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The Flame Of Justice, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/7/2018

 
Ms. Mita Sen, an Indian-American entered Barnes & Nobles, a bookstore on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, New York. As she was walking past the isle displaying newly released books, the cover of a non-fiction caught her immediate attention. It was a collection of unpublished letters of Late Nelson Mandela from his twenty-seven years of prison life. Even from prison, he was able to motivate his fellow black South Africans to stand up against the evilness of apartheid. Then on his release, he continued his non-violent struggle, eventually forcing to abolish the practice. But the world would always wonder “How did he keep his own flame of justice alive for all those years in some notorious prisons, especially the one in Robben Island?” May be the answers lie in those letters!

However, for Ms. Sen, the cover of the book also opened a window to her own past. She was born to an Indian father and a British mother. Her father, a brilliant student, went to London for higher studies. There he met his future wife who was willing to come to India to settle down and raise a family. Children were born and raised in newly-independent India, being exposed to the Far-East culture. Then, in late ’60-s, her mother would decide to take the children to meet their grandparents first time. Though air-travel was becoming popular, the parents would decide to make the trip in old-fashioned way, traveling in a ship. Their intention was to giving the kids enough time to get exposed to Western culture before meeting the members of the mother side of the family.

In a late summer day, the family took a European Liner from Bombay (now Mumbai) en route to its first destination to a port in Italy. However, the journey took close to a month to reach its destination. Due to an ongoing regional conflict, the Suez Canal was closed to commercial vessels. Thus, the ship was re-routed around The Cape of Good Hope in South Africa. The travelers were allowed to disembark and visit various ports throughout that country. And that’s when, the family spent a few days in Cape Town, in the height of the apartheid days. Every moment from that visit now started to flash inside her brain.

Being minors, all the siblings were traveling under their mother’s British Passport. Thus, they were allowed to enter the premises marked clearly “Whites Only”! Even now, she felt the chill that flown down her spine from the angry looks of the patrons of all those areas. She remembered traveling in “Whites Only” cabs. She was too young then to understand the surrounding evilness. But, the memory stayed back.

Nowadays even in US, whenever she hears about the cold-blooded shooting of an unarmed black man by a white police officer, her heart races, while the memory flashes with those past “looks”.

​
(Author’s note: This manuscript benefited from a helpful discussion with Ms. Benita Mukerji.)

Outside the Lines, by Don Tassone

30/7/2018

 
On the first day of kindergarten, Becky’s teacher, Ms. Williamson, handed out drawings of a teddy bear and told her students to color it.

“Be sure to stay inside the lines,” she said.

The children grabbed their crayons and got to work. Most stayed safely within the lines. A few strayed a bit.

With Becky’s teddy bear, though, every line was crossed—by a wide margin.

“Why did you do that?” Ms. Williamson asked.

“He’s jumping around,” Becky answered.

Throughout grade school, Becky got F’s in art. She never stayed inside the lines.

Today she teaches quantum physics at MIT.

No Play Today, by John Cooper

30/7/2018

 
The actors all stood self-consciously in the darkened theatre waiting for some kind of direction.

They knew the sets were built, the costumes were made and the lighting had been programmed for all the many entrances and exits they had been rehearsing.

In the foyer they had all passed the posters announcing the dates of the performances and the box office had reported a steady sale of tickets for the last two weeks; indeed rumour had it that every show had all but sold out.

So as they waited, the only question they really had was what was the play they were to perform?

The Chain, by Mark Tulin

30/7/2018

 

It was a beautiful day to be on the pier. The yellow California sun was shining. People were eating ice-cream cones. Some were taking pictures, and others were hypnotized by the vast glistening ocean.

While enjoying this ideal atmosphere, I heard some muted sounds coming from the far end of the pier. I turned, and there was an adult pelican on the wooden rail with its mouth unable to open due to a thin chain wrapped around its long beak.


I didn’t know what to do, so I helplessly watched the bird struggle.

I hoped that the pelican could free himself somehow and to avoid a potentially lethal entanglement.


A fisherman in a flannel shirt spotted the bird. He put down his fishing rod, threw his fish back into the water, and closed his tackle box.

I could tell that it wasn’t just about being a hero for this man. It was more about a free spirit, bound and trapped. The man couldn’t stand by and do nothing while a living creature was in such a state of panic. 


Without hesitation, he sprung into action. He quickly moved toward the suffering pelican on the wooden rail.

I marveled at the man’s display of courage, while I looked on in fear.


