Harvey Castlemeyer was a born day dreamer.  He'd daydreamed his way through the first 47 years of his life, greeting reality only now and then, when forced to by circumstances beyond his control -- like getting fired for inattentive behavior.  That had happened far too many times -- but no more.  Now he could stop dreaming and start living.  He felt the stiff, paper rectangle in his pocket and couldn't help but smile.  For once Dora was going to be proud of him.

The car clattered and clanked its way into the driveway.  Harvey had the keys in his pocket and was half way to the front door before the engine quit sputtering.  No matter.  That car wouldn't be part of his new future.

Usually Harvey went into the house through the backdoor, but he wasn't wrestling the garage door tonight.  In fact, he thought, maybe I'll get me one of them fancy garage door openers.  And I can get Nora a big screen TV to watch her soaps.  Smiling big, he opened the front door and stepped into the living room.

His mother-in-law was in her usual position at the end of the couch with her feet on the hassock and an overflowing ashtray in her lap.  "Who said you could use the front door?"  She snapped.  "Close it now before I catch my death."

Harvey almost smiled.  That thought fueled one of his favorite daydreams.

"Harvey?  Harvey Castlemeyer, is that you coming in my front door?"  Dora stomped from the kitchen shaking a wooden spoon and splattering red sauce everywhere.  "First you come home late -- I had to start supper! -- and then you come in my front door.  What is the matter with you?"

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Harvey looked at his wife as she stood there pointing at him with the wooden spoon in one hand, and the other hand on her cocked hip.  Lips pursed, eyes glaring, toe-tapping, this was not the isangelous woman of his dreams.

"Well,"  she snapped, "Get in here!  My show is coming on in a minute.  You still got dinner to finish, the laundry to do and this house could use a good sweeping.  You'd best get to it."

Harvey looked around.  The dining room table was buried beneath a tumble of newsprint.  Dirty dishes littered the occasional tables.  Several pairs of his mother-in-law''s socks lay in a heap beside the couch.  It was like waking up from a weird dream, one that made sense, yet didn't.  Harvey turned to Dora.  "What do you do all day when I'm at work?"  He asked.

Dora puffed up her chest and demanded, "What kind of a question is that?"

Harvey pointed at the dishes, the socks, the newspaper, the tangle of clothing spilling out the laundry room doorway.  "All day while I've been at work, you've been busy making this mess.  Why should I clean it up?"

In the living room his mother-in-law wrestled her bulk around on the couch.  "What do you mean, 'Why should you clean it up?'  Dora is delicate.  You know good and well --"

Harvey tuned his mother-in-law's rants out.  He considered the cynocratic governance of his house, and how it had come to be.  He and Dora been married two years when she miscarried and her mother moved in.  Harvey had been doing the cooking and the cleaning and the hop-to-ing ever since.

He looked at his mother-in-law.  He looked at his wife.  He slipped his hand into his pocket and caressed his future.

"What are you waiting for?"  Dora snapped.  "You heard my mother.  I'm anemic and not healthy enough for physical labor.  The doctor said so."

"That was twenty-two years and about a hundred pounds ago," Harvey said.

"Oh!"  Dora let out a wail an ran from the room.

"Go after her, you dolt!"  His mother-in-law ordered.  "You've hurt her feelings!"  Harvey saw it all for the play it was.  He'd fallen for it again and again over the years.  He would start to question, and they would manipulate him back into line.  He bent down and picked up the sauce covered spoon his wife had dropped on the dining room floor, and handed it to his mother-in-law as he passed her on his way out of the house.

Harvey walked to the bus stop and caught a Trailways Bus to Vegas where he got a job washing dishes in a casino kitchen.  During what he now considers his final days as a volgivagant, Harvey slept in a flop-house and laid low for six weeks.  Then,  on the very last day of that sixth week, Harvey filed for divorce, giving the house, the car, and all their worldly possessions to Dora.  The day the final papers came, he cashed in the lottery ticket and moved to Mazatlan.

