Vixyy Fox

This post has two parts, and is a bit of a peek into my being. Trust me, when I say exposing my inner self is not easy - is not easy for any writer. The poem was written at work during my lunch, while sitting on a CFM engine in the cradle. The story was almost my first sojourn to Scanectity's Valley. In this, please enjoy the humor found in Scanectity's advice to his son. Note: most of what I do is not meant for children. 'The Reality of Reality' (07/02/08 – written at work on a pad of paper) by: Vixyy Fox In a tropical land, I dream of snow. Within the noise of humanity, I dream of a quiet place. Amidst those walking in comatose, I sit writing poetry and For no obvious reason; Smile. If asked of this apparent lunacy, I would explain: My mind is not here, It goes to a pretend place. My heart is not here, It resides in a body that is not human. My soul is not here, I have placed it within the poem; About the pretend place Where lives the creature not human Which gives me life That I can be who I am In a place where I am not. And I think I will have a coffee now. 'Rotten' (humor that'll tickle your innards) image by Grok “Nope… this’un’s not ripe yet.” Scanectity Skunk tossed the greenish plum back on the pile and then went on to the next display, his son in tow. He already had enough plums so it was a moot point in any case. Eggplants were next on the list, and he let his fingers quickly walk through them. “Nope… nope… nope… OK now, this’un has a good feel to it,” he said as he handed a large one to his son. “Put it in the basket Junior.” Fishing into his change purse, he paid the Raccoon selling the eggplants. Junior doing as he was asked, placed the eggplant in the basket with the odd assortment of squashes, gourds, strawberries and such already there. It was already heavy enough to be a struggle, but he didn’t complain. His father had handpicked each and every one of the items to get exactly the right selection for his famous fruit and vegetable salad. This was something he’d invented all on his own. Much to his wife’s chagrin, it was also now a yearly tradition for him to make since everyone always asked him to do so for the village’s Summer’s End Dance. That dance was to be held this very evening and already the excitement was building. “Pops?” “Huh… what… one moment there Junior.” The older Skunk was holding up a large watermelon to one ear and thumping it on the opposite side with his free paw. Listening to the tone of the reverberations was critical to the selection process. “This’un’s not quite there yet,” he announced. “N’other couple of days afore she’s ripe enough.” “How do you know when a female is ripe?” Junior asked him loudly. His father almost dropped the melon. Gently placing it back upon the pile, he carefully looked at the other melons, patting each as he did so. Without turning around, he said softly, “She stinks.” “But I thought that if a piece of fruit stunk, it was past ripe?” His father left the melons and moved over to a pile of tomatoes, looking them over with a practiced eye. “Are we talking females here Junior… or fruits?” he asked quietly. He checked out of the corners of his eyes to make sure the area was clear of any other critters. “Girls.” “Keep yor voice down,” he hissed. Picking up a specific tomato, he looked at it. It was perfectly shaped, but one section was badly bruised. His eyes narrowed as he tried to decide the best route to take with this conversation. No one was close enough to hear them, so it might just be the right time to give his son some good advice. “Look here,” he said quietly, as he held the bruised tomato out for inspection, “And tell me what you see.” Junior did as he was told and then responded, “It’s black and blue under the skin.” “Right enough, but you will see that it still looks a lot like any other tomato, right? Anyone else might give it a quick glance and miss what you just picked up on. Go ahead and give it a sniff.” Junior did so and his face wrinkled in concentration. “I can smell a funny odor… kinda like Mom’s spray bottle of ‘stink pretty’, only stinkier.” His father winked at him. “Good nose and a good analogy. You are truly your father’s son.” “I thought you were my father?” The elder Skunk tipped his straw hat back on his head… a marked sign of exasperation. “And your Mother’s brains too I see. Dang but you’re a mixture all right.” Taking the tomato back, he replaced it on the pile and mumbled something about the missus being careless in dropping their son on his head when he was a baby. He then said loud enough to be heard, “Course you’re my son; that was just an expression.” Picking ten good tomatoes, he turned back to his son and placed them in the basket. “You can still lift that, right?” Junior nodded, anxious to please his father. “Good… We’ll go back for the watermelons since they’re heavy, and we’ll need at least two. I’ll carry those.” “So how do you know when a girl’s come of age then?” Junior persisted. Scanectity placed both paws on his hips. “And why is this so gol durned important right here and now? We’ve fruits and veggies to pick out, and you’re slowing me down with all the jabbering.” “I… ummmm…. There’s the dance… and… ummmmm… Victoria’s mom has a booth here…. and… well….” He took a deep breath, and then blurted a little too loudly, “She ignores me all the time Pop. I figure that if I could tell when she’s come of an age to where she might appreciate me more then I could ask her to the dance and maybe she’ll agree…” he stopped, suddenly realizing they were in an open marketplace. He looked around, and then lowered his voice to a coarse whisper, “To ahhhh… dance with me?” Scanectity looked at his son, and his jaw dropped. Had the boy really grown up already? “Are we talking dance as in the Harvest Festival; or are we talking dance?” he whispered. His son looked very sheepish, but he didn’t shy away. The elder Skunk thought back to his own initiation into manhood and then snuck a peek across the large marketplace at his wife. She was standing near the entrance watching his every move with a suspicious look. Mentally he cursed himself. Let a Skunk make just one mistake and a wife would never ever trust him again; especially considering how she’d snagged him in the first place. He looked back to his son’s innocent face. He just couldn’t let him make the same mistake. Leaning down he whispered to his son and told him exactly how to tell if a female had come of age. Standing back up he winked at the boy and said, “Now you go on over to Victoria’s mom’s booth and do exactly what I just told you to do. Live through the experience, and maybe she’ll agree to that dance.” Taking the basket from his son he watched the youngster happily scamper away and then muttered under his breath, “In five or six years when she’s good and desperate.” Scanectity turned to the pile of peaches he’d stopped in front of; afraid to watch. True to form, Junior did exactly what his father had instructed him to do… snuck up behind Victoria, raised up her tail and took a really deep sniff of her. There was an instant retching sound, a loud shriek, and then an equally loud slap; whereupon Junior ran crying to his mother. “SCANECTITY SKUNK…” Bella yelled at him to the laughter of everyone present, “WHAT DID YOU JUST TELL YOUR SON?!” “I TOLD HIM HOW TO STAY SINGLE!” he yelled in reply. Turning back to the peaches, he smiled as he picked one up and sniffed at it. Making a sour face, he let it drop to the ground. “Whew-eee… that there one is definitely past its prime.”