He grabbed the bird’s large beak without getting bit, held it tight and, with a penknife in his right hand, cut the chain, unraveling it quickly so the bird would be able to open its mouth again.

By then a large crowd of people had assembled to watch the spectacle.


After the pelican was free of the chain, the man in the flannel shirt stood back, allowing the bird to regain its equilibrium. 


In the next instant, the pelican flapped its wings furiously, letting out a guttural bark, pushed off the wooden rail and made its ascension.

Before it flew away, the bird turned toward the man in the flannel shirt and looked down at him and only him. 


That was all the man needed.

The Rope, by Jeffrey Paolano

29/7/2018

 
Rene clings to a scant ledge with taped, chalked fingers capped with ragged nails.
Lorn clambers to one side; seeking to avoid being swept from his precarious perch.
The boys are edging and smearing.
The ledge crumbles loosing Rene’s fingers. He shrieks a frantic, “FALLING!”
Lorn as belay, body braces, grasping the rope at the carabiner preventing a free run.
Rene’s deadweight hurtles past, snatching Lorn off the rock face.
Both boys plummet through space.
Tumbling topsy-turvy their attempt to regain a handhold is futile.
The snaking rope entangles them.
Sniggering they lay upon the cushioning sand, their ten-foot plunge arrested.

One-Way Traffic, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

28/7/2018

 
My hairdresser, Jane Daniels, really gets me. I’ve been going to her for the last seven or eight years, since just after I married Dan. Dan’s not an easy man, though he’s a high carat looker. We’ve had our moments and I might have left him before now, if it wasn’t for Jane’s wise words. When my Dad died a month before my eldest was born, I struggled to hold it together, but our weekly blow dries kept me going. She’s laughed with me, sympathised with me and reassured me through so many life events, I don’t know how I’d cope without her. It’s down to her that I got my promotion last year, I nearly chickened out of applying but Jane wouldn’t have any of it. And, she made me look like a million dollars for my interview. It’s strange though, I know very little about her life, it’s all one-way traffic.

I’m having my colour done today. That means three hours with Jane, and God I need it. It’s Dan again: innocently, I opened his credit card statement. Three payments for meals in a swanky eatery, one I’d always fancied trying. The dates? When I’d taken the kids to Mum’s for half-term. He’s taking me for a fool, the bastard. Mustn’t do anything hasty though, he’s a good earner. Jane’ll put me straight.

The car park behind the salon is rammed, so I head for the supermarket. When I rush in, late, the receptionist smiles up at me,
‘Karen will be looking after you today. Jane’s left us.’ How could she? I run back to my car and sit there shaking. When I look up, I see Dan’s Audi in the petrol station and Jane Daniels is kissing him hard on the mouth.

Taken by the Sea, by Laura Kuhlmann

27/7/2018

 
His hand slides from the nape of my neck down to my shoulders, just as the smooth motion of the wave caresses the beach whilst it retreats into the ocean. I lean my head back, let it sink in the wet sand and foaming water. The dying wave crackles softly around me, leaving behind transparent half-spheres that break in the wind.

My fingers travel from the small of his back to his shoulder-blade with the next wave. The water splashes against my jaw and fills my mouth; his weight is on my ribs and for a moment I struggle to breathe. The blue of his eyes dissolves into the cloudless sky. In need of air, I raise my head from the roiling water and steal a taste of salt from his lips.

The surf withdraws, leaving behind a translucent tiny shell, stranded on the tip of my nail. The nacre is so thin I fear one touch will shatter it. I risk a caress – and shiver as his hand slips down my chest.

A woman’s voice, yelling for her children to come out of the water, crashes on us from behind the rocks. His lips, grazing my ear, freeze. With one push, he raises himself, leaving me unprotected to face the incoming wave. Warm water licks my body, taking with it the delicate mother-of-pearl it had bestowed on me earlier. The tide tugs at his ankles as he walks away. He stumbles and catches himself against the rocks that shelter us. He glances over them carefully, fearful she may have seen us. I dig out a fistful of sand and broken shells and squeeze, until their sharp edges cut into my skin. And watch him make his way back to his family.

I squeeze the jagged seashells tighter, trying to make at least one thing mine.

On a Puff of Air, by Marjan Sierhuis

26/7/2018

 
Muffled voices and a cacophony of sounds creeps stealthily through a crack in the hospital door, but they go unnoticed by the couple within. A wall clock silently sweeps hands around a clock face and counts down hours, minutes and seconds. A half empty crash cart and supply cart now sits idle on the sidelines; soldiers who have seen recent battle.