Sun, sand and surf had always featured in Harvey's favorite day dreams, but now sometimes when he sits on the beach he dreams of Dora scrubbing some rich woman's floors for minimum wage, then coming home at night too tired to watch that big screen TV he'd sent her as a parting gift.

by Charlene L. Amsden

Hermina Romunda Guadalupe Lizet Villanueva has dreams as grand as her name. That’s why she was sitting in the Hydrangea bush beneath the Maitland’s dining room window. The Maitlands were thieves. Hermina knew it and she was going to prove it.

Saturday afternoon Mina had secretly followed her sister, Maria Celeste, to the Church Street Post Office. Maria had told her parents she was going to the movies with her girlfriends, but she didn’t go anywhere near the mall. Instead, she pretended to post a letter, and “accidentally” encountered Roger Finklemeyer outside his dad’s clothing store.

Roger worked for his dad on the weekends and was on his way to Burger King for lunch. Maria decided to join him. Mina was all set to take pictures of their rendezvous with the camera on her mother’s cell phone. That’s when the Maitland’s caught Mina’s eye. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were standing in the the front window of LaVive Art Gallery where a huge painting depicting an old-fashioned horse and carriage complete with groom was on display. The Maitlands, however, were looking into Mrs. Maitland’s satchel. Mina heard Mrs. Maitland say, “I can’t believe we really did it.” and Mr. Maitland answer, “I think we should get it home and out of sight as quickly as possible.”

Whatever was in the bag, it must have been heavy — and very distracting. It took both of the Maitlands to carry it, and they walked right past Mina without even recognizing her! The old couple had no sooner disappeared than Mr. Finklemeyer came running out of his store yelling he’d been robbed. Roger jumped up out of the booth where he’d been playing footsie with Maria, and ran to his dad. The two of them disappeared into the store arguing about who was supposed to be watching the merchandise.

Mina was so busy trying to figure out what was going on, that she forgot to hide and was standing square in the middle of the sidewalk when Maria came out of the hamburger joint. Luckily Maria was staring after Roger. Mina hurried around the corner and hid behind a tombstone on the grounds of St. Anne’s Catholic Church. Mina wasn’t Catholic, but just the same she said a prayer for the person whose tombstone provided her cover. After a few minutes, Maria stomped by and Mina followed her home — keeping a safe distance of course.

That night at the dinner table Mina told her father that she thought the Maitlands were thieves. Her father told her not to go spreading tales like that without proof and gave her a lecture on “bearing false witness”. Mina didn’t quite understand what he meant because she hadn’t told any tales about bears, but she did understand that she would need proof if she wanted her parents to listen.

That’s how she ended up in the Hydrangea bush with her mother’s cell phone in her hand. She needed a picture of whatever it was the Maitlands stole — but she hadn’t stuck around outside the Finklemeyer’s store long enough to hear what had been stolen. She’d tried asking Maria, but Maria had just socked her in the shoulder and told her to keep her creepy, spying eyes away from Roger Finklemeyer.

Mina listened intently. The window above her head was open. She could hear a lawn mower down the block, cars passing out on the boulevard, the slight whisper of wind from the trees, but not a sound from the Maitlands. Their car was in the driveway so she knew they were home; what she didn’t know was where inside their house they might be.

Slowly Mina raised her hand until the camera lens of her mother’s cell phone cleared the window sill. She clicked a quick picture and jerked her hand down. There on the tiny cellular’s screen was Mrs. Maitland, looking right at the camera in obvious surprise. Mina erupted from the bush and ran for home without once looking back.

Her mother was waiting for her on the front porch. “Alright, young lady,”she said. “Give me my cell phone.”

Mina reluctantly handed it over.

Her mother opened the menu and scrolled straight to Mrs. Maitland’s photo. She shook her head and then shook her finger at her youngest daughter. “Edith called and said you were poking around in her bushes. I told her she must have you mistaken with some other girl. She was going to the window to look out and tell me what you were wearing, when you apparently popped up and took her photo. You nearly scared her to death. Exactly what were you up to?”

Mina shrugged.