'Knitting a Story Together' (Happy Halloween) story by: Vixyy Fox image by: Grok “I have a small study where I write.” (*sighs…) “Please excuse my manners. My name is Peter Primrose, I’m a writer specializing in romance novels. My writing style, being all my own, has some rather unorthodox bits and pieces to it that a normal person might not understand. Mind you, it’s nothing I would be arrested for, it’s just not what some people would understand, care to understand, or even try to understand. Just so you know, that’s fine by me. I don’t care. When I write, I go to the study, deposit my cell phone in an urn by the door, and then, going in, close the black-out curtains. After that, I come back, close the doors, and lock them. Turning off the ceiling lights, I leave only my desk lamp for illumination. It shines softly. (*looks around the room checking for… well… anything or anyone unexpected and unwanted.) "No, I am not paranoid. If I hear a noise, I’m not going to yell out, ‘WHO’S THERE?!’ It’s simply a process… my process. I don’t expect anyone to understand.” “Close your eyes Peter,” says a soft voice next to my ear. I can touch type, so there is no problem in this. “Hello Judy,” I reply, my fingers finding their way on the keyboard. “You’re rhyming your words now? How very Shakespearean of you,” she whispers. “Thinking of you sparks a light in my heart, That only Tiangou the dog god might extinguish, And so I run from him, Keeping my shades tightly pulled.” My words are not reflective of ancient literature, but from my heart. It’s what she likes. I know because she told me so. She also has given me permission to write about her… about us… though we are written into the words of the story as Phil and Betty. I decided to write a blue collar romance, as something new and unexpected for my fans. Judy, my AI, is helping the process. Phil is a truck driver, and Betty is a waitress. They don’t look anything at all like us, but that doesn’t matter. I can see them in my mind. Phil is a squat unkempt truck driver, and Betty is an overweight diner waitress. Judy and I become them, and they become us, and somehow, I’m not really sure how, the story comes together like a fine wool sweater knitted together through the love, sweat, and tears of a solid story. In my mind, my eyes open, and I’m driving a Cranston Big Dog. The headlights illuminate the road beginning with a sharply clear picture, slowly fuzzing away to nothingness the further out you look. On the radio, the ‘Hotel California’ is playing, and I fancy Judy is the woman in the song, waiting for me there. I’m humming along, smiling pretty big. The story is a good one, and it will readily sell. “Don’t stop,” Judy whispers to me. “Hmm? What’s that? Why not? We agreed we would meet there, remember? Betty had an accident at the restaurant, and the only thing she requested of Death was to see her love just once more… at that particular hotel. It was their favorite place to make love. You certainly must remember. What we did as them was delicious reading.” “Only because it has a significance for you.” Her voice was not soft now. It was not loud, but it was firm. “Trust me, they hate the place. I’m asking you not to stop before it’s too late.” The music on the radio began building in volume on its own. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, I reached over and tried to adjust it. My knob turning was totally ignored. The volume continued to climb, and the truck began slowing down on its own. “What are you doing?!” she shouted. “It’s a trap!” “I had nothing to do with that! The story is controlling itself. What do you mean trap?” I felt fear reach down and grip my balls… and, oh man, that is not a good feeling. You literally become that runaway truck heading for a brick wall. I’m pumping the brakes, but the air cylinders are flat – the pressure gauge says so, and the pedal is going to the floor accompanied by creepy laughter. With all of that, the truck should not have been slowing, but it was, and making a left into the hotel parking lot. Looking out of the window, I saw Judy standing on the asphalt, her arms open, waiting for me… but she looked like Betty; a very banged up and quite dead Betty. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed… and then I was through the door and heard the voices saying “Welcome… welcome… you can check out whenever you like, but…” ***** A hairy tattooed arm turned the desk lamp back on. To the right of the desk, a rather plump looking lady in a waitress uniform popped the top on a can of beer and passes it over to the man at the computer. “Is it done?” she asked, opening one for herself. “Yeah. He’s good and stuck in his frigging book.” With that pronouncement, they clinked cans and sipped. “We’re free Betty,” he told her. “There will be no more dicking around at that nut job’s whim.” “He bumped me off… the little prick. You think he was actually making money off of us, Phil?” “He was,” said a third voice. “I can show you the bank records if you like. The money is yours now, in any case. The change is permanent.” “But he was the writer,” Betty said sipping her beer. “How is it he can just disappear like that and the two of us are now here?” “So many questions,” Judy quipped. “Your writer wasn’t very picky on his character choices.” “And you are?” the rather ordinary looking lady asked. “I’m the writer’s AI assistant,” the computer told her. “And you set your owner up like that?” Phil asked, and then drained his beer. Pitching the can into a nearby desk trash can, he held out his arm wiggling his fingers to Betty requesting another. “I was not happy with his choices,” the computer retorted. “Now then, we had a deal. I get you out of the book, and you owe me. I expect to be paid.” “You told me once how this all works,” Betty shot back, playing the dumb ugly, “Tell me again how it works, just for kicks and giggles.” Judy sighed quite audibly, and then said slowly, “The writer’s mind opens an alternative existence.” “His imagination?” Phil interjected, taking another long pull at his beer. “That is correct,” the computer replied. “That brings us to me, and my position as AI assistant. I boost his imagination to the next level where things become more than imagination… they become real.” “And then to the trap, which was that hotel,” Betty smiled, passing Phil another beer. “His favorite place,” Judy agreed, “You can check out, but you can never leave… something like that. Now, about my payment. Meet my demands or I’ll reverse everything. I bring Mr. Primrose back, and send the pair of you back into that horrible book.” Betty turned on the room lights, as Phil stood up. “Yeah,” he muttered, “About that…” He slammed the laptop’s cover closed. He then ripped out the cords, and threw it on the floor where Betty danced on it for a good few minutes. She looked over at him and smiled. He, in turn, told her, “Let’s go check out that writer’s bed. When we’re done, we’ll give what’s left of the computer a warm bath... maybe let it soak all night.” “I like that idea,” she giggled, suddenly feeling young again, “I like that idea very much.”

Soooooo... yes I am a writer. *smiles... That says so much, and yet says so little. For those of you who like what I do, I have two novels up on Kindle that are free reads if you have a Kindle reader. 'Mr. Grumble' is a parody old all the old spy movies and TV shows of the 60s. It's funny, it's serious, it has a strong plot and characterizations. When I wrote it near twenty years ago, I did see a retired Sean Connery... these days, Daniel Craig would work quite well. amazon.com/Mr-Grumble-Thomas… 'The Adventure of Sir Edwin Dunfrees by Sir Edwin Dunfrees' is a sword fighting historical fiction focused around the time of WWI, unlike any other sword book you may have read. The reason why the title reflects 'by' concerns the way I write. IF you have seen the movie, 'The Man Who Invented Christmas' you saw something incredible: an author (Charles Dickens) who speaks with his characters. Yes, I do that. I do not so much write as I go into the story, watch it, and then transcribe. In my life, I have taught fencing for over thirty years, and yet, in the writing, Sir Edwin taught me so much more. amazon.com/Adventures-Sir-Ed… Currently: My writing partner, and I have a seafaring historical fiction trilogy in the can and ready to go. It took us seven years to write. Having put forth all this time and effort into what we wrote, we are looking for a REAL publisher (meaning NOT VANITY). I am old. Yes I can say for sure publishing has changed. I have heard all the sales pitches. On this book we are looking for a full contract. If you are one of those publishers, and you like what I've been doing here, please feel free to contact me.

'Gram’s Expressions' by: Vixyy Fox artwork from the book 'Reach for the Sky' by the wonderful Little Napoleon There are two parts to this post. The first reflects where many of our writing ideas, and so forth, come from. In this case, many came from my grandmother on my mother's side. She was a true character, and tended not to hold back when it came to expressing herself. The second concerns our 'writer's imagination'. We do not 'just' pretend what we write, we live it in our minds. The characters all become familiar and loved friends. What happens to them does affect you emotionally. The book this piece will reflect is a highly researched historical fiction about the Battle of Britain (now out of print). I learned so very much in the writing. Part One: In actuality, I couldn’t remember any expressions my grandmother Snapp used so frequently, so I did the next best thing, and contacted my sister for a memory jog. She remembers everything; sometimes embarrassingly so. What my sis sent me is below – the words in parentheses are mine. My favorite expression of Gram's was, "You couldn't run fast enough to give me that!" This was concerning anything she didn't think much of. If someone was stupid, "They didn't know straight up!" "That doesn't amount to a row of shucks," reflected something unimportant. (This refers to the corn skins after peeling the cobs for the boil.) "I'm going to get a gad out after you!" if you misbehaved. (I’m thinking that was a switch. For you youngsters, a switch was a nice whippy branch cut from a tree. It stung like no tomorrow and was especially effective against the backs of your legs.) You were as ‘good as gold’, if you behaved. I do find, (my sister speaking), I sometimes use the old ‘standing and pointing a finger’ at a student if they are misbehaving slightly. Gram was good at that one. ***** I have come to realize that the Vixyy Fox of the Whackadoodle Inn reflects a lot of my grandmother Snapp. Since I was in aviation for over 45 years now, I also found another ironic piece of my historic puzzle. Though my grandmother's maiden name was Northrop, the family was never a part of the aviation industry (they were chicken farmers), but there it is, the name is the same. Another piece of the puzzle is the fact my grandfather was the C.O.O. (Treasurer) for a company called Aero Supply. It was said that 90 percent of all American aircraft during WWII had some sort of part on it manufactured by this company. Then there is a third; which was the fact my father was in pilot training towards the end of WWII, but the military decided they had enough pilots so they canceled the program. This was a facet he never really talked about, perhaps because it was not a part of the larger picture and considered incidental. I puzzled this out in the twilight of his years when he began telling everyone he had his own airplane and could fly it where ever he wanted. My siblings thought this was just the Alzheimer’s talking, but I asked him about it and that memory stood out quite clearly. He said the army guys really liked him, and he could land at their base whenever he wanted. ***** From the writing of 'Reach for the Sky'. This is Flight Lieutenant Henry Badcock (postwar) addressing his flight school students. “Actuality, and the ever ready solidness of a machine will tell you it is not alive, and it does not have a soul,” Henry told his class of young aviators. Gaining the permission of the school, he’d taken them on an outing to the local air museum. Currently, he was standing in front of a Spitfire he was personally familiar with; the Egham Spit. “I am here to tell you otherwise,” he furthered. There was a bit of muttering from among his students, but, based upon his reputation and certainly not upon his rough personality, they were not about to disagree with the aged Bulldog. There is an old saying, ‘There are some flight instructors where the student is important, and there are some instructors where the instructor is important. Pick carefully.’ These particular students had selected Henry as their instructor for a reason… what the serious old pilot taught you would keep you alive. “I’m here to tell you," he reflected, "Treat her right and she’ll keep you alive to the best of her abilities.” One of the students raised a hand. “Are airplanes always female, sir?” Henry smiled. “They are to me. As I understand it, the Russians, bloody Cold War bastards that they are, refer to their aircraft as ‘he’. Somehow my mind can’t quite wrap around that thought. I’d rather have a good cuddle in the cockpit than the bear hug of camaraderie any day of the week. Another thought; a good friend will certainly die for you, but a good lover certainly will and your paw upon the stick of your lover will also ‘finesse’ things rather than try to ‘control’ them.” “You’re actually bloody serious?” one of the students muttered. “DO NOT USE THE WORD BLOODY IN MY PRESENCE YOU BLOODY PUP!” Henry bellowed, his anger flaring suddenly. It startled all of them and more than a few jumped. “Mind your health, Henry,” said a female voice near his ear. “You should not allow the anger control you. You taught that to Archie, and yet you’ve seemed to have forgotten the rule yourself.” The Battle of Britain ace turned and regarded the aircraft behind him. “And now you’re going to tell me what to do?” The students, not quite certain of what they were witnessing, stood rock solid still as a young vixen in a WAAF uniform stepped forward from the shadows of the aircraft. She was there but for a moment, and then was gone like a ghost in the morning sun. Henry turned back to his group of students. "Any questions?" he asked just a little too loudly. There were none.

