've ever wanted to read."

A Golden Retriever dog, tied to a lamppost, quietly sat staring at the shop entrance. Then it saw Charlie, wagged its tail, frantically tugged at its leash, pawed the air, and barked loudly.

Gabriel smiled his broadest smile. "And so are you, Charlie. You died two weeks ago in your sleep."

"-- a twilight existence at best," the doctor is saying. "But at least it is a life."

"Life is hope," the doctor tells her. "Here they think; they make decisions. But not on the level they once knew."

"There isn't much to heal. We can't regrow a brain. Your mother is lucky to be alive at all. Surely you must know that. It was a terrible accident."

The doctor gives them each a long look. "I am trying to tell you. She is conscious. She experiences life in Sim. If she is a good subject, she will live many years. She may even link into the nerve nets, strengthen her grasp -- grow stronger. But she will never be able to reach outside. There is not enough left."

"For how long?" Mack demands in her incisive way. "How long can she live in Sim?"

"The things I like most is Xmas. And birthday cakes and rideing my bike. And playing Monapoly with my best frend --"

The pencil stopped moving. Slowly Laura closed the red leather diary. She clicked the latch where a tiny key was supposed to go, only she had left the key at home. She fiddled with the little metal pencil.

The spring sunshine made her mother's flowers glow, floating above tiers and shades of green where butterflies passed and bees hummed. April seemed to go on forever, though she knew it would yield to May and then June. School would be out and the summer would be, as all summers were, a ritual of joy.

She heard the back door slam and someone came running up the path. Laura rose, clutching her diary.

"Just got back from the store," Robby panted. "My dad was buying seeds and things." He came to a stop just short of the tulip bed. "Come and see what we got! Asparagus roots. They look like spiders." He glanced at the book she held. "That your diary?"

Laura nodded. "I was writing happy things," she said. "I wanted to think about things I like."

"I like Saturdays," Robby told her. "And ice cream." He looked up at her. "Why did you need to write happy things? I mean today?"

"We've been friends since, well, all our lives." Laura didn't know why she couldn't say since first grade. Maybe it was because she couldn't remember first grade. She had no memory of Christine small; Christine was always a freckled twelve year old, her hair as red as carrots, curled and stiff with a green hair band.

Laura followed Robby into the house and put her diary away. She could hear the whir of Mother's sewing machine in the library.

"I had a dream last night," Robby said as they skipped down the sidewalk, missing the cracks. "I dreamed about my grandfather."

"I didn't know about that one," Laura said. "I thought the other one lived on a farm."

"I know." Robby shook his head as though he needed to shake something loose. "But this was a dream. So he was in his office."

"Oh something boring. But it seemed interesting to me in the dream. I can't remember now except that I was typing. My fingers were moving and I could see words."

"Well it was, sort of. But he was me." He gave a little laugh. "Maybe it is me when I grow up."

They turned in at Robby's gate. Laura felt a chill as she stepped up onto the porch.

"What are you going to be when you grow up?" Robby asked her suddenly. "Do you know?"

Their letters said 3:30 but of course they had to wait. Outside the day was darkening, the arctic cold closing in. Jamie fingered the heater control in the pocket of her opened parka. She would need it when they left the building. Beside her, Mack was staring straight ahead.

Doctor Bain rose as they came in, her eyes as intense as always, her cropped hair combed sleekly back. "Jamie," she said. "Mack." She always remembered their names. "Please sit down."

Jamie found she was crumpling her letter. In the oppressive silence, it was she who spoke first.

The doctor looked up, her eyes warming as though someone had turned on a switch. "I'm sorry, Jamie," she said. "It means exactly what it says. Your mother is failing."

"Who can say? There was more damage than we thought and she is not going to be able to hold on at this level much longer. There is no use going on."

"I've heard when they reach this point," Mack said slowly, "there are other levels. Infancy, early childhood. You can keep her going longer, use less energy."

The doctor looked down. "Those options are still in the early stages of development. Only one of the patients in your mother's group has been transferred so far -- at her family's request. Normally this alternative is offered to a different sort of subject."

This time the doctor winced and stopped smiling. "It wouldn't be in your mother's best interests."

"She would have put that in her will," Mack said flatly. "If she wanted us to kill her."

"We don't know what she anticipated," Mack snapped. "That's the point. She lives. She makes choices. She reasons."

"What," Jamie broke in hesitantly, "else can we do? If we don't sign for termination, I mean?"

"I told you." Bain stood up. "You can opt for experimental treatment. You are her guardians."

Bracing themselves, they stepped out into the night where the cold wind met them and the frozen stars looked down.

It seemed as though school days flew by. One minute she was stepping out the door, bookbag in one hand and a bunch of tulips in the other -- and then the final bell had rung and Mother would be waiting with cookies and milk. Laura would tell her about the day, piling detail upon detail, laughing with her mother at the antics of the hamsters they kept in the classroom, eagerly reminding Mother about spring open house day and the field trip coming up.

But Christine's absence left a dark place in the story, a vacancy where shadows moved.

"Would you like to write to her?" Mother asked. "You could use the stationary you got for your birthday."

Laura thought of the lavender sheets, violets bunched at the top. There had been twelve candles on her cake and she had opened presents. Every birthday was the same.

"Of course she would, dear." Her mother took the empty glass and plate from the table. "I will address the envelope for you."

Laura settled herself on the chair. Behind her, Mother was peeling potatoes and putting things in pots. A roast was already cooking.

Slowly Laura wrote the story of the days that had passed. She wrote things and she remembered them and they were so. She wondered what Christine would write back. Would there be a letter full of days? The days of Christine? Or would they only be days, days of no one?

"I will put in a flower," she said. She went out into the garden. The tulips were too fat for the envelope and so were the irises, so she took a few petals from an early peony. The afternoon sun gilded the leaves and the quickening earth gleamed like chocolate.

Later, she was soothed by the evening ritual her father's return, his newspaper and his pipe, dinner and a quiet hour cutting paper dolls while her parents watched television. She was safe at the dining room table with the sounds of music and laughter coming from the set, a smell of popcorn, a rustle of paper. Outside the night was full of springtime: frogs croaked, an occasional car crept down the street, a dog barked. Her letter was finished and she would mail it tomorrow.