“You were playing spy again weren’t you?” Her mother demanded.

Mina looked at her shoes and didn’t answer.

“Very well,” her mother said, “You may play spy in your bedroom for the rest of the afternoon — and don’t come out before supper!”

Mina sat on the side of her bed dangling her feet. What kind of super spy got sent to her bedroom? What kind of a super spy even got caught? Mina puckered up her mouth and stuck out her chin. “I’ll show them,” she thought.

Maria sashayed into the room. “My little sister the spy,” she said, and rolled her eyes. She perched on the edge of Mina’s bed. “Can’t even watch two little old people without getting caught.”

“Well I watched you,” Mina said. “All gushy and big-eyed, ‘Oh, Roger,’” Mina mimicked her sister’s voice, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ Like it was an accident when you’d been waiting for him right outside his father’s store for like a half hour.”

“Oh!” Maria let out a shriek, jumped up off the bed and grabbed Mina by both of her black, glossy pig-tails. “Listen, Brat-Child,” Maria said. “One word about Roger to Mom or Pop and you’ll regret it! I’m warning you!” She pulled on Mina’s pigtails until the girl was looking straight up at the ceiling, then gave them an extra tug for good measure and flounced from the room.

“Whatever,” Mina mumbled. but she made certain it was quiet enough that Maria didn’t hear.

Monday in school Ellie Haversol told Mina that a miniature carousel had been stolen from behind Finklemeyer’s store. She said it was about twelve feet in diameter, permanently mounted on a flatbed trailer and covered in hundreds of thousands of Austrian Crystals. Mina knew there was no way the Maitlands had that in their shopping satchel — so what did they have? While Ellie was going on about the carousel Mina was trying to remember what other stores were near Finklemeyer’s Clothing. There was the Post Office, Burger King, St. Anne’s Church, and Emmerson’s Gem Stone Emporium. Mina wondered of Emmerson’s was missing anything. She didn’t have to wonder how to find out. Tara Emmerson was in her 5th period class.

“Mina!” Ellie snapped impatiently, “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Yes, of course,” Mina answered. “You said Finklemeyer’s had a miniature carousel stolen from behind their store.”

“Oh!” Ellie stamped her foot. “I also told you that old man Finklemeyer, Roger’s father, is in jail. He is suspected of stealing it.”

Mina was confused. “Why would he report it stolen if he’d stolen it in the first place?” She asked.

“He didn’t steal it!” Ellie said. “He was watching it. The carousel was imported from Austria. Old man Finklemeyer’s cousin is some rich, muscle bound, movie-actor, Governor or something or other — I’m not quite sure about that part — and he had this carousel shipped in for his kid’s birthday party. The thing is supposedly decorated with thousands of dollars worth of Austrian crystal, brass, copper, and silver. Not only that, but the brass rings aren’t brass. They are solid gold — each one worth a fortune. Roger Finklemeyer said so.”

“Oh wow!” Mina snapped her fingers. “That’s it!” She sprinted for the door, calling back over her shoulder, “Thanks, Ellie! I gotta go!”

Hermina Romunda Guadalupe Lizet Villanueva left the school without a backward glance. She shot through the double doors and barreled down 11th Avenue as fast as she could run. She paused at the corner of Eleventh Avenue and Church Street, realizing that she couldn’t just march into Finklemeyer’s Store — if it was even open. Was Mr. Finklemeyer still in jail?

Mina stood with her bottom lip between her teeth, her hands on her hips, and tapping her foot. She needed a plan. A patrol car rounded the corner and the policeman inside slowed down and took a good look at her. It suddenly occurred to Mina that every other kid in town was in school right now. The police car was moving slow. Mina could tell the officer was looking at her in the rear view mirror. Any second now, his tail-lights would flash. He’d throw the car in reverse and come back to question her. Mina didn’t fancy being taken home to her mom in a patrol car. She’d already landed herself in a big enough can of worms when she charged out of school.

Mina wanted to run, but she knew it was time to stop acting scatter-brained. She pivoted on her foot and looked at the building behind her. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought much about where she was.