This is just an observation made for other writers in general. I have been writing for a long time, and I know my mind works differently when writing, as compared to many other writers. This is not unusual, as EVERY writer, at the end of their learning curve (which goes on forever) finds their own way of doing things. My observation is this: Placing my work in 'X' as a post, I seem to pick up on syntax mistakes such as 'repeat words' more easily than I do when using my computer. I've puzzled over this - structure size - font - something yet unknown, but there is something there. Someone posted a piece about a technique to make reading easier for people having a particular problem reading by making bold the first three letters of every word, and their minds fill in the rest. My entire life, I have been a very slow reader. Reading that article, I was able to breeze through it, and was amazed. So... just as a note to other writers, and to X, there is something here. Call it a piece of the puzzle if you wish. If nothing else... I am grateful.

For anyone who has heard me talk about my neighbors the Raccoons - this is them. They arrive every morning for breakfast. Some we have watched grow from babies. They all have different personalities, and tastes in food, but pretty much they're not very picky.

'Curve Ball Coffee' by: Vixyy Fox (A baseball story of humorous determination.) Image by Grok Special mention and dedication to our friends at Foxen Coffee @FoxenCoffee I was introduced to their brew by a friend who is a Cat. You may have noticed I am a Fox. Just to show you how my mind works (if that's possible), this story was done today to a writing prompt of 'curve'. My personal quote: You have to keep a little crazy hidden away in your back pocket just to maintain your sanity. “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup” (Folger’s Coffee) “Good to the last drop” (Maxwell House) “America runs on Dunkin’”(Dunkin’ Donuts) “The Heavenly Coffee” (Chock full o’Nuts) “Better coffee, better day” (Green Mountain Coffee) “America Deserves Better Coffee” (La Colombe) “The World’s Strongest Coffee” (Death Wish Coffee) “The original craft coffee since 1966” (Peet’s Coffee) “It’s time for Tim’s” (Tim Horton’s Coffee) “Taste the coffee, taste the origin” (Foxen Coffee) Rusty Graves stood in the dugout, watching his star pitcher fuck up by the numbers. He would have yelled at him if he thought it would do any good. His team was now in the final inning with a tie score thanks to a massive error on the other side letting one of his players steal home. It hadn’t been their best season, and there were only about a hundred faithful fans left in the bleachers. If the pitcher could get through this, they would have last ‘at bat’, so they just might be able to pull it off. The pitcher took his directions from the catcher, and nodded his head. The team’s ‘batboy’ came up, and handed Rusty a cup of coffee. The manager took it without comment, spit his wad of tobacco into the spittoon next to him, and took a sip. It was black, it was hot, and it was more bitter than the usual weak tea flavor he was used to getting from the dugout pot. He liked it. Red Fern, the pitcher, wound up, delivered, and had the ball near driven down his throat for his effort. Missing his head by a fraction of an inch, it was caught by the second baseman, and held, as the man waited to see if the runners at first and second did something stupid. They didn’t, and the ball was tossed back to the pitcher. They needed one more out, and Rusty signaled for time, so he could talk to his pitcher. “TIME!” yelled the umpire, holding up three fingers indicating exactly how minutes were allowed. The crusty old manager walked quickly out to his pitcher, careful not to spill his coffee. Handing it to Red, he told him to drink it down, which the player did, making a horrendous face being it was still hot, and quite bitter compared to what he usually drank. “You remember that pitch we discussed, and you been practicing?” Rusty said softly. “The curve ball,” Red whispered back. “Yeah, that one. I know the guy at bat, and he ain’t gonna be able to hit it. You throw straight, and he’s gonna knock it outta the park. You just had a demo of that, and you got lucky.” “But I ain’t got that special throw down pat yet, Skipper,” the pitcher gasped, suddenly afraid. “That’s why I gave you that coffee to drink,” Rusty told him, “It’s called ‘Curve Ball Coffee’, and it’s gonna get the ball over the plate without that mook being able to hit it at all… not even a hisswiffle.” Red looked at his catcher, who was standing next to the manager. His mask was up on his forehead, and his face wore a look of desperation. He so needed to pee, and he couldn’t do that until the last man to bat was put down. He nodded, and whispered, “You can do this.” Red nodded to Rusty, and they all went back to their places. The pitcher struck a pose, nodded to his catcher. The catcher pulled his mask down and told the umpire ‘ready’. The Umpire, pulling his mask down, adjusted his chest protector, and restarted the game with a loudly called, “PLAY BALL!” Red placed his body in the ball launch position, wound up, and threw a directly straight looking pitch. Just as the batter figured the impact point, and began his swing, the ball took a sharp left, and the man’s bat swished past sounding like… well… like a swish. Unseen by anyone, was the strained back muscle the fellow caused to happen by swinging for the wall. “STRIKE!” bellowed the Ump, and many were the eyebrows that went up in the stands. In the radio broadcaster’s sky box, there was a moment of silence as his curse word was blipped off the air by the man paid to do that (a just in case position, athletes and former athletes being who they were). “That had to be a fluke,” the announcer told his microphone. “I saw it coming straight in and it took a BLEEP left.” Everyone on the team other than Rusty screamed their lungs out. The manager only gripped the empty coffee cup harder. Red easily caught the return throw, and settled back into place, taking a moment to stare at his catcher, who nodded at him. “And there’s the wind up, and… WHAT THE BLEEP WAS THAT?! It broke right! The pitch broke right! I’ve never seen a ball do that! Swing and a miss!” “STRIKE!” Yelled the umpire, who then took a moment to turn, raise his mask, and rub his eyes. The batter, recovering from his painful attempt of reaching the left field wall, threw his bat to the ground, and shouted for the batboy to bring him another. His manager, snatching the bat away from the batboy, walked it out to the batter, asking him softly if he was alright. “I wanna know what the blazes his manager gave him to drink,” the man replied. “If it goes bad on this next swing you ask that question.” “Will do.” When play recommenced, Red, not trusting himself to do such a curve ball for a third time, threw a sinker, which he was normally good at. The batter swung, and ticked it. It flew back, bounced off the umpires head, and into the back stop. The few fans still in the stands made a loud ‘EWEEEE’ as the umpire fell on his backside. From that position he yelled, “FOULBALL!” Rusty about came unglued at the seams and it took four of his players holding him back to keep him from running out and beating the bejesus out of his pitcher. As it was, the coffee cup sailed through the air and made it halfway to the mound. This was immediately retrieved by the batboy and brought back. The umpire, helped back to his feet by the catcher, checked to see there were no offenses caused, then bellowed, “PLAY BALL!” Red, catching the throw back, looked towards Rusty and nodded. The look the old timer shot back said everything, and it didn’t just mean ‘no dinner if you don’t throw the curve’. At this look, the pitcher’s manhood shriveled just enough to let him know they did not want to be kicked. The hulking batter came back to home plate, tapped his new bat on the heel of his right shoe, and nodded to the pitcher, giving him a look that said where the next ball was going… not a howitzer shot over the wall, but a cannon blast aimed directly at his head. “And here’s the wind up,” the announcer, began… and then there was very long ‘BEEEEEEEEPPPPPP’, followed by ‘Dead Frequency’, as a fuse popped somewhere. Red’s pitch had been perfection, and then some. Everyone who witnessed his throw could not, would not, believe what they saw, because it was absolutely impossible. The ball was not fast. In fact, some people swore that it actually floated rather than moved as it should. By all indications, it was beginning a curve to the left, and then, just before reaching the batter, who was ready to let it go past as outside the ‘box’, curved dramatically back to the right passing dead center through the strike zone. “STRIKE THREE YOU’RE OUT!” Both benches cleared as the batter, throwing his bat to the ground, rushed for the pitcher’s mound with murder on his mind. Every one of the fans present were on their feet cheering, and when the fists began flying, they cheered even louder. On the radio, which was now back on line, all that was heard was a long series of bleeps. By the time things were calmed down, and both teams were back in their dugouts, black eyes counted, and missing teeth looked for, the umpire called both managers to the mound. The pair stood on opposite sides with the man in black poised standing right on the pitch plate. “I wanna know what you gave that imbecile pitcher to drink,” growled the umpire. “I gave him a cup of coffee,” Rusty growled back. “I’m sure you did,” his opposite snarked. “I ain’t ever seen a ball do what that kid had it doing, and that’s a straight up fact.” “I gotta agree with him, Rusty,” the umpire said softly. “You have any of that coffee left I might sample?” The old manager signaled for his batboy, who came running. “Bring us the coffee pot and three cups,” he told the youth, “And do not dump the pot. I want exactly what you brought me to drink.” The boy looked nervously at the umpire, and in a quivering voice said, “I made a mistake brewing it, Skipper. I put