Her mother kissed her good night. "I think," she said, "you are a little warm. I hope you are not coming down with something."

Laura snuggled into the pillow. She was too old for a teddy bear but she always kissed her mother goodnight. She slept.

All night Laura wandered in springtime gardens, sailed story book seas, and played with Christine. "I know this is a dream," she kept repeating. "It must be a dream. You're gone moved away."

"Stop it!" Laura cried. "Stop " But she did not know what she meant. Stop shrinking? Is that what Christine had done? Had she shrunk away?

But Christine only smiled, her reaching hand unraveling in the moonlight, her hair moving slightly in the breeze.

"Stop," Laura said again, but this time in a whisper. She crouched down herself, hands on the earth as the stars wheeled above, drawing her helplessly to a place where cookies were ashes, dolls bits of paper, mothers and fathers no more than the sound of the television playing in another room.

She woke, whimpering in the dark, and Mother was there, soothing her until she slept again.

"Social misfits, criminals," the doctor was saying. "But they are only children, of course. Some of them are even real children who can go no higher. They haven't the experience to create much of a world."

"At that level there is very little interaction," the doctor said. "But everything will be a collective reality."

The doctor glanced at a holo on the wall. It was a jungle scene, counterbalancing the ice age in which they lived. "Yes. This is a very complicated technology," she said. "The brain itself is built into the interface, though the body lives on as well as it can with the help of machinery. But there has to be something to build with. I mean, the brain has to function at some level. We can't just have a flat line, you know."

"Only if that has been ordered by the court. It is an alternative to the death penalty."

"It depends on the early memories of those involved. Someone like your mother could have more influence than, for example, a child who had never lived a full life, or someone whose mental growth had been stunted. But how she would interact with criminals, I don't know."

"She could still have a fairly decent existence," Mack said, but she looked doubtful.

"She could for the time she has left." Bain looked up at them once more. "Or," she added bluntly, "it might be a living hell. We just don't know."

Laura gazed in wonder at the ripening apples. Standing on her tiptoes, she set her teddy bear in the cleft where two big branches grew out. Birds sang and she could smell roses -- and garbage. To the right a high hedge grew, deep and mysterious.

"Come in now," Mother called. "Grandma and Grandpa are here and we are going to have your cake."

Forgetting her bear, Laura turned and ran back to the house. It was her birthday. Daddy was home and everyone sang.

They gave her presents. But later, she could not remember unwrapping them or eating the cake. She could not remember saying thank you and goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa.

The days jumped ahead and she was playing once more by the apple tree when a little girl looked in from the alley. She had red hair and freckles and her mother was holding her hand. "Hi, Laura," she said.

Christine looked up at her mother who said, "Christine can stay until lunchtime." It seemed a victory to Laura, something monumental. A piece of the world fell back into place.

They played house beneath the hedge and a stick scratched Laura. She licked off the blood.

Later it was autumn and the girls played in the leaves and Thanksgiving came. There were children in the alley and not all of them were nice. Once a little boy threw rocks. Some little girls fought together and said bad words. Laura watched and listened, her eyes narrowed, wondering.

Christmas came and the strange children threw snowballs. Daddy helped Laura and Christine make a snowman. Laura's face was thoughtful as she fingered the snow and watched a few flakes falling from the leaden sky. Her coat was nor warm enough.

"But when I'm bigger," she said, "It will be different. I will make it different."

Christine's birthday came and she was four. Laura and her mother bought her a coloring book and wrapped it up with white paper and a pink ribbon. They took it to her house.

Now there were even more children in the alley, staring over the fence. No one seemed to be minding them, though sometimes a mother would come and snatch a child away. Those mothers were not like Laura's mother.

In April there was a storm. Rain and hail dashed the flowers to the ground. After that it was chilly outside. Mother was busy more often these days and Daddy did not always smile when he came home from work. The little boy who threw rocks sometimes came into the yard -- and once a strange girl hit Laura with a stick.

Summer came. There were still flowers and butterflies but the bees stung and Laura no longer played under the hedge.

Laura thought about this, feeling the power grow in her, and shook her head. "No," she said after a moment. "I will not be four."

"I will be five," Laura said. Her eyes flashed a sudden challenge to the garden and the hedge, to the alley and to the child beside her. "I think," she said, reaching out into the roots of the world, "I will keep getting bigger until I am twelve." She did not say "again". But it was a number she knew. It meant something.

Slowly she turned, challenging the flowers and the apple tree, the fence and the house. "When I am twelve, I will teach the children in the alley not to throw rocks. I will take care of them because no one loves them."

"It isn't," the doctor said, "regrowth. But she is using the interface much more efficiently."

"Then there is hope?" Jamie tore at a loose fingernail, realized what she was doing, and stopped.

Bain shook her head. "Hope for what? It is a last expenditure of energy, a flare up before the end."

Mack raised one eyebrow. "You really don't know what is going on, do you?" she said. "You have no idea how things will turn out."

Jamie leaned forward. "She is using the interface. Making it part of herself. Isn't that it?"

GHOSTS OF CIENFUEGOS

by Susan Coppola

The ambulance flew up Twelfth Avenue. Its siren scream hung in the humid night air like a wet towel on a shower rod. With lights flashing, the florescent yellow Miami Dade Fire Rescue truck pulled up to the entrance of the Ryder Trauma Center. Outside, taking a breather from a hectic night shift, I looked up at the moon rising on the eastern horizon. Thoughts of my father and Cuba filled my mind like a mushroom after the rain. I pictured people strolling along the Malecon in Havana making secret wishes to the glowing golden orb, only ninety miles, but worlds away. Watching as the EMTs unloaded the gurney and pushed it through the automatic doors, I followed them inside.

"Thanks. Ill take him." I grabbed the clipboard, looked for the patient's name.

"Mr. Sanchez, I'm Dr. Maria Benitez. I'll be taking care of you. Where do you hurt?"