“Excuse me, young lady.” The officer had left his car in the middle of the road with the driver’s door open. He walked toward Mina. “Is there a problem?”

Mina just shrugged and pointed at the sign. DENTAL CLINIC.

“Ah, I see,” the officer said, grinning. “Why don’t I just wait right here while you march yourself in there?”

“It’s okay.” Mina said. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble,” the officer said. “It’s my job. Come on. In you go.” He put his hand on Mina’s shoulder and escorted her to the door, which he opened for her.

The receptionist, one of her mother’s friends from church, looked up in surprise. “Mina! What are you doing here?” She looked at the officer standing outside the glass doors. “Are you in trouble?”

“No.” Mina shook her head, but the answer was obviously, yes! “I’m a …. I’m a ….” Mina shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist asked. She was frowning at her computer monitor. “I don’t remember seeing your name.”

Mina couldn’t remember the woman’s name and walked forward to read her name tag. Audrey. No last name. Big help that was. “Listen, Mrs. -”

“I’m sorry, Mina.” Audrey interrupted. “I have a broken computer monitor and not even CPR can reserrect it. And you don’t seem to be in the appointment book, either, dear. Are you certain you have the right day?”

Mina shook her head. “Not really,” she said, and chanced a glance over her shoulder. The officer was gone. Mina relaxed. A grin split her face from ear to ear.

The receptionist, Audrey, smiled to. “Today is your lucky day, Mina,” she said. “No appointment.” Then she added, “I’ll ring your mother in just a bit and have her reschedule.”

“Gee, thanks,” Mina said, but her smile was effectively gone. She turned and walked to the door, her eyes searching the street for the patrol car. Neither it nor the officer were anywhere in sight.

Mina left the dentist’s office aware that she couldn’t just walk down the street in broad daylight. It was barely past noon and people were certain to notice a kid out of school. She circled the building, and headed for the service alley.

This was more like it. No traffic, no prying eyes. Just Mina, the dumpsters in their little brick enclosures, and a stray cat here and there. She walked briskly, stopping just a block from Finklemeyer’s. She was behind Rona’s Five and Diner. Rona had a love of folk music. A song about burning draft cards was pouring into the alley mingling with aroma’s that reminded Mina she’d had no lunch.

Finklemeyer’s store was on the corner right across the street. There were no lights on inside. It didn’t appear to be conducting business, but someone was there. The back door stood wide open. Mina rushed across the street, away from the tantalizing aroma’s at Rona’s, and into the dumpster enclosure behind Finklemeyer’s. The aromas there weren’t in the least bit enticing.

Once inside the enclosure, Mina slipped behind the wooden gate and peeked out through the gap between the door and the wall. It was too dark inside the store and she was too far away to see anything. She was going to have to move closer.

If Finklemeyer was in jail, then who was in the store? And was Finklemeyer in jail? Why would he fake stealing the carousel — unless part of it had been stolen and he was stalling for time trying to get it back? That’s what Mina suspected. The Maitlands had stolen the golden rings, and Finklemeyer faked the theft of the carousel because … Mina wasn’t certain. Finklemeyer didn’t own the carousel, so he wouldn’t get any of the insurance money. If he faked the theft to gain time to find the real thief, he probably wasn’t having a lot of luck finding them from behind bars.

Mina sprinted from the cover of the dumpster enclosure. Darting across the alley, she came to a stop crouched below the loading dock. That put her just beside and below the open back door. She wished for her mother’s cell phone so she could take a picture of what was aroud the corner. Of course, the last time she’d done that, it hadn’t turned out so well.

Mina listened intently. She could hear the traffic out of the street, snatches of music from Rona’s, and bits and pieces of other neighborhood noise. She didn’t hear anything from the store. Nor did she hear the foot-steps of the man who slipped up behind her. The first clue Mina had that she wasn’t alone, was a hand clamping over her mouth.

to be continued

Guilt	What is yours?	Explain yourself
Culinary:	chocolate	Needs no explanation
Literary:	Lois McMasters Bujold,, Jennifer Roberson, Orson Scott Card	If only I could write like that ...
Audiovisual:	Dirty Dancing; A Long Kiss Good-Night; While You Were Sleeping	What's to explain? I like them.
Musical:	Guilt free.	I primarily listen to Christian Rock; and occasionally Classic Rock.
Celebrity:	Guilt free.	Can't think of any celebrity I'd rearrange my life to see.