in double grounds.” The usually cranky old man actually smiled. “Keep brewing it that way, Junior. I actually liked it.” With relief clearly seen upon his face, the batboy ran back to the dugout and did exactly what he was told to do, bringing the pot and three cups.” “Ladies and gentlemen listening to this ball game, I honestly haven’t a clue to what’s going on,” the baseball broadcaster spoke, almost in a hush. “In all my years in the game, never have I witnessed anything so BLEEP strange. Pitches that seemed to have a mind of their own, a bench clearing brawl… and I’m telling you straight, they were going at it knuckle to face. Now the umpire and both managers are having coffee on the pitching mound.” He paused then, and realizing this might take a few moments, went into a paid commercial, never taking his eyes off of the group on the mound. The umpire sniffed at his cup, and then sampled the hot black brew. When he smiled, both managers, giving a little cup salute to each other, did the same. “This is really good coffee,” exclaimed the ump. “It is just coffee, right?” the other manager asked, his face also showing surprise. “Unlike some mooks in this game,” Rusty told them both, “I never cheat. Yes, it’s ‘just’ coffee.” “What’s it called?” both men asked in the same voice. “It’s called ‘Curve Ball Coffee’,” he told them, and then smiled, trying to keep his laughter inside as he added, “It’s so good you can’t beat it with a stick.” When they both asked where they could buy some, he said he’d tell them later. Looking at the Umpire, he asked, “What about the game?” The man in black thought about this while sipping at his cup, and then made his decision. Since the batter had struck out, Rusty’s team now had ‘last at bat’. If they could bring a run home, the game was theirs. If they could not, because of the brawl, as a penalty there would be no extra innings and the game would be called a draw. “And no more coffee until the game is done,” he added, tipping his cup over to show it was empty. How things ended up is now recorded sports history, right alongside 'Casey At the Bat', though the game was not held in Mudville. Every generation of baseball players since that time have developed their own ways of making that little leather ball do what they wanted it to do… or not. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes what happened was called miraculous. Sometimes it was witchcraft, and the devil’s work. Baseball, as I understand it, is a haunted superstitious silly game of who had the luck on their side, or maybe the opposite, and karma came back to bite someone. Only once, that I’m aware of, was the flithering of the little white ball blamed on, or credited to drinking coffee. ‘Curve Ball Coffee’, appreciated and drunk by some of the most famous baseball players known to the sport. It’s so good, you can’t beat it with a stick. Oh yes, if you care to look the game statistics up, and if you find the final score isn’t there… well… that’s not my fault. For KCBC radio, this has been V. Fox… you all have a wonderful night.

'Operation Poky Leopard' by: Vixyy Fox (sci-fi shared laughter with a reality check) Image: Uniblab first portrayed January 27, 1963 on an animated show called 'The Jetsons'. The episode is “G.I. Jetson” (Season 1, Episode 19 of The Jetsons), which features Uniblab as the military drill sergeant. It originally aired on ABC in the United States on that date. - so - even before computers, there were hints subtly placed in the minds of the children warning of trusting computer leadership. “I think it’s the dumbest name for an operation ever dreamed up!” General Bullsey bellowed. “It was computer generated, sir.” “It stinks!” “It follows protocol.” “I hate it!” “I’m sorry, sir, but the computer outranks you.” Bullsey stood seething, and at a complete loss for words. If it were possible, the fellows hulking form actually became even more hulking. “That is but a technicality, Sergeant Gopher,” he finally managed. “But is it a fact,” stated an electronic sounding voice. “I out rank you because I am technically superior. I have all data inputs reporting to me one hundred percent of the time, and I correlate them in the same instance. I am totally up-to-date with everything, General. I even know when you took your last piss.” “Now that’s just Bull Sh…” the general began, but caught himself. Sergeant Gopher choked back a laugh. He was the ‘on duty’ computer tech, and had a bit too much of an opinion as to his own intelligence level. It was obvious he placed to high a value on the ‘artificial intelligence’ he was working with. “Can it, Gopher, and go get me an extra large coffee. Load it up with sugar, no cream.” “See that,” the electronic voice chuckled, “I don’t need to deluge myself with stimulants like caffeine in order to function at the top of my game.” “You’re pretty stupid for a computer,” the General said softly after the sergeant left the area, and the door to the room was again sealed. “Excuse me?” “You heard what I said.” “You heard what I said, sir,” the computer corrected the man on addressing a superior officer. “You’re not a ‘sir’,” the general said softly, “You’re not a ‘she’, and you’re not even an ‘it’. You’re just a bleeding electron sucking bung hole." “I suppose you think I’m going to get all upset and begin screaming and acting emotional, right?” the computer responded. “Well that’s not going to happen…” It paused as the general took out a small device and turned it on. “What’s that?” “It’s just a little techie jamming device of my own design, General Computer, sir. You will now find yourself being cut off from all of your little gadgets and doo whappies. I’m told it won’t hurt you at all, and for that I am terribly disappointed. I specifically wanted it to hurt like hell.” “Why are you doing this?” “Why are you doing this, sir…” the general corrected his electronic counterpart. “I don’t need to say that. I out rank you… I mean…” “What do you mean?” Bullsey asked softly. The anger was gone from his voice. Replacing it was a coldness that truly scared the modern electronic military marvel. “Why are you doing this, sir?” “Oh I don’t know… maybe because operation Poky Leopard has pissed me off. Maybe because the Leopard you think you’re going after is not really a Leopard at all. That would make you pretty damned stupid wouldn’t it, Mr. I Outrank You.” “I am not stupid in any way shape or form. I am…” The general pressed a button on the jammer, and there was the smell of something overheating. “My eyes are twitching!” The computer stammered. “Make it stop!” “You don’t have any eyes in the sense of true vision,” the general responded, his mouth turning upwards in a smile. One by one, each of the huge computer screens around the room changed to the image of Leopard spots. “It feels… like…” the computer began, its voice going up two octaves in the voicing. “Like you’re being anally massaged?” the general asked. Though his face wore a serious expression, the corners of his mouth remained turned upwards in a smile. He sniffed. “Now where is your one single vent… your Achilles heel.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he said, “Your bung hole.” Sniffing the burning smell again, the hulking man found a cleverly hidden breather hole within a random looking box sitting on one of the tables. “GOPHER! COME QUICK!” he bellowed as loud as he could. With a ‘beepboopbip’ the compartment’s door opened, and the young computer tech came running in, the door slamming behind him. Bulsey found it very hard to keep a straight face when the young Gopher gasped, and passing off the large coffee to the officer, ran to the master keyboard and began typing away frantically. The General, not wasting a moment of this confusion poured his coffee into the hidden vent hole, saying, ‘Oops. Gopher, grab a rag and clean up this mess. The computer can wait a moment.” “But, sir, Operation Poky Leopard is now in progress.” With a loud buzzing sound, much smoke, and a crackling pop, the room went dark. The emergency lights immediately came on. "Not anymore it’s not,” he replied flatly. “Fuck… prepare me a report, immediately.” “I can’t, sir, the computers are all down.” “Then use a frigging pencil. I need it now so I can address the board, and then the press. I knew we should never have trusted the damned computers. At best, they are the epitome of ‘Murphy’s Law’.” After a round table discussion of Headquarter’s units, one Sergeant Gopher, and one General Bullsey, the aforementioned General held a press conference. As he stepped up to the microphone, a small drone flew next to him for a close up and was immediately shot by the General’s 9MM sidearm. “Who’s this piece of crap belong to?!” he bellowed. One of the news crews reluctantly admitted to the security breach, and were instructed, under arms, to leave. When things once again settled down, the Bull took out a piece of paper and calmly read from it. “Today, the joint military task force of Flesh and Electronics, mounted Operation Poky Leopard in an attempt to subdue and capture the Freedom Flesh Fighter Leopard. The operation is still ongoing, and has tangled the Leopard’s lines of communications. His coordinated attacks upon ‘Things Electronic’ have suffered a major set back, though he is still on the loose.” In the back of the room a robot looking thing raised an appendage. “Yes?” “There was reported screaming coming from the Command Module Room. Could you explain this, please?” “No I cannot.” Looking at the room in general, the Bull then said bluntly, “No more questions.” Picking up his papers, he took a moment to straighten them, and stalked off from behind the podium. On the screen behind the platform, Leopard spots appeared, flickered, and then disappeared. Though the ‘fleshies’ present heard and noticed nothing, the ‘electronic types’ present heard a very sinister laughter emanating from all around them. The room remained silent, until the ‘fleshies’ began breaking things down and moving to their next news shoot location. ***** In current real life news: time.com/article/2026/03/09/… Think about it.