The man's face, ruddy brown like fine tobacco, looked pinched with pain. His body swathed in white sheeting, an IV line trailed from his hand to a clear bag at his side.

"Oh . . .All over. Please help me. I'm in a lot of pain." He said in Spanish.

"Si, mi amor, un momentico mas." I turned to an intern. "Carlos, take him up now, give him two ccs of morphine after his CAT scan."

I was turning away when something caught my eye; on his upper arm was a tattoo of the Cuban flag, the words "Brigada 2506 Nunca Olvidese" underneath. I scanned the pre-admission record and found his date of birth: 4/12/35, Place of birth Cienfuegos, Cuba. Making a mental note to visit Mr. Sanchez after he was admitted upstairs, I finished my shift a few hours later, headed home and called my mother.

"Hi, Mami. Just got home, I'm so tired, going straight to bed but I have a quick question." Setting my keys on the counter, I rubbed my neck, kicked off my shoes where I stood. I'd lived alone since med school. One failed engagement was enough for my already wounded heart. It was my mother's one unspoken disappointment in me, no husband, more important, no family.

"Si, mi cielo. What is it?" Her voice as sweet and warm as cafe con leche.

"Did Papi know a man named Raul Sanchez?"

My mother paused. "Raul Sanchez, such a common name, I don't know. I might know him, where's he from?" Her tone was evasive.

"His pre-admit said he was born in Cienfuegos like Papi, about the same age, too. He was brought in tonight. Hit by a car on Eighth Street. Had a tattoo with Brigade 2506 Never Forget on his arm." Portable phone in hand, I stood at my sliding glass door scanning the electric skyline view from my newly purchased condo.

"Yeah, maybe I have heard of him. Perhaps he was with your father at the Bay of Pigs." Her voice trailed off like a hiker unsure of the right path.

Just the mention of the name made me wince, the saddest moment in our bittersweet legacy as exiles. I remember the sepia toned photos of my father and his comrades looking Elvis Presley handsome in their silver frames atop our television. Lost count of how many times I heard him say, we came so close, if only we'd had a little help-- we would have made it, a free Cuba.

"God, it never goes away, does it?" I said.

"What do you mean? Why do you say that?" I heard the anger rising in my mother's voice.

"Because it was always the same sad song. I loved Papi very much, but sometimes it just seemed like loving Cuba was more important than loving us."

My mother snapped, "You know that's not true. He loved us very much."

"I know, you're right, I know, I'm sorry. Por favor, let's change the subject."

My mother wavered, let it pass. "So, how is this, Mr. Sanchez? Was he badly hurt?" she asked.

"Yeah, very bad, broke his leg and some back injuries. I'm going up to visit him tomorrow. Talk with him about Papi."

My mother's response surprised me. "Why do you want to talk to him?" Her voice was agitated, had been since I mentioned Raul Sanchez's name.

"I'm not sure. Just curious, see what he remembers." I sat back at the counter, thumbing through forgotten mail.

"Why stir up bad memories? Remember, hija, be careful what you wish for." She was starting to annoy me. I cut her off.

"Mami, por favor, I'm tired. I don't want to fight with you. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Hasta luego. Te quiero."

"Si, si, hasta luego. Good night, te quiero."

I hung up the phone feeling drained and empty like a soup bowl in a homeless shelter. My mother and I always disagreed when it came to my father's death. She accepted the story Metro Dade Police told her. He was killed, execution style, by Castro's terrorists. Case closed. Not for me. I wanted more. I wanted a name and a face to go with the hand shooting a gun out a car window. I wanted justice.

After my father's release from Castro's prison in '62 and joyous return to Miami, he and my mother worked and saved, eventually bought a small house in Little Havana. They dreamed of the day they would return to a free homeland. That day was not to be.

Coming home from the bakery early one January morning in '78, he was gunned down in front of our house. The white bakery box filled with guava pastries landing in the roadway like a misplaced gift. I was seventeen and just getting up for school when I heard the shots, ran outside and saw him. I remember screaming over his prone body, being led away. Within minutes, cops, paramedics and nosey bystanders filled the street. Shot four times in the back, my father died instantly. The police suspected his killing was linked to anti-Castro activities, but no one was ever arrested. In my grief and shock, I retreated from the world. There was no sense to be made of an unsolved murder, but school made sense. There were always answers at school. I studied hard, became a doctor. If I couldn't save my father or his beloved Cuba, I would save someone else.

The next morning I pulled into the parking garage, unanswered questions circling in my mind like planes in crowded airspace. I didn't get to visit Mr. Sanchez until late in the afternoon when the emergency room finally quieted down.

"Francisco, I'll be up on six west. Page me, if you need me." I said to the head nurse on duty. I took the elevator up, found him alone when I entered his room.

"Senor Sanchez. How are you feeling? A little better?" I asked in Spanish.

"Yes, a little. Thank you." The man's eyes looked tired and sleepy, his pain relieved.

"Mr. Sanchez, I told you my name was Maria Benitez, but I didn't tell you my father was Osvaldo Leon Benitez."

At the mention of my father's name, Raul Sanchez lowered his head.

"Ay, lo siento. Your father was a brave man. He loved Cuba very much . . ." His words trailed off.

"I know he did and I loved him very much. Mr. Sanchez, is there anything you can tell me about my father's death? Anything at all?" I asked.

"What has your mother told you?" His leathery tan face wrinkled into a frown, his gray, bushy eyebrows creased in a furrow.

"Only what the police told her. That he was killed by terrorists for Castro." I said.

"And your mother knows you were coming to speak with me?"

"Yes, but she wasn't happy about it. Do you know why?"

"La puerta, por favor." He motioned for me to close the door. I sat back beside his bed, pulling my chair up close to the edge to better hear his frail voice.

"Please try to understand. Your father was a good man with a confused heart. His love for Cuba blinded him to the truth." His eyes, sleepy and sad stared down at the nubby fabric of the blanket, his right index finger tapping the surface.

"I don't understand. What did he do?" The air in the room felt stagnant. I was gulping to catch my breath.