Now I tag:-

The teeter-totter was originally invented as a torture devise. I am certain it dates back to the Spanish Inquisition. Some enterprising parent saw a version of it in some ancient history book and realized it was the perfect murder weapon. I know exactly what he was thinking, “I’ll build it, I’ll put it on playgrounds, the kids will use it to kill each other – and it will look like some terrible accident. Muhahahaha!”

The teeter-totter is comprised of a horizontal, four inch steel pipe held about three feet off the ground by a set of tripod legs (that’s the teeter part). Across the steel pipe, secured to balance in the middle, are more four inch steel pipes – each with handles and seats secured to their opposite ends (that’s the totter part).

Here’s how the teeter-totter works: some (hypathetical) handsome, charming, fifth grade devil-child lures a sweet, angelic, innocent, gullible, smaller third grade child to the teeter-totter and cajoles her into getting on. The devil-child then hops on the other side and immediately – using his superior weight – suspends the small angel child about five feet above the ground.

At this point the devil-child relaxes and waits for reality to confront the girl. It doesn’t take long. Almost immediately the small child realizes she does not have the weight to get herself back on the ground. The next thing she notices is that the wooden seat is leaving splinters where she doesn’t want them. The third thing she realizes is that getting down is going to hurt.

First she considers jumping – it really isn’t all that far – but those splinters hold her securely in place. Next she tries pleading. That only makes her tormentor smile. She tries threatening. That makes her tormentor laugh. Finally she asks, “What do you want to let me down?” Negotiation ensues. In her desperate attempt to reach the ground unscathed the smaller child promises her tormentor every possession she owns – and a few her siblings own (don’t tell her older brother she offered his car to a fifth grader). Her tormentor pretends to consider her offer, but ultimately it matters not.

Finally, after endless torture too tedious to describe in detail, the devil-child makes his move and leaps from his seat. The other end of the teeter-totter, without the counter balance to hold it high, comes crashing to the ground. In the second and a half it takes to plunge to the blacktop the victim has several decisions to make: Which does she prefer broken, her legs, her ankles, or her tailbone? Does she want an excruciating pain in just one part of her body, or would she prefer to diffuse it a bit by spreading the impact across her whole body -- from the soles of her feet to the top of her head (this includes biting off the tip of her tongue)? In truth, unless she has made her decision long before the devil-child jumps and has already positioned her body accordingly, her choice will not matter because by the time she makes it she will be prone on the backtop blinking stars – and possibly blood – from her eyes.

Incase you plan on finding a teeter-totter and a bully so you can enjoy this experience first hand, here is some knowledgeable advice. A.) Don’t lock your knees. One -- if not both -- of your legs will break when you hit the ground. B.) Keep your feet out from under your seat. True, the jolt will not be as hard on your spine if the pipe has to drill through your foot before it hits the pavement, but your foot will hurt so badly your spine won’t really feel like celebrating its salvation. C.) Don’t raise your feet up out of the way and take the whole impact on your spine. If you do you will bite the end off your tongue – and possibly chew up a bit of your stomach as well.

If you must undergo this experience the best way to land is with your muscles loose, your knees slightly bent, and your life insurance paid in full (Note: do not wear slick-soled patent leather shoes). If you are wondering how I can so clearly relay the details of each possible injury, all I can say is: some of us lose our belief in criminal rehabilitation slower than others.