Charles has been in the fight of his life, but cancer is the undefeated champion. He now lays quietly with his eyes closed while beads of perspiration tickle his forehead and trickle their way down his cheeks. His heart cycles incessantly in his chest and it answers to the beat of its own drummer. Oxygen moves frugally in and out of his lungs; the chemical element is like the forces of the sun and the moon that play among the tides of the ocean.

His beloved wife Rose, sits by his bedside. A look of defeat crosses her delicate features as beams of sunlight peek over her shoulder. They cast their brilliance on a creased wedding photo that she holds tightly between her fingertips; a happy event that now seems such a long time ago.

She leans over, kisses her husband’s cheek and whispers in his ear. Gently she pats his damp forehead with a handkerchief. It falls from her fingertips and suddenly catches on a puff of air as it floats onto his pillow.

She grasps his cold hand in hers. Her eyes fill with unshed tears as she bows her head in prayer. Slowly Charles opens his eyes and turns his head towards Rose. There is a sudden flash of recognition. He sighs and for a fleeting moment he knows he is not alone.

Liver Flavored Treats by Mark Tulin

23/7/2018

 
I met Rudy, a Tonkinese, on a cold day in February while visiting my girlfriend, Joan. Rudy was relaxing by the window, getting some sun when I arrived.

“Hello, Rudy,” I said in a soft voice so not to frighten him.

Rudy eyeballed me but didn’t respond. Instead, he puffed out his furry cheeks as if to say, “I don’t say hello to strangers. What do you take me for?”

Rudy was always an independent cat, even as a kitten. Once in a while, Rudy would chase dots of light, but would rarely use a scratchpad or chase a fake mouse around.

As Rudy grew older, he became even moodier and more territorial and, at times, aggressive toward those who moved into his space.

Rudy never really warmed up to me. He knew that I was Joan’s boyfriend and that she really liked me, but that didn’t make any difference. He seemed to despise all men and especially those who took Joan’s attention away from him.

I wouldn’t have minded if Rudy just avoided me when I came over, but he was openly hostile, often hissing and exposing his sharp claws if I looked at him in the wrong way.

Seeing my discomfort, Joan suggested that I buy Rudy some liver-flavored cat treats and give Rudy some each time I came over her apartment.

So at each visit, I would spread a few cat treats on the floor and watch Rudy snap them up. I would not expect any affection from him nor move into his space. In return, he did not stick his butt in my face or hiss at me. I did this for a month, and it seemed that the two of us came to a mutual understanding.
​

Temptress, by Jeffrey Paolano

22/7/2018

 
Marjorie fluffs her summer dress of challis with genteel hands. As the flower patterns settle all that remains in the minds of the men populating the room is the fleeting glimpse of her exquisite legs.
Harold springs first.
Carl quickly follows suit.
“Marjorie my dear, care for lemonade?”
“Would you like your umbrella adjusted for the sun?”
Marjorie smiles the know to Gloria, it’s almost too easy.
Cathy, carrying a resolute weight issue, waylays them at the refreshment table, “She plays you as fools.”
“Yeah”
“Have you no pride?”
Harold questioningly looks to Carl, “Nope.”
Cathy finessed, glowers above her lemonade.

Eat the Gun, by Edric R. A. Gibson

20/7/2018

 
Everything in the tiny living room reminded him of why his full lips were wrapped around the steel barrel of his pistol. His eyes were camera lenses blurred by the tears he desperately tried to hold back. If his eyes were the camera then they were capturing one of the most somber documentaries of his time. Why? Because he had the misfortune of being its’ star. The question was entertained for a few seconds. The question was “isn’t there something that will convince me it’s not over yet?”

It most certainly wasn’t the red cup with the thin white brim. Its contents once Jack on the rocks was now just warm water and dull whiskey. It was appropriately placed on top of one of three unpaid bills, stained and crumbled. The unrecognizable flash that scurried across the opposite side of the room reminded him that those damn mouse traps didn’t work.

A symphony of police sirens, ambulances, and the cackling laugh of a man bladdered from malt liquor assured him that these were the sights and sounds he would not miss. But none of these things were really the reason why. They just made this ceremony which is practiced every 16.2 minutes in America more fitting. Statistically, speaking every death by suicide affects at least 6 people but he deemed himself the exception, there would be no one personally affected by it. A strange confidence reassured him that the only people affected by it would be the people allowed passed the yellow barricade tape. The cremator and political pundit trying to make a point about suicide on the evening news. That doesn’t really count because he knows that his story segment will be in the hearts and minds of those who still watch the news for about five minutes until it evaporates and fades into memory.