"Got involved with some bad people, Colombians dealing cocaine. He was introducing them to people who would buy their drugs and they were paying him off in guns that were smuggled into Cuba. We tried to tell him he was crazy, but he wouldn't listen. The Colombians got greedy, thought they didn't need your father anymore and killed him." The words hit me with the impact of a bullet.

"If you knew all this why didn't you tell my mother? Why didn't you tell the police?" My anxiety now replaced with anger.

"I did tell your mother." My heart jumped at his words.

"You told my mother? When?"

"We talked right after your father's funeral. She already knew most of it. Figured it out on her own. She begged me to keep quiet for your sake and for your father's memory. What difference would it have made? The Colombians were long gone back to Medellin. So we buried the truth with your father." The room grew quiet, the only sound the beeping of medical machinery. I struggled to compose myself, but failed.

"Oh! Papi, always for Cuba." Speaking to an unseen presence, I put my head down and cried. Raul Sanchez reached out and gently touched my shoulder.

"Ah, lo siento. For some men, Cuba is like a beautiful ghost that haunts their lives. It was your father's curse, but also his greatest gift. Please find it in your heart to forgive him." His fingers picked at the tape holding the IV line on top of his hand, not knowing what to say next in the stilted silence.

"Thank you, Mr. Sanchez. I'm sure I will. It's just so much to take in. I'll need a little time." Wiping tears with the back of my hand, I got up to leave.

"Of course, of course, I just hope the truth will bring you some peace at last . . ." He squeezed my hand, surprised me with the strength of his grip.

"I hope so, too." I leaned over, kissed him on the cheek and left the room. My mother's words, be careful what you wish for, haunting me.

Finishing a long shift, I headed to the parking garage, got on the Dolphin Expressway, reaching my mother's house as the sun rose on the downtown Miami skyline. She was making coffee as I came in the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed Pilon scented the air. I felt a wave of sadness as I looked around the tiny room. Porcelain roosters, Cuban good luck charms, stood in a row on a shelf above the table. My parents' lost dreams of a free Cuba echoing in every corner. I kissed her hello.

"Good morning, mi cielo. This is a nice surprise. Quieres cafecito?" Her smile lighted her face.

"Good Morning, Mami. Yes, por favor." She poured the strong dark liquid into small white espresso cups, set them on the table and sat down. I looked at her face, so beautiful as a young woman, now careworn, but with a kindness still in her amber colored eyes. "I talked to Mr. Sanchez. He told me everything, about Papi and the Columbians? All these years and you knew. Why didn't you tell me?" My voice tinged with the hurt and betrayal I felt.

"You don't know how many times I wanted to, but I thought it'd make you feel worse, not better. I'm so sorry. I was hoping you'd never have to know." Her eyes looked down as if weighted by her shame.

"Well, anyway, you were right. You know, be careful what you wish for? I didn't get justice, but I got the truth." My mother looked at me with a sad smile.

"I know, hija, and what you said about Papi loving Cuba more than us? Hurt me to hear you say it. Sometimes I felt that way too, but I forgave him years ago. I hope you can too."

"Si, Mami, I already have." We sipped our coffee in silence. I touched her hand and made a wish for the day when Cuba would be more than just a ghost.

The slam of that heavy, metal cell door behind me will forever echo in my mind. Suddenly I found myself completely alone for the first time in my life. Because I was a woman, I was placed in an enclosed cell. I could only hear what was around me but could see nothing outside that box. I was the only woman in the county jail, surrounded by 25 men. It seemed like the end of the road but in reality it was the beginning of an amazing journey.

Earlier that day I had prepared meals for hundreds of homeless people at the tornado shelter. Two weeks earlier half of our small Oklahoma town was leveled by a tornado. Luckily, our house was unharmed and I needed to keep busy as my sentencing date was approaching. After lunch I cleaned up and went to the courthouse to hear my fate. The judge sentenced me to six years in prison, followed by three years probation, 500 hours of community service and a $10,000 fine. I was now a convicted felon. My crime was embezzlement of $27,000 from my employer over a period of several years. The money I stole was repaid that day by my husband's family and my retirement fund proceeds. The judge gave me two hours to say goodbye to my family and report to the jail. I went home and packed a few things, enjoyed my final glass of wine and reported to jail. Once there I was photographed, fingerprinted and given an orange jumpsuit to put on. At this point I was given the first of many strip searches and asked to "squat and cough" before a female officer. I was so naive and would've never thought to hide something in a body cavity to sneak it into jail, but it is a common practice. This was my first contact with the law. I was a wife of 24 years with children ages 20, 17 and 10.

I had to be scared to death. I lay on a thin, green mat on a concrete slab, realizing that all hope was gone. In the darkness I listened to the deafening noise and the vilest language I had ever heard. Wondering all the while who these men were and what they had done. Were they as violent and angry as they sounded? I was somehow unable to pray. I knew how but I was somehow numb and frozen with fear; the fear of the unknown life ahead. I simply cried, for the first time in many years, and trembled for the first three days and nights. The men cried out to me but I did not utter a single word. The guards brought me food and drinks and checked on me periodically. They treated me well for the most part.

By the third night, I was missing my family badly and coming to know the feeling of true loneliness. Late that night I made friends with a young man in the cell next to mine. He was only 20 years old and was in there for drugs and the failure to pay fines. He had gone to school with my oldest daughter. I soon learned all of their names and weaknesses. I found them all to be people, just like me, who had made mistakes. Most were there for drug and alcohol crimes, a few for weapon charges or money crimes. In the endless days I began to shame myself for thinking I was better than others and somehow above the law. I never once considered that there would be consequences for my actions.

I was truly in a place where no one could reach me except God. As I began settling into my new surroundings I was able to think, pray, read and sort things out. I read tons of inspirational materials and my Bible and practiced yoga. It was at this time that I received an indescribable sense of peace. It was like a warm hug from a good friend that gave me assurance that it was all going to be okay. It was a peace that remained with

me through my whole journey and is still present today. I believe it to be the result of a "real" personal relationship with God. This peace allowed me to walk on through some real1y hard days. It was not long after I arrived in the county jail that other women began to arrive. At first it was hard to make friends with them. I had actually enjoyed the time alone, the peace and time to heal myself on the inside. It was a preparation time for what was ahead when I would never be alone. There were several women I was with for months and I learned to love them like sisters. One in particular I am still in touch with over five years later.