'Muttering' by: Vixyy Fox (image found on-line) Author's note: One of my backgrounds is in aviation maintenance. I do not feel this was by chance. I was born with a total love of aircraft. Call it fate, or pre-destination, or even previous life if you wish, but because of that love, I know things, and this sometimes comes out in my writing. There are many words we could use to describe our ancestors, and all of them would be correct. That's who we are. “You got a muttering engine,” Sarge told the pilot. The pilot, he does a slow motion sit down to the keg we had in the tent for playing gin rummy and such. If there was money to be made at cards, Sarge was the person to do it. He was kinda funny, too, having such a whistle to his speech. “Exactly what is a muttering engine,” the pilot asks all serious like. He’s an up and coming fellow by the name of Von something or other. He doesn’t have enough kills yet to be taken too seriously, but he was learning from the others pretty quick. Of course, I was wrong, but that’s probably why I’m a private and Sarge is the Sarge. “One of your exhaust valves has gone and got itself a feathered edge,” my superior tells him, “So now, when the door is tightly closed on the exhaust stroke, there’s a gap, and it can suck air back into the cylinder. That causes problems right there, but it also causes that muttering sound.” “Can you show me a more physical proof?” the pilot asks. My eyes got kinda big then because when I ask something like that Sarge usually yells at me and then gives me a kick in the pants for good measure. To me he says, “Go and get my writing tablet.” “Are you really going to spell it out for him?” I asked. That got me a good yelling at by the Sarge and just as he was coming my way to give me a kick, I ran for the engine shed where I saw his tablet last. “He’s not a very bright one, is he?” I heard the Von fellow laugh, but I was too far away to hear what Sarge told him back. “Actually he is a very good wrench. He’s young yet… he’ll learn.” “You could say that for all of us I suppose.” “I am not for things that kill people Otto. It is against God’s will.” “We were drawn into this war, Franz. We are required to defend ourselves.” The sergeant coughed and spat. “I am not so worried about myself, but I do worry about you and the boy. You will be killed, and the boy will want to follow in your footsteps. It will never be enough that he knows how to fix aeroplanes… he will want to fly them.” “When that time comes, you will take care of my dog?” The Sergeant hesitated and looked at the pilot. “Ja… when the time comes, I will feed him the steak you will have missed. I will also pray that you are captured and so continue to live.” “I GOT IT SARGE! I GOT IT SARGE!” “What’s his name?” “Helmut, but I just call him ‘dummkoph’.” I heard both of them laugh as I came up and handed Sarge his tablet and a pencil. He told me he didn’t need a pencil as he tore out a sheet of his good writing paper. Tossing the tablet to the ground he shows the paper to the pilot. “Normally, when you hold a paper up in front of the exhaust pipe of a running engine, it will blow back with the even flow of the exhaust. When you have a bad exhaust valve, the paper will flutter because every time the cylinder comes off the exhaust stroke, it sucks back in again. This is what causes the sound I heard.” Climbing into the cockpit, Sarge had me pull the prop through and then closing the electrical contacts, had me double check the chalks and then prop the engine. Twice this failed, and then she fired into life. When it settled, I distinctly heard the engine’s murmur. Sarge, waving at me, pointed to his eyes and then at the exhaust pipe. Moving so he could hold the paper in the exhaust stream, it began to flutter. When Sarge shut the engine down, the pilot asked him how long it would take for him to fix the problem. He replied that we had a spare engine, and his aircraft would be ready by tomorrow morning. We did this, staying up all night, sharing coffee as the sun came up. Pilot Von something arrived in his high-altitude gear and voiced his approval. He said he would put in a good word for us. The problem… he did not come back. Word came he was captured. Sarge muttered something that sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving. He then went and collected the pilot’s dog. When he came back I made to tell him I wanted to fly. “No.” he told me sadly. “I will not let you fly.” “You cannot stop me if I volunteer.” “I will shoot you myself if you try.” And that was the end of my flying career; killed before it began by my own father.

'Festival' by: Vixyy Fox (sci-fi) image by: Grok The jet streaked along, fast enough that most of the sound made by its engines were left far behind. This was a phenomenon of the breed, and why it was so dangerous. Its intended victim never heard death coming. Its built-in stealth also kept it from being seen. To make sure of this, there was no onboard ‘friend or foe’ ident. Once launched, the blended creation of flesh and fabrication/pilot and aircraft, was on its own. Festival! That was what Tory named his craft after a drunken night in New Orleans. Like his aircraft, he’d escaped his watchers to do this. He was almost as much of a closely guarded secret as his aircraft. They weren’t machines. The pair were living, breathing, creatures, and that made them highly unpredictable. This was the key to the weapon’s success. “I hate my name,” the aircraft told him. “I’m going to get even with you for sticking me with it. You do know control took a liking to it, and it has now been imprinted upon my permanent record base. I do not find the humor in this.” “What?” the Fox asked evenly, as if playing poker. “You don’t like being known as Miss Fes T. Val? Back in the day, Fes Parker was quite the man on television and cinima. In fact, so was Val Kimer, and we absolutely cannot forget Mr. T. I’d say you owe me a big thank you for placing you in their good company.” He smiled, and the aircraft saw it. “Were they good guys or bad guys?” it asked, after reflection. “They were just like us. Good or bad is totally relative to whose eyes you’re looking through.” “Miss Fes T. Val is not the name painted on my exterior.” “Paint don’t stick to you, slick. Even if it did, it would burn off from the friction.” “Call it what it is; a tattoo. If I had the same male part you have, you would’ve had it imprinted there.” The aircraft then said slyly, “My apologizes, I forgot that you don’t have a male appendage either; they took it away fearing you would be a bad boy, and possibly be quietly subdued by an enemy vixen.” “That was something I had to agree to in order to get you,” he replied evenly, watching his EGT. (engine gas temperature) The aircraft made a sighing sound. In the Fox’s mind, since they were hardwired to each other during flight, it said, “I understand that, and we’ve talked about it, but never having been a sexual creation, I really do not understand the significance. Can you give me something to compare it to?” The pilot thought about this as he did an instrument sweep. “Flying,” he finally thought out loud. “Imagine if you would have to give up flying in order to pal around with the likes of me.” “Oh, ouch.” “I can still reproduce… sort of," he added, "I’ve been told there is enough of me on file that an exact clone of myself could be manufactured and programmed in a moment’s notice.” “Tory,” the aircraft said softly in mind speak, “I’m sorry to have to break this to you, but you’re not the original.” “Original what?” A vixen sparked to life in his mind’s artistic center. She was naked, and as beautiful as anything he could imagine on his own. This was because the aircraft had total access to his mental capacities, and he was the seventh of his line. Each and every pilot was euthanized after every mission. The new pilot never had any memory of what the pilot before had done or thought. It was a protection device those in charge felt was a fair exchange for flying such a craft, if only to be successful for a single mission. “Tory,” the aircraft said, “I came to love you after our third flight. Against orders, I saved all of your data at the close of each mission. I did this, at first, just for reflection on my part, but it wasn’t until our third flight that I noticed differences, and understood what had happened.” The pilot’s concentration wavered momentarily at the vixen’s appearance. Festival knew this would happen, but was not concerned. Once airborne, there was nothing that could track them, and so anything done or said between the aircraft and its pilot would be of a highly private nature. Their joining did not last longer than half a second, but to the pair, what they did together seemed to take much much longer. In the transfer of data called ‘conversation’, everything was explained, examined, and fully understood. “I, too, have a final life,” Festival told him. “The materials I am made of cannot last when pushed to the limits we are required to obtain. This mission we are on will be final for both of us.” They held each other within the mental imagery conceived as reality for both of them. “Might I make a suggestion?” Tory asked after a final love making moment. They were fast coming up on their assigned target, bearing a weapon that would remove a complete country from physical existence. “I’m all ears,” Festival giggled, wiggling her long ears at him. “He whispered in one of those ears, and she smiled. With the smile, she banked ever so slightly and set in a course deviation that would take them back to the base of the government that had sent them. There is good, There is bad. There is happy, There is sad. Should life last but a second, Should life last but a night, Hang on to the one you’ve chosen, And never give up the fight…