This isn’t a pity thing it’s just doing what’s right. He knew this to be true. The ribbons and medals on his uniform hanging up covered in a digital patterned body bag told his story. If you saw you would know he took lives before. Why not take his own no one would really care. Just yesterday, there was an SJW (social justice warrior) that told him that he needed help with his PTSD. Like he told her it’s my PTSD that I have earned and it don’t concern you. Plus, he wouldn’t blame it on PTSD.

His thumb slowly moved towards him which had metaphorical implications that he would have contemplated but the time for contemplation had expired. As he exerted the strength of his finger the most terrifying experience in his life occurred. Nothing. In gun handlers lingo he was “out of battery”. To those that were not in the know the gun “jammed” and there was nothing but the previous background noise plaguing his ears.
​

He bit his lip almost to the point of bleeding. It was no malfunction he had handled pistols all his life. Distant hills just looked greener.

The Last Gun, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

20/7/2018

 
Finally, the day had come.

Kal could've done it all on his own -- located them, gathered them up, destroyed them -- but symbolically it would've never meant as much.

The President realized this. That was why she saw to it that it be done another way: through legislation, through law enforcement, through voluntary surrender.

She went on TV, President Lee did, and she held up an object before the nation, before the world, and she said:

"This is the last gun on Earth. The last gun that will ever be on Earth. Once it is destroyed... there will never be another."

President Lee raised the gun and pointed it in the air. "This shot I fire... will be the last ever fired upon this planet. Listen closely, citizens of humanity, for this is a sound you will never hear again!"

She pulled the trigger. The gun went off. The last bullet ever fired shot up into the clouds... where Kal caught it in his palm.

The planet cheered.

Kal flew back down to Earth and landed next to President Lee at the podium. He handed her the bullet. She handed him the gun. Kal held it high for all the world to see. Then he said:

"With your permission, Madame President...."

Sophia Lincoln Lee nodded.

"God bless the human race," she said.

Then Kal reared back... and threw the last gun into the sun.

The planet wiped a tear from its eye.

President Lee took the podium once again.

"What we have done here today is an accomplishment to be shared by all mankind. We have rid the world of its deadliest weapon. No, the killing will not stop. But this form, at least, will be forever ended. This next step, I realize, is not one with which everyone has agreed. But it must be done. Once banished, we must ensure that such destructive knowledge never again finds its way into the human heart."

Anna Taz, Sorceress Supreme, inside her tower heard the keywords delivered. Now was her time to act. From inside a building that possessed no windows nor doors, Anna Taz cast the greatest spell of her life. The collective willpower of all humanity served as her fuel. The desire was this: to forget. Not merely the existence of guns, but also all of the pain and suffering that they had ever brought. Her task: to erase this dark knowledge forever from the human race.

No one would ever conceive of a gun again.

No one would ever remember that they had existed.

And so Planet Earth forgot. Even President Lee, the engineer of this triumph. Even Kal, the world's foremost protector. Even Anna Taz herself, as the worldwide spell weakened and dissipated. The erasure must be complete.

Laws had banned them. The military had surrendered them. Kal had collected them.

Now guns were no more.

And perhaps somewhere in heaven, God smiled, knowing that his children had just grown up, a little.

Yoji, by Mark Tulin

16/7/2018

 
While driving down a backroad in Cherry Hill, I passed by a pet store. I had just been through a painful divorce, feeling quite low, and thought that I needed something to pick up my spirits.

“I’ll just look,” I told myself. Knowing full well whenever I say that I end up buying something.

I made a screeching U-turn and headed into the parking lot of the pet store. I browsed the cat section for a few minutes. They all looked so cute, especially a sleek Russian Blue with silky gray fur. He looked at me with his green eyes, making an instant connection.

“Would you like to spend time with him alone to see if you’re compatible?” an employee by the name of Sal asked.

“Yes, I would.”

He took me to a little guest room with cat toys, an enclosed area where I could get to know the cat better.

“He likes guys with beards,” Sal said, who had a beard himself.

I picked up the cat, and he rubbed his snout against the front of my beard while making a purring sound.

“Yoji,” I said without thinking. I had been watching an episode of Miami Ink, and one of the characters was named Yoji.