I spent five months in the county jail. I was transported to prison at five a.m. on a rainy March morning. I will forever remember the evil laugh of the officer who woke me that day. That morning I cried for the first time in months. I wanted to hug my family once more before I left and I had been assured that would be allowed. I should've known they were not that compassionate. Was I still so naive? I was taken to a receiving facility about three hours away. I had only my fashionable orange jumpsuit, a Victoria's Secret bra, white socks and panties, my legal papers and my Bible. I was not allowed to keep the bra and returned it with the officer who had transported me. She was a real jewel. She informed me that she had seen grown men cry when they saw the razor wire. I had read my Bible the entire trip and was completely at peace with what was ahead. Once there, we were sorted into groups and crammed into holding cells. They gave us sack lunches to eat, into which the inmates who prepared them had strategically placed roaches. Needless to say we chose to fast that day. We were stripped and inspected for tattoos and scars. They issued us some new clothes and locked us into two-bunk cells. My roommate was a real nice American Indian girl and we were instant friends. I spent a week at the receiving facility in a pod with about 60 women. We were allowed to shower during recreation time in the evenings but only had hot water every fourth day. I learned a lot there. The girls would flash the male inmates walking by, in exchange for tobacco, which was smuggled in every day. The trustees passed the lighters from cell to cell. Blank pages of the Bibles were used to roll cigarettes. Smoking in the facility was not allowed. While we were there we were weighed and measured. Our vision and teeth were checked. They woke about ten of us in the middle of the night one night to have blood drawn down at the lab. It was no big deal for me. But I had to wait and watch as the poked and prodded some of the girls trying to find a vein they had not blown out while doing IV drugs. I prayed and ached for them, wondering what their lives had been like. I continue to thank God that I was blessed with two good Christian parents. Too many times I have had to call on those verses and songs I learned growing up to keep my sanity.

We were allowed to purchase items from the canteen on about the fifth day. I had $7.46 on the books and chose to buy a hair brush, conditioner, pencils and stamps. I had been using a small plastic comb on my foot-long hair. Nothing felt as good as that conditioner and brush that night. I guess it was at this time I realized the difference between needs and wants. It was a lesson I wished I had learned a few decades earlier. I'd spent years keeping up appearances for my family and myself. I learned finally that its just stuff; we can live so simply and be just as happy.

After a week there about sixteen of us were sorted out to be shipped to a minimum security facility about three hours away. My roommate went with me so I did not feel so alone. Our few belongings were packed in a clear plastic bag and we were shackled and cuffed for transit. When my roommate saw me in shackles she died laughing, citing how I never should be in them. It was interesting and uncomfortable but safe for the drivers. They stopped for pizza on the way and they enjoyed every bite. We enjoyed the aroma, while dreaming of better days. We arrived at our new home at about nine o'clock, were searched and briefed, then issued a mattress, sheets and a pillow to go along with our neat, clear plastic bag. These items were to be carried in one trip about a quarter mile up hill to the dorms. I was the only one assigned to Dorm #6 and entered in the dark at about midnight. There were 400 watching eyes as I made my bunk and collapsed. I was too tired to care; it had been a very trying day.

There were over 900 women at this facility. Not only were they women but also wives, mothers, daughters and grandmothers. Mothers' Day was unbelievable there; bittersweet. That is another story in itself. It was great to be able to walk around and see the sunrise and sunset and let your hair dry in the wind. It had been so long since I had even seen day light. Simple things I had been unable to enjoy for months. I received a good, but hard job in the maintenance department. I had a great supervisor who served as counselor, father and friend to all of the girls under his care. He was never afraid to ask vital questions; the kinds that make you think about your life. He made a positive impact on every person he met. I mowed grass all day, every day all summer; with a push mower. I was too tired to get into any trouble. I slept all night every night, luckily. There was lots of sexual and violent activity at night and I wanted no part of it. I learned to be still and take my mind a million miles away. I spent much time in prayer and in the Word. It provided so much strength and hope for me. There were religious services of all kinds and I attended many. I made several friends who were on the right track and I remain in touch with some of them still. I was allowed to participate in several group recovery programs that helped me restore my self-image. I began to believe that life would be okay again. I was at that facility for nine months. I actually was content to finish my time there, but that was not an option. On the day after Christmas I was moved in the late evening to a work release facility closer to home. All I could think was each step was one step closer to home. I prayed the entire way that I would be blessed with good roommates. This time I had a duffel bag of books and toiletries I had purchased with my $20 per month wages and money my husband sent each month.

We arrived at about nine p.m., were searched, were issued different clothes and allowed to go to our rooms at about eleven p.m. My roommates were incredibly nice; a real blessing. This was the first place I had been able to watch TV in almost two years. I still stayed in the Word and chose to keep to myself. I received a good job cleaning offices and mowing lawns at the Department of Corrections headquarters. They discovered my computer skills and kept me busy in the office organizing things in the maintenance department. I was befriended by a male inmate there who talked to me one-on-one every day about the past, present, future and eternity. He knew the Word inside and out and spent his entire life sharing his knowledge with other inmates. He encouraged change and was an example of what happens when people refuse to change. He had been in prison 32 calendar years. He was the most hopeful person I ever met. He taught me to never give up, to continue to trust in God and walk on through whatever trials might be ahead. He is the one person I wish I had not lost contact with. I believe he was placed in my path at a time when I needed to be reminded of the things I already knew but had become too busy to practice.