Author’s Disclaimer: I am certain that any similarity between the Winton School child called Bruce the Bully and the Devil-Child in this story are purely coincidental. It was not the author’s intent to shame Bruce the Bully or make him feel guilty for the pain and suffering he inflicted on any small, helpless, trusting innocents who unwittingly crossed his path -- again and again and again. Accordingly, any similarity between the sweet, angelic, innocent, gullible, smaller third grade child and the author are wholly a figment of Bruce the Bully’s imagination. Remember, I did not claim to be describing an actual incident, only providing a scenario for how the teeter-totter could hypothetically be used as a torture devise.

The daily injury report from the swing set ranged from paltry half-inch blood blisters to gruesome compound fractures complete with protruding bone and gore. I suppose the swings themselves were not really dangerous -- but, oh, the things we did with them!

Playground swings no longer seem to exist, so in-case you've never seen one, here's a description: ten foot high steel frame; two sets of tripod legs, between them spanned a four inch steel pipe; suspended from the pipe were pairs of heavy steel chains; each pair of chains was connected to a thick, black, rubber seat.

The Winton School swing set had four seats. Four seats – if you're a kid you know that means at least a dozen kids can play on the set at once. But sometimes – sometimes someone would get greedy – he'd want a whole swing for himself. One kid I remember in particular who did not like to share the swing was my cousin, Rumble.

I don't know why I always competed with Rumble; whenever I tried I always lost – spectacularly. For instance one day we left Gram's house – Caution, Rumble, Angel, Smiley, Tattle and I – headed for the playground. Somebody called dibs on a swing, I don't remember whom, but they were echoed by five other voices. We went from walking to rushing, to running and shoving in three seconds flat -- because every child knows that calling dibs doesn't mean a dang thing unless you can enforce the claim.

Caution was the eldest, had the longest legs, and naturally was the strongest runner. He was going to win. Tattle was the baby and she was going to win because we didn't want to hear the whining and the crying (from the grownups) if she didn't. That left four kids and two swings. Angel and Grin headed for one. Rumble and I headed for the other. I have no idea how the girls' race went, but Rumble and I were neck and neck, arms outstretched, until we were just a few yards from the swing.

Now, I don't know if it was because Rumble was taller and his arm a little longer than mine, or if he'd pulled just a millimeter ahead, but I realized his hand was going to grasp the chain just before mine could; so I did the only sensible thing – I jumped.

So what if Rumble had the chain? If my body occupied the seat, obviously the swing would be mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

I launched myself into the air; arms outstretched, and flew like Wonder Woman. Guess what? Linda Carter I'm not. Rumble's fingers wrapped around the chain and he pulled. The swing lurched drunkenly to the left and, instead of doing a spectacular swan dive into the seat of the swing, I did a beautiful belly-flop into the dirt and gravel beneath it.

Twice in my life I have had the wind knocked out of me. It is not an experience I recommend. However, if you have the great, good-fortune to have Rumble as a cousin you are truly blessed. He abandoned the swing immediately and came to stand over me -- in fact, all of my wonderful cousins did -- and they made such helpful suggestions; things like: "Breathe!" "Talk to me!" and, "Stop turning blue!"
Tattle asked, "Is she dying?"

If I had had the breath I would have answered, "Not until after I kill Rumble."

I have proof that the grownups wanted us dead. Winton Elementary School in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho was built on the edge of a cliff. There was a 35-foot embankment not ten yards from the back door where I lined up every morning before fourth grade.

There was no fence. There was no barbed wire. There were no patrol dogs. THERE WERE NO CONCERNED PARENTS.

We were told to stay away from the cliff, the grownups of my childhood thought that was sufficient. If some child wandered too close and fell off, the general response was: “Damn idiot kid. He was told to stay away from there. Don’t know what his problem is. When that back-brace comes off I’m tanning his stupid hide.”

The cliff wasn’t all though – there was also the playground equipment; that we weren’t told to stay away from. In fact, if a day at school didn’t sufficiently maim enough kids, our parents would send us back after school. “Get out from under my feet! Go play on the playground. I’ll call you for dinner.”

I don’t know why we never figured out that the grownups were trying to kill us. They’d paint us in Mercurochrome, paste band-aids on us, or brace us with splints, and push us right back out the door.

We went willingly -- and called it fun.