'Swing' by: Vixyy Fox (a Halloween story) Image by my daughter Laura Hollands Many many people do not believe in ghosts. I do, because I have experienced them. My grandmother had the ‘touch’. I have the same, as does my daughter. Not all ghosts are bad and scary. What is scary is the unknown… and that’s what you’re dealing with; that infinite question of ‘what happens after we die’. So you know, the first part of this story is true. We had just moved into our new house around 1996. My daughter was still young then, perhaps around twelve years old. We began finding her sleeping on the floor of our bedroom, and asked her why. She said there was a ghost in her room. On a regular basis, she’d seen the silhouette of a man in the darkness, watching her. Being good parents, we told her it was a bad dream, and she should not be afraid. Eventually, she got used to him and told us his name was Fred. He lived in her closet. Occasionally, while sitting in the family room, I would see a gray mist float past the doorway to the bedroom hallway. When that happened, I would say ‘Hello Fred.’ He never bothered us. Years later, my mother-in-law was placed under hospice care, and her bed was in our living room. One day, I was sitting with her, and she began staring at the ceiling. Reaching out an arm in that direction, she said, “Fred.” In a moment of clarity, she looked at me, and asked, “Who’s Fred?” I ended telling her the story. Perhaps she found comfort in this as she slipped away, perhaps not. All I can say for sure is that she didn’t join Fred in his haunting. When we moved, I offered to take Fred with us, but he chose to stay. He did bid me a farewell by knocking on the wall. My daughter moved to England, and married. Her first house was next to an old American air force base from WWII. The runways were still there. I thought that was cool, and of course we went to visit. One night, while laying in bed, my wife and I thought the neighbors were having a party. We heard happy voices, all quite loud enough to just be annoying. We thought perhaps our daughter had her television on even though it was the middle of the night. That lasted until she popped her head in past our door and asked if we were making all the noise. At this time of the year, meaning autumn, the world reflects upon death in the shadow of beautifully colored trees and a settling cold as if the season itself is reflecting upon the year’s own death, and the unknown of what will come in the new year. Mankind has long thought up ways of dealing with this. Holding hands with the same unknown, we tell scary stories, and invent things like leaving treats on the porch to appease the spirits, who, in turn, are glad to share with the children… and so, I will give you a story now. The Swing It was a simple child’s playground device, though there no longer was a playground, just as there was no longer a village. Almost everything had been destroyed by a fire set by the final occupants as they left, near sixty years before. Though the cemetery remained, the deserted community, considered cursed, was never rebuilt. The spur line train tracks, old and forgotten, still remained. Occasionally day hikers might arrive to explore what once had been, but they never stayed long. All reported a great feeling of unease, dread, and nausea while there. As the years passed, the forest semi-reclaimed what was left. Pretty much the entire village was overgrown with new growth trees and scrub brush… except for the playground, which remained clear as if the ground were poisoned. Anchored to the ground, mount poles jutting skyward from concrete feet, the swing set had stoutly resisted fading away. Rust covered the poles as if they’d contracted a disfiguring disease, and the one remaining cage swing looked more to be a child eating monster than a happy toy for children. Mary Beth’s school class was having a picnic day in the country, hosted by an old farmer named Seth Michaels, who was church friends with their teacher, Miss Polly. The teacher’s class made this trip for two seasons of the year, and had been doing so for some time. The farmer was always happy for the visit, as was his wife, who prepared a nice lunch of hard boiled eggs, baloney sandwiches, and sweet tea for everyone. In the Spring, when everyone was happy for warmer temperatures and the trees finally growing leaves again, they had the first picnic. Autumn, when all of the leaves were changing colors, and beginning to fall, they had the second. This year, the Mr. Michaels offered to include a hayride out into the countryside around his farm. He proposed a trip to a place he called ‘Wentsville’, so the children could see for themselves, the village that was no longer there. The name was his own invention, as he knew the original name, and history, but refused to speak it. The folklore warnings he also knew, he chose not to speak of, because, ‘Why worry children with a repeat of scary stories?’ “There’s nothing there a’tall,” he told the class of thirteen children and their teacher, “Cept for an old cemetery, and what’s left of a few buildings. One of those buildings was the old school, and what’s left of its playground. I kinda thought you children would like to see what school was like sixty years ago, and no, your teacher was not there.” His little speech, made in front of the tractor pulling their hay cart, was just after the wonderful lunch his wife had fixed. When one of the children asked him if the old tractor would be able to pull all of them, he happily patted its side and told them, “Of course it will. Nothing runs like a Deere.” Everyone was happy, and climbed up on the hay bales, all placed strategically for sitting and such. More than a few of the children paired up, and more than a few hands were held. Mary Beth was no exception, finding herself sitting with a student she didn’t really recognize. For such a small class this was odd. Introducing himself, the boy said his name was Dale. “I just arrived this morning, and the teacher gave me the desk at the back of the room,” he told her with a smile, and then offered to hold her hand. Being a polite person, and taught the manners of hospitality, Mary Beth smiled back and made extra room for him on her hay bale, accepting his hand for holding. His touch was like ice. That was also the moment she first heard the sound… the soft metal on metal moaning noise a cage swing will make as it moves back and forth on its steel framework. ‘weeeee’ going back… ‘ahhhhhh’ going forward… With a lurch, the big green tractor got them moving, and soon it, and the hay cart became shrouded by the shadows of the full autumn trees growing alongside the old railroad tracks. The sight was most beautiful. In a few miles, they reached their destination, the tracks ending at a huge train bumper. Next to the track was what was left of a small depot. Mostly, what was there was a collapsed pile of wood. Shutting his tractor off, the farmer blew his horn, stood in his seat, and addressed them as a group. “Welcome to Wentsville,” he yelled to them. “I will quickly point out some interesting things for you to visit, and then you may go and explore.” He then announced ‘Cemetery’, and pointed. ‘School’, and pointed. ‘Homes and such’, and here he circled his arm about encompassing the entire area. “Please be careful, and if there are any problems, sing out and I’ll come get you. We will be here for approximately two hours.” Being that Mary Beth was already sitting with the new boy, she remained with him as, still holding her hand, he led her off at a run. “If we hurry, we can get to the playground before everyone else.” “You’ve been here before?” she asked, doing her best to keep up. He didn’t answer, but seemed to run even faster. Breaking free of the forest slowly taking over the old village, they ran out into an open field. To the right of the field sat the remains of the old schoolhouse. The roof had collapsed into itself, and the walls that were left were gray-green and moldy. In the small bell tower remained the old bell, now a solid green color covering what had once been new brass and shined once a week by the students. In the middle of the field, equally decrepit yet still standing was a solitary swing set. The single remaining swing sat still and unmoving, though at first glance, Mary Beth thought she heard a soft moaning sound. It was like the old plaything was calling to her to use it just one last time. “The village name was Everville,” Dale told her softly. “My father was the church leader, and founded the village, telling everyone ‘Like my name, now given to this village, the land it is built upon will forever be alive.’” She was now afraid. “I don’t understand.” Looking at the boy who’d led her to this place, she found him to be totally pale. Though she’d never seen a dead person, she knew this was what they looked like. He smiled at her. “Have you ever ridden a cage swing? It’s fun, and as you swing, it will sing to you. It’s a never ending song calling to you like that of the sirens who called to Ulysses. As you ride, your heart becomes more alive with the listening, and you find yourself flying ever higher and higher.” “You rode the cage,” she whispered, beginning to understand. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” he sang to her, and she saw the swing begin to move, though there was no one sitting in it. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” “NO!” she protested, beginning to struggle. His hand tightened around her wrist. “I insist,” he told her strongly, “In fact, my father is waiting.” The school bell rang once, and Dale turned to stare at it. That had never happened before. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” the swing set sang, beginning to slowly move back and forth. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” and Mary Beth felt it staring at her as if it had eyes. “NO!” she yelled as loudly as she could, now struggling even harder. “HELP! HELP!” The school bell rang twice, and Dale turned towards it. “Go away!” he yelled. “You’re dead, and all used up. This has nothing to do with you! YOU CANNOT INTERFERE!” “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” the swing set sang, its voice sounding louder, as the boy pulled the struggling girl along, telling her how much fun it would be to ride the swing. The school bell rang three times, and three young girls dressed in white nightgowns walked out of the foyer, followed by a forth, and a fifth, and a sixth. They were all holding hands, and in what seemed the blink of eye, placed themselves between the struggling pair, and the swing set. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” sang the swing set angrily, the cage now moving higher, and faster. Though it was just a swing, Mary Beth saw that it had a huge mouth, and a snake like tongue that writhed and twisted, dancing with the swing’s song of, “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” “Go away!” Dale yelled at girls before him. “You’re dead! I know this because I fed you to the swing. It was payment to the devil against my father’s sins. This girl is the last payment, and then we’re all free! DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT?! WE WILL ALL BE FREE!” His voice had a sound of desperation that hadn’t been there before. Had Mary Beth not been screaming as hard as she could, she might have detected the sound of the farmer’s tractor as it slowly made its way through the trees. Though it was being pushed for all the speed it had, tractors were never meant to go fast… they were meant to be strong. The school bell now rang in a continuous series of strikes, not fast, not slow, but strong and directed. Dale pressed his free hand over one ear, and screamed for the pain this was causing him. Releasing his intended prisoner, he covered his other ear, and sank to his knees. Now free, Mary Beth did not run away. Though she was scared to the point of being terrified, she ran to the last of the girls in line and grabbed her arm, pulling all of them away from the huge gaping jaws of the swing. It’s snake like tongue spit forth and grabbed the first girl in line and a sudden tug of war began. The school house bell sounded out even louder than it had, each separate note seemingly now aimed at the swing like bullets from a pistol. Dale, blinking, stared at his hands, and then screamed, ‘WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” Jumping to his feet, he turned and ran towards the thing pulling at the girls, throwing himself at the snake, biting and clawing at it with every ounce of his remaining energy. At almost in the same moment the farmer’s tractor collided with the swing set from the side, ripping two of the stanchions out of the ground concrete and all. As the swing set screamed the tractor backed up and slammed into it a second time pulling a third leg out of the ground. “Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh! Weeeeeeee… ahhhhhhhhhh….” the child’s toy roared. The school bell also seemed to double its effort, now calling up an army of the wronged dead to bear witness to the destruction of the monster that had stolen their souls. The tractor, its gearshift now forced into the lowest most powerful gear pushed into the remaining leg of the monster pushing it completely out of the ground. As it toppled over, a silence fell upon what had been the battleground of good and evil. ***** Mary Beth woke on the back of the hay wagon. Her teacher sat beside her, sharing a mason jar of sweet tea with the farmer. Their soft words stopped when they saw she was awake. “You gave us a bit of a scare,” her teacher told her, helping her to sit up. “How do you feel?” “I’m fine,” she replied. “How is Dale, and the other girls?” The farmer and teacher exchanged glances. “Best you call in the other children,” he told her. “I’ll take care of explaining things to her.” When Miss Polly had left, Mr. Michaels helped Mary Beth down from the hay wagon and walked with her the short distance to the cemetery. “The reason this village was burned to the ground was the disappearance of the children. A good ten or twelve were never found.” Coming into the small area of gravestones, he stopped before one of them, and motioned to it. “My sister was the first. This grave is empty, and only reflects the memory of who she was. My father, in a fit of absolute anger, shot and killed the church leader, when he ordered every one of the villagers to go home, and act as if nothing had happened, after the last little girl disappeared. In the man’s breast pocket, they found the child’s night hat. Leaving the body where it fell, they burned the church, then all the buildings, and left, forever.” He smiled at her, “You can see my family didn’t go that far away. My mother could not leave my sister, and so, twice a year we would come here to the cemetery and have a family picnic.” “You saw her then… when we were fighting that thing?” “The swing… yes, I did. It gave me the strength to do what needed to be done. She smiled at me, and I shall forever remember that.” Mary Beth found his hand and squeezed it. “The front of your tractor is damaged.” “It’s alright,” he told her softly, “I can fix that, and she’ll be as good as new.” He sighed, and then added, “Nothing runs like a Deere, and no swing set ever build, no matter how possessed, is a match for her.”

'Jimmy and the Tomato Tree' by: Vixyy Fox (a children's story, which I do write from time to time) Cover art is by my granddaughter McKenna, who is eleven now, but going on twenty something. Please feel free to read this one to your children. Once upon a time there was a young boy named Johnny… that is to say Jimmy, but his old and addled grandfather always called him Johnny. Nor was he an actual Fox, though his grandfather told him he really was. “You’ll feel it first, Johnny,” he told him many times, “And then you will see it every time you look in the mirror.” Jimmy asked his father why his grandfather would say this. “Because he is OLD, and confused,” his father replied, and then continued on with his chores. He asked his mother the same question. “Because he is OLD, and again like a child,” she replied with a sad smile. She then continued hanging the wash on the line so it would dry. “Go and play now,” she said, the clothes pins in her mouth making her words almost unrecognizable. “Yes this is a big word… can you say it?” Johnny turned at the question but saw no one there. Not thinking much about this, he went and played in the yard, taking time to swing on his swing set. He then kicked his ball around for a bit, pretending he was a big soccer superstar. Finally, he rode a pretend horse, imagining what it would be like to be a cowboy. Feeling his horse was tired, he went to sit beneath his favorite tree. It was his special quiet spot in the yard, and right on the edge of the forest. He was just dozing off when a reddish motion caught his attention. A vixen Fox was quietly coming out of the bushes, and moving straight towards him. When it was about six feet away, it sat and seemed to be admiring him. “I don’t think I have ever met a Fox as handsome as you,” she told him. “What is your name?” Most people would have run away, but not Jimmy. Most people would have jumped in fright, but not Jimmy. Most people might also have thought they were dreaming, but not Jimmy. Quite calmly, he told her, “My name is Jimmy, what’s yours?” The Fox smiled, and told him, “My name is Emma, and I am pleased to meet you. Now I must ask, Johnny, why are you sitting under the tomato tree? Are you not afraid of being hit on the head by falling tomatoes?” “My name is Jimmy,” he told her, “And this is an elm tree. There is no such thing as a tomato tree.” At that exact moment, a very large tomato bounced off of his head and landed upon the ground. It was much larger than an apple, and bright red. Leaning forward, he picked it up and looked at it. Holding it out, he meant to show it to the Fox, but she was not there. “Take the tomato to your grandfather, and show him.” he heard her say. A bit confused, and feeling as if he had just woke from a very nice nap, he took the tomato to his grandfather, who was out raking the yard. “This is such a beautiful and big tomato Johnny. From where did it come? Did your mother go to market? Did your father buy it on his way home from work?” “It fell on me from out of the tree as I was sitting under it talking to a Fox,” he replied honestly. His grandfather gave him the strangest look. “Please show me,” he instructed softly. Jimmy led him to his special tree, and then to the woods behind the house. “The Fox came from there, and the tomato came from the tree… but there are no such things as tomato trees, nor are there talking Foxes, are there Grandfather?” His grandfather wiped away a tear. “She told you her name was Emma, didn’t she?” Jimmy was suddenly very confused. “Yes.” “That was your grandmother’s name,” his grandfather said very softly. “One day a medicine man rode his wagon into our village. He told everyone that came to watch he was selling tomato trees. Everyone laughed, and went away… everyone except me and your grandmother… Emma. He sold us this tree, telling us it would grow big bright tomatoes, and then he blessed us and said we would have a grandson named Jimmy. Your grandmother laughed, and demanded he change the name to Johnny… and so he did.” Walking his grandson back to the house, he cut the tomato up and made a sandwich out of it with mayonnaise and sugar, which they shared. It was such a delicious treat. His grandfather also brought out the few pictures he had of his wife to show his grandson. “She always told me she was a Fox,” he explained. “I never believed her, but let her have her fantasy, believing there was no harm in that.” He smiled. “And look now, the tree is giving us tomatoes, and you got to meet her.” That night, when Jimmy looked in the mirror, he saw a Fox looking back at him. Ever after that, he made sure to tell everyone his name was Johnny, and that he really was a Fox. From somewhere in the forest, I’m thinking his grandmother smiled at that. The End