One day at work I was sick with allergies and, without thinking, took an allergy pill from the first aid kit. That night we had an institutional shake where everything is searched. We were ordered into the courtyard in the dark and ordered to put our hands on our heads. We were placed in rows and drug dogs sniffed us. The dog sat down behind me, indicating drug use. I had never used drugs in my life and informed the officer at that time. I was cuffed and taken to "Lock". They strip searched me and did a urinalysis which indicated I was using Meth. and Amphetamines. I was placed in a cell with three other women. I was devastated, as I knew I was not guilty of the misconduct I had been charged with. I remained calm in an attempt to show the guards that I was not using drugs. I repeatedly asked for a Bible to be brought to my cell and my request was repeatedly denied. I was lucky to be able to call upon verses and songs in my past to sustain me. The guards continually checked my well being because I was so quiet compared to their usual "lock" inmates. I prayed and planned my defense statement. It took five days and the help of my supervisors at work to beat it. If I had not beaten this misconduct, I would've been sent back to minimum security for an additional year. I was scared to death but never lost my faith that God would walk me through this as well.

Following my release from lock, I was relocated to another room with some really trying roommates. I was also allowed to return to my former job. I was determined to finish my time and return home.

I spent my final six months working for Panera Bread and I began to sparkle there. I was encouraged by a preacher I met on the bus to abandon worry and fear, and to trust God completely. These final lessons were the most valuable. Now I walk by faith and completely rest on those everlasting arms.

One month after my third Christmas away from my family, I was released. My husband who had stood by me through thick and thin picked me up. We began to make up for lost time. I returned to our small town and was received with open arms by most. I was blessed with a great job in a bakery.

I wish everyone who is faced with a loved one in jail or prison could know ahead of time that they may be right where they need to be at that time in their life.

Because of senseless actions and years of trying to be the perfect mother, I found myself in a women's correctional facility. It was overall a good experience for me. I have been free for over three years now and am able to clearly reflect on the experience.

One particular day stands out in my mind above all others. It was the Friday before Mothers' Day, 2002. In the small mail building, mail was placed in boxes by 4:00 p.m. The line to check our mail began forming before 3:00 p.m. It was a long and winding line where the majority of 900 women waited quietly for the chance to check their box. Many resting on curbs and talking to their neighbor in line.

I can remember no other particular day in my nine months there where so many women were gathered in one place at one time. The sight was beyond belief and bittersweet. How many mothers were there, not to mention grandmothers? Each woman hoping and praying that someone cared enough, to remember her on this day. Most viewing themselves as failures for making such a horrible mess of their lives; not to mention the mess they had left their families in.

Finally the door to the mail room was opened and the inmates were allowed in three or four at a time. Some emerged empty handed and slowly returned to their dorm, hopeful that Monday's mail would be better. Others emerged with a letter or card or two. Some contained a photo or small child drawing. These were shown with pride to friends still waiting in line. The whole yard was abuzz with activity and chatter that evening. For the most part it was a joyous day.

It is hard to not hurt for the ones who were left out. I guess God gives female inmates a special measure of comfort and a treasured friend or two to get them through those days when they miss special events like: graduations, weddings, holidays and birthdays.

Visitation was allowed on Saturday and Sunday as usual for Mothers' day and the women prepared themselves as best they could. They would often finish early, in anticipation of their family's arrival.

In typical prison fashion extra guards and drug dogs were brought in for visitation on Sunday. There were more searches than normal of visitors coming in. Would husbands or kids actually bring mom drugs or other contraband for Mothers' Day? I am afraid so. Several were not allowed in and some were even arrested that day. I was not an illegal drug user so actions like this are foreign to my thinking. Looking back at my own life I see many occasions when my judgment was poor and my choices were on the verge of insanity.

Visitation was always crowded, especially on Mothers' Day. There were lots of kids playing in the sandbox or on the playground. Parents visiting and holding hands, catching up on the events since they last spoke. Many families planning for their future once their release was granted. Some families played dominos or cards and ate strawberries or other special treats purchased from the vending machines. Some mothers braided their children's hair. Simply troubled families within the confines of a tall metal fence doing normal, everyday family activities.

Of course the ultimate form of degradation would be done following that special Mothers' Day visit. Before the inmates were allowed to return to their dorms there was a strip search. This was done 20 at a time with a female guard present. Inmates were instructed to form a large circle and remove each article of clothing, shake it and place it in a pile. Once all were standing naked, inmates were instructed to lift their breasts and run their fingers through their hair, turn their backs to the guard, squat and cough, one by one. Once this ritual was completed inmates were allowed to redress and go back to their respective dorms.

It was not uncommon to see an inmate staring out beyond the fence, wondering how she could ever have enough courage to walk out that gate when the time comes. So today let's stop and say a little prayer for those troubled families of the incarcerated.

I clocked in and started walking up the stairs to my office to start another week of work.

What I didn't know was that this was going to be much different from other days.

James is the name and it's going on ten years since I started this job at the charter bus company. I started the job as a bus cleaner working every day of the week either first thing in the morning or late at night.

After three years of cleaning and celebrating my twenty-third birthday I realized I couldn't stay in this position forever. I had become so comfortable with this position that I didn't realize time was quickly going by and that this was not the type of work to retire at down the road.

I looked into community college figuring there was no way I could afford going to a university. Spend years getting a degree that doesn't even promise you that a job will come your way that you can end your working days at and go on vacation.

Then one day as I was doing my errands I saw a school that will teach you office skills in less than a year. It was quite costly, but after going in and being able to set-up loans I went for it.

When I finished I figured I would look for another job, but the bus company offered me an office position in charter sales. At first, I wasn't sure how I would do, being the shy type and not a big talker to people I don't know. It turned out that I enjoyed the position and got along with everyone I talked to. Even the ones who called very upset, I was able to calm them and reassure them everything was going to be okay.

This went on for four years when I was offered another position. Dispatch. The one who did it before became quite ill and after five months of being in and out of the office, he called it quits and I was offered the position. At first I was reluctant starting a position that was more stressful than my current one. I eventually caved in and started the position and have done it since.

There are many days that I have to come in at the crack of dawn to make sure all the drivers get out on time. This particular week was one of those times I had to start quite early every day due to a big convention in town. Thankfully, I lived nearby so I was able to sleep until four a.m. to be up there by five a.m.

When I drove into the parking lot there were two other vehicles in the lot. One was the bus cleaner's, who comes in at midnight to clean, and the other was a driver's, who was on a ten day trip.

I didn't see the cleaner in sight and figured he was inside a bus or inside his little cleaning shed.

I got out of my car and walked up the steps to the office building and unlocked the door. Immediately, the alarm started beeping; I quickly went over to the opposite wall to the keypad and put in the code before the alarm went off and alerted the people in charge of security. As I punched in the code I wondered when they would replace the outdated system. Many times the owner was awakened in the middle of the night by security saying the alarm was going off. Every time it ended up either an insect or rodent setting it off or someone didn't close the door.

I went over to my desk and immediately started on my workload. If I didn't, for one thing I would fall behind on my work and secondly, I would end up falling asleep.

As the next hour went by the drivers came in and headed out for their daily runs. Today, all of the drivers should be gone by seven o'clock on their merry way. By eight o'clock the rest of the office crew would be there plus the phones would start ringing away.

When I saw that it was close to seven I got up and went over to the window, seeing that all the buses were gone except for the one that was broken down. I also saw that the bus cleaner's vehicle was still here. Once the buses were gone, usually he was gone.

I went outside and went down the steps, seeing that the door to the shed was wide open.

At one time the wash crew was allowed to use the restroom in the office, but when items started disappearing they locked the doors and stuck a honey bucket by the mechanics' garage.

When I got to the honey bucket I knocked and called out his name. No reply. I pulled the handle and the door opened with no occupant.

I looked around the lot to see if he was sweeping the paved section or cutting down weeds. He was nowhere in sight.

The lot was almost completely surrounded by woods. At one time it was completely surrounded, but a couple of businesses were put in on the south side.

"This better not be a joke!" I called out. "You'll end up getting whacked by the shovel I'm holding."

I neared the bush that started rattling again, but no distinguished sound told me if it was human or animal.

As I slowly circled the bush I raised the shovel ready to swing if it turned out to be a wild animal. Especially one that could have rabies.

When I came to the other side I saw a strange sight. Lying on the ground with his hands and legs tied up with what looked like a vine, with leaves stuffed in his mouth was Bill.

Bill continued to move around and I noticed he wasn't looking at me, but at something over my shoulder.

I started turning my head and felt something hit me on the back of the head and darkness welcomed me into its embrace.

I opened my eyes and blinked numerous times until my vision cleared. I saw I was somewhere in the woods. I looked around, almost blacking out from the explosion of pain coming from the back of my head. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain to subside. When it did I opened my eyes and looked around but was not familiar with my surroundings.

There were a few times in the past that I would walk through the woods a ways just to get away from the monotony of everyday work. It was nice to feel like I had entered another world.

Now I sat here propped up against a tree, not knowing where I was and feeling the fright creep up on me. I quickly realized my arms were tied behind me and my legs were also tied with the same vines I saw on Bill.

"I have been kidnapped and there is a good chance I am going to die," I thought, thinking of the crime movies I have watched.

Great. There were two of them. My small chance of possibly escaping was shrinking.

"I think he is handsome for a human," a feminine voice spoke to my right. The sound of the voice amazingly brought some comfort to me.

"Is this the one we are having at the feast?" another rough voice spoke to my left.

Everything started to spin on me. By listening to this conversation I wondered if I was still unconscious, dreaming away.

"I'm not sure," the deep voice responded. "Don't want to scare the poor fellow."

"We will tell you and we will show you, but you will not be expecting what you see," the feminine voice said, soothing my rapidly beating heart. "I will show myself knowing that you will be fine with my appearance. Will that please you?"

I heard some rustling to my right and upon turning my head I saw a beautiful woman with long blond hair going down to her hips and wearing a dress that sparkled everywhere making me squint to look at her. I looked at her face with the bright blue eyes, small nose, pert lips, and dimpled cheeks and felt at peace.

I just wanted to leap up and start dancing with this beautiful woman. I believe I was falling in love.

"My name by your language is Lillolyn," she replied then she looked around the woods and called out. "Everything will be all right. You may all come out." Then she looked at me once again. "If you become afraid just look at me and it will all go away."

I nodded then started looking around when I heard rustling sounds. I wasn't sure if I wanted to see the others, but like Lillolyn said, I could look at her and be okay.

When I looked straight ahead the trunk of the tree in front of me now had two brown eyes looking at me and a long pointy nose. Then to my left I saw a black bear come tromping out and beside the bear what looked like a human figure made of tree limbs. The head and the body looked like one branch and it had two arms and legs of smaller branches with three little twigs for fingers.

I stared at them for a moment before I quickly turned my vision to focus on Lillolyn as the fright started to overtake me.

"I have seen plenty," I responded looking at the bear as it came within five feet of me and stopping. "But not one that talked and didn't attack a human."

"The ones you are talking about are my dense cousins," the bear said. "Most of them forgot their speech letting out grunts instead. Quite a shame."

"James," I replied, becoming a bit calmer looking at Blaggert, Sten, and Oaknott. "Are there many of you?"

"There are many more of our kind," said Lillolyn. "We don't show ourselves to many humans and when we do we wipe your memory."

"I am afraid so," replied Lillolyn. "There are many good humans out there, but many bad ones who would cause us harm. Some unintentionally."

"Then it's probably a good thing," I said knowing that I would unintentionally mention this episode. It would be good for them and good for me since people would think that I had gone insane.

"We will untie you and you must promise not to run away," said Lillolyn. "We would hate to have to tie you back up or take you to the feast unconscious."

There was a little bit of tingling in my hands and feet, but it quickly went away.

We walked for I don't know how long for when I looked at my watch it had stopped. I'm sure my co-workers were in by now, wondering where I was at this moment.

"I'm with a group of forest creatures," I could hear myself telling everyone. "All is okay. They won't hurt me."

But then I thought possibly I was dreaming. I pinched myself a couple of times and closed my eyes, but every time I was still in the forest.

"You are wide awake," said Lillolyn continuing to walk. "I understand it's hard to believe, but you should know this land holds many wonders that man knows little or nothing about."

"You have a good soul," replied Lillolyn. "You respect life and treat your fellow man with kindness."

"Thank you for the compliment," I said. Overall, I practiced what she just stated, but there were moments I would say that I failed miserably.