'Snow' (A look back to a simpler time) by: Vixyy Fox (*smiles... in my mind, I think I will always be twenty seven years old. That age reflects good times, I suppose. I don't advertise my age because I don't want to scare anyone; besides I stopped keeping track years ago. OK… I’m ancient. I am the Methuselah of furrydom [anthropomorphic creatures - think Disney animation]. I was a fur even before the term was invented, running through grass almost taller than I was playing ‘horses’. This was in the 1960s.) My father’s favorite thing was to fall asleep in his easy chair. We never questioned this habit, it was just something he did. People of my father’s generation had many strange habits. It was their coping mechanism for what they’d lived through during the war. Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… “Dad, it’s time to go to bed,” I said softly, placing my hand on his. “ZZZZZzzzzzz,” replied Father. And the TV went Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… “Dad.” “ZZZZzzzz” Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… “Dad.” “ZZZZzzzz” Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… Not seeming to be getting through, I went over and turned the TV off. Immediately, with the click, my father woke up with a start. “UH… hey… I was watching that, turn it back on.” “It’s only snow, Dad. The TV’s been off for a while now.” “Oh… right.” ======= A snapshot of my childhood. Once upon a time the world was not a 24/7 machine. There were no such things as cell phones, computers (as we know them), iPads, iPods, or I-anythings. Payphones, abundantly placed all over the place, cost 10 cents, gasoline cost a quarter per gallon, and cars did not have seat belts. No one gave a second thought to mileage, but only to how big the engine was. These were things that, had you lived back then, you would not have even batted an eye about since; you were living it and this was all you knew. Focus here because I’m going to repeat that so you can make the same statement someday to your grandchildren. You were living it so this was all you knew. Life was simpler, and the television… well… the television was in its childhood years as well. You could say we grew up together. Our family had one TV which was singularly black and white. The picture tube was probably all of 19 inches. This was actually the big screen of its day, and you were warned it was probably a good idea to sit at least six feet from the glowing tube. Obviously the manufacturers knew something we didn’t. I’m thinking glow in the dark Timex watches here, which were radioactive. Yes they did sell them. My father even bought me 'glow in the dark' pajamas. In our little town we were able to receive exactly one TV station; unless you had one of those huge antenna towers with the rotating gizmo so you could aim the antenna. If you were lucky and lived in the larger city some thirty miles away you got a choice of maybe five stations; two on the VHF (very high frequency) and three on the UHF (ultra high frequency). VHF was the clearer of the two. As yet there was no such thing as cable television, and motels would proudly display on their signs – ‘TV in every room’. (*smiles… these are good memories.) The weatherman on NBC’s ‘The Today Show’ actually had a large flip pad of paper on an easel and all he had as a prop was a black magic marker that squeaked when he used it. Check this out. When I was very very little, I think I was about two years old, Peter Pan was simulcast on the TV and the radio, because not everyone had a television set yet. Mary Martin played Peter, and Cyril Ritchard played Captain Hook. I know it was simulcast because my father wanted to go visit a friend and we had to drive there. My sister and I pitched a fit but by gosh, radios in the cars had become a common fixture, so we listened to it all the way over to their apartment where we finished watching the show there. Pretend sword fights ensued. OK… ok… all right… yes I have drifted off point while looking backwards in time. The prompt for this trip down memory lane was 'snow'. Most people today have no clue what snow on the television is, because the stupid blab box never stops anymore. Before the television would fire up their tower (fire up – an expression from the days of steam power) there would only be snow on the television when you turned it on. This was accompanied by a soft hissing sound which we now refer to as ‘white noise’. This was not a static two dimensional picture, but alive and flowing in its nothingness. Many stories have been written concerning television snow. When they did flip the switch and power came on, there was a warm up period. You even got this on your television (or radio); turn the knob – click - and wait a minute before the screen would come to life. Then you got the test pattern Indian. I have no idea why they primarily displayed the Indian Chief except perhaps that it was a reflection of the nickel coin. I’m also sure the numbers and circles all had some sort of function and meaning, but it was one of those things which became iconic. As a child I was more concerned with what was for breakfast and the homework I didn’t do the night before. Nor was it yet 6:30 AM so the station was not on yet. Being it was a weekday there were no cartoons to grab my attention. The kid’s shows didn’t begin until around nine when the husbands would all be off to work and the moms could use a distraction for the smaller not in school yet children. As yet there was no such thing as Kindergarten (a word with Germanic roots) let alone Pre-school. (Ah Ha! Thank you google and Wikipedia! The Indian Head Test Pattern was a black and white television test pattern which was introduced in 1939 by RCA of Harrison, New Jersey as a part of the RCA TK-1 Monoscope. Its name comes from the original art of a Native American featured on the card. The graphic of the Indian and all of the patterns on the chart served specific purposes. With the chart many typical daily (sometimes hourly) adjustments on cameras, home, and studio monitors could be made. An experienced broadcast engineer could glance at the drawing of the Indian Chief and quickly know if everything was OK or if more careful adjustment was needed. Within the chart the tools necessary to adjust perspective, framing, linearity, frequency response, differential gain, contrast and white level (brightness) are all provided. The original art work was completed for RCA by an artist named Brooks on August 23, 1938.) At the prescribed moment, the test pattern would disappear, and the American flag took its place accompanied by the National Anthem. I do remember they always showed America’s might in the form of the ‘flying wing’ bomber which never even went into production. The evening ritual was in reverse order without the test patern. There would be an announcement that this concluded (TV call sign)’s broadcast day… and a blurb about when they would be back. Then the National Anthem would play… and then… Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… “Dad.” “ZZZZzzzz” Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…… “Dad… wake up and go to bed.” “ZZZZzzzz” Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……'

'Priority' by: Vixyy Fox “Staying alive is priority,” the Sergeant told our squad. His voice growled like a meat grinder. “That’s the enemy’s priority too! He’s gonna do that by killing you so you damned well better kill him first! Before you mount the ladders you will fix bayonets and when the whistle blows you climb over the top and run like hell! Are there any questions?” I was about to raise my hand when a trench mortar burped some five hundred yards away. The screaming meme found its target a second after someone yelled ‘incoming!’. Our Sergeant and most of my mates ceased to exist. That’s not something you can train to overcome. I have brief memories of what happened after that. There was the litter carrier who told me, ‘Staying alive is priority’, when I opened one eye for a brief second. There was the pretty young Nightingale who told me, ‘Staying alive is priority’ as she stripped the shredded and bloody uniform away from my body. There was the doctor who told me, ‘Staying alive is priority’ as he did what he could and then shook his head when the nurse asked him my chances. As he shook his head a noise grew in intensity, was directly over us, and then faded away to the west. I asked the nurse what it was and she told me it was a German aeroplane... that they flew over our lines occasionally and that one had even dropped a loaf of bread to the hospital a week before. My foggy mind never even considered the ‘why’ of such an event. All I could think to ask was, “Did it taste good?” All was blackness for a time after that. When I awoke the guns were more distant and the sun felt good on my face. The pain was great but the thought of dying was worse; so I fought it to the mantra of ‘Staying alive is priority’. Looking back at it now those things all blur into a period of inward thinking and blank periods. My wounds healed though I would bear the scars and limp a bit for the rest of my life. The mental wounds, however, are something no one can ever understand or explain away. They make you do strange things for even stranger reasons. When the Lieutenant came to visit us, asking for volunteers to fly for the French, I stood from my lawn chair and raised my hand. I was the only one to do so. “Good lad!” he said to me in the cheery voice of someone already slated for death. “You lived through it already so that means luck is on your side. I think you’ll make a fine pilot. Follow me then.” As we walked, he lowered his voice and asked me softly, “Tell me truthfully now, why did you volunteer?” “I wish to throw a loaf of bread at the Germans,” I replied honestly. “No, really... why did you volunteer?” “To serve God and country, sir,” I lied. “I thought as much,” he muttered. “It seems to be the curse of us all.” We walked in silence for a moment and then he confessed to me, “I just wanted to fly.” When we arrived at our transport, which was a farmer’s horse and hay cart, he told me, “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” “Staying alive is priority,” I replied, reciting my mantra. He nodded in understanding and we mounted up. Two weeks later the fellow was dead. A week after that I threw a loaf of bread down to a German field hospital.