We continued to walk on in silence for awhile with me still wondering if I would wake-up or a bunch of friends would pop out telling me this was a practical joke.

"We have had our annual feast for a very long time and have every living creature participate in the feast. When humankind came along we invited one and have invited one since then."

"Our time is different from your time. Compared to your year I would say one hundred years have passed in our land."

"Are there many of your kind at this feast?" I asked picturing a large feast with all kinds of creatures dancing around a fire.

"I believe there will be hundreds," she responded. "You will be fine for I will remain by your side. None of them would think to hurt you, but the human kind is frightened of what they can not explain. They tend to lash out instead of welcoming."

I listened to her words painfully agreeing. There were many out there that would end up running away or attacking the unknown. At first, I was frightened, but as I walked along I was becoming more comfortable being with a life form I have never seen before or if I did it was in a fictional book.

"Wouldn't my kind see this large feast from afar?" I asked knowing there were houses and businesses scattered throughout the area.

"Are you going to transport to another land or planet?" I asked, wondering what she meant.

"We will be here, but the human eye will not be able to see or touch us," she responded. "Please do not try to comprehend the matter. Just enjoy the feast."

We walked on for who knows how long when there was a flash and next I was surrounded by creatures of all types. I stopped, my first reaction complete fright, but I looked at Lillolyn and my heart slowed down. A minute or two later I had enough courage to look around, seeing that many of the creatures were in fact wild animals. Wild animals conversing with other animals. There were other beings like fauns, satyrs, centaurs, Cyclopes, and other mythological creatures walking about and ones I didn't have a clue what they were and what they were made of. Some looked similar to Jell-O you plopped on your plate, one looked like two eyeballs with one above the left eye and one below the right floating around, and one that looked like a bunch of multi-colored sticks massed together slowly moving with the use of a larger black stick. The strange part is that I could understand everything they were saying to each other.

"We have allowed you to understand every language spoken at this feast," said Lillolyn. "No one here actually speaks the human language."

"Most," she said. "Many of us live among your kind, but you won't recognize us since you do not know what to look for."

Everyone went to an open field where in the middle was a canopy of trees. Beneath the trees I could see platforms covered with trays of food.

I followed her and was greeted by many different kind of species. It was quite strange to bend down and use my pinky finger to greet two squirrels. There were a few I wasn't able to shake a hand for they had no hand.

As I neared the food I realized I was getting used to seeing the different kind of beings conversing throughout the area. I wondered if there were ones just like me seeing all the different races for the first time.

When we approached the food I saw there were all kinds laid out for the taking. There were fruits and vegetables throughout the area. I also saw platters of meat, which I wondered if it was someone's cousin.

"Don't worry," said Lillolyn. "No one's cousin was killed. These are simple creatures that we serve for ones who are carnivores."

At first I wasn't hungry, but as I walked passed the numerous dishes my stomach started to growl. I started grabbing up food putting it on a platter until it was full then a took a goblet of unknown liquid that was sweet and brought a warm feeling to my stomach.

I followed Lillolyn out onto the field and sat down and started eating, enjoying myself. Here I was having great food and seeing beings no one else would ever see in their lifetime.

There was little conversation between me and Lillolyn, which was fine since I was looking around at all the different creatures.

It wasn't long that I heard the sound of a flute then the sweet sound of other instruments. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the music that brought positive thoughts to mind. Soon I drifted away into wonderland.

I slowly opened my eyes and saw Lillolyn standing over me looking down, bringing calm to my soul.

I slowly stood up, seeing that it was dark outside except for a large bonfire on the left side of the field. There were creatures of all types dancing around the fire.

We stood there watching the merry scene before Lillolyn touched my shoulder, bringing a tingling feeling throughout my body.

I looked at her for a moment then at the party around me. I really didn't want to leave. I was having a lot of fun and just relaxing. It was like going to a nice sunny beach and lying there listening to the ocean waves.

I looked at her, feeling emotions I rarely experienced in life. Today was a day of unique experience and now it was over.

I looked around at all of the beings having fun, wishing I could enjoy this life, but it was not to be.

"Just close your eyes and you will return at the time you entered the woods," she spoke.

I closed my eyes and seconds later I opened them and I stood on the edge of the woods near the lot.

I went back to work, having a wonderful feeling for some reason throughout the day and that night had dreams of dancing with mythological creatures.

The Paris Train Station bustled with people moving swiftly on silent feet to their destinations. Vendors' voices shouting their wares at the hurrying passengers carried over the screech of train brakes. An occasional baby cry pierced the air thick with smoke from the arriving engines. I sat on my suitcase and pondered the scene while waiting for the train to the coast. Goodbye, Paris, time to move on.

Paris, the city of lights, the city of dreams and the city of romance was not the Paris I found. It was like stepping back into the past, touring places up to now only seen on the History Channel. The monks, who maintained Notre Dame, urged me to the top with a smile, never imagining I could make it all the way up. American tourists seldom did. It was a matter of pride, besides the three flights of stairs at work prepared me. Once up, the spectacular view left me amazed. The Eiffel Tower stood in the distance, a serpentine line stretched around it, which discouraged me from visiting. Instead, I imagined the view to be almost good as the one from the top of Notre Dame.

Located on the picturesque Left Bank, squeezed in between two taller buildings, sat my quaint bed and breakfast. Only a striped canopy that extended out to the sidewalk announced its presence. The proprietor chatted away to me in rapid French while I seemed to encourage her gregariousness with my Miss Piggy French monosyllabic replies. The abrupt, rude Frenchmen featured in almost every travel horror story didn't show on my trip. Friendly natives smiled and spoke emphatically with much animation; unfortunately, I didn't understand most of it. Hand gestures, a beseeching look, or artfully displayed merchandise got the message across.

Miscommunication usually involved sizes. The European sizes seemed so large, it was hard for me reconcile that a single digit size in the US, could mushroom into a double-digit size abroad. The shoe sizes were a killer too, professional basketball players back home didn't rate shoe sizes as large as my size eight feet required. The only way to deal with this culture shock was to try everything on. International travel wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Some things were so different while other things remained the same, well, almost the sa