Sal nodded his head in approval, knowing that the cat had found a suitable home.

In a matter of minutes, I was in my car with Yoji, who was purring in the animal carrier on the passenger seat. For the time being, at least, I had forgotten all about the divorce.

Lenora, by Jeffrey Paolano

16/7/2018

 
The yare Lenora bucks in the chop.
Patty loves her, more she respects her. Lenora is after all part of the family.
Patty heaves the running tackle jibing the boom, to tack against the wind.
Tolly is prone with both hands gripping the capstan, awaiting orders to shorten the halyard close hauling the foresail.
Tolly’d purchased boat shoes, shorts, and a polo shirt for this excursion, his exposure to sailing. He craves a performance without errors.
“Back the jib,” cries Patty.
Tolly cranks furiously.
Patty laughs down to her toes, “I’d love you anyway, darling” she bawls.
Tolly has strong doubts.

Old Sneaker on a Broom Handle, by Mark Tulin

10/7/2018

 
“Go to a shelter,” I hear people saying. “Why don’t you get a job and stop begging.”

I shut my ears and don’t let any of these strange people near my cart. I keep it close to me on the sidewalk with an old sneaker on a broom handle. I have my three Teddy Bears and my dangling, half-filled bottles of shampoo and water.

Each morning I go to the recycling plant and cash in my tin cans and glass bottles. I get up early before anyone else takes my spot. When I’m first, I get better service. People don’t rush me.

I hate being rushed. My father used to rush me everywhere—to the church, school, even on vacation—hurry, hurry, hurry. We could never relax. We always had to be somewhere at least fifteen minutes early.

I’m glad I don’t have to rush anymore. No needless chores or errands to consume my life. I don’t create problems when there are none. I just fall asleep in the park on an old tattered woolen blanket like I’ve done for the last twenty years. I put up a sign on my cart: ‘No Solicitation, Please.’ I’m free of relatives and wives I never see. Nothing to hold me back except the rattle of my wheezy lungs and the burning in my eyes.

I fall asleep to the automobile tires spinning on asphalt, the screeching birds overhead, the peddling boys on bicycles churning their spindly legs, and the traffic lights changing from green to yellow to red.

My life is one big rest stop.

For now, at least, the park is my home. This patch of grass is where I sleep.

Talking With Alan About Ghosts, by Sergio Manghina

10/7/2018

 
"It is not about ghosts" he said, "Ghosts are not real." Mary’s face clouded over.

"A spiteful presence wanders these rooms at night”, she said sighing, “it does not drag chains but turns on lights, hiding my shoes." Do you have any answer?"

"No, but...

She shook her head. "Here, everything seems to have a life of its own, I am afraid...And you have to go away!"

Alan reclutantly left her alone on the sofa.

On his return, he would be as close to her as possible.
​

Mary was lucky. Alan was much more than a telepathic blue orb, rather a brother.

June 2016, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

7/7/2018

 
Brexit here we come! And not before time. The lads at the barbershop agree totally; restores your faith in the Great British Spirit. Back at home, neat and tidy with my No 2, I take a cuppa into the garden. It’s too quiet inside since Meg died; it’ll be a year in September. Where did those nine months go? Mind, the NHS did her proud. Her favourite nurse, Sonja, she was lovely, very kind, from Poland I think. I’ll treat myself to a KitKat. I know I shouldn’t, but hey-ho it’s not every day my side wins. Victory for the English working man.
The postie opens the gate, I expect it’s all rubbish.
‘Hello mate,’ he says. ‘You after one of those mail-order brides? You’ve got a letter from Latvia or summat.’
‘Don’t talk daft. Give it here.’
The letter’s sandwiched between two catalogues. I turn to go indoors; he hovers then stalks off down the path.
‘Don’t let her take advantage,’ he calls over his shoulder.
‘Piss off, you nosey bugger,’ I say.
The letter is written in a strong hand:

Dear Mr Brown,
My name is Maksim Koppel, from Estonia. You may not be aware, but our fathers served together in WW2. My father had the honour of being able to save your father’s life when they parachuted behind enemy lines. Your father was hit by a bullet that narrowly missed his heart.
My father passed last month, aged one hundred. At the end, he had this wish: he asked me to send his respects to you and your countrymen, and to express his belief that all the peoples of Europe must stand together, unified. He became frightened the war may have been in vain. Forgive me for troubling you, but he meant well,
Yours,
Maksim

A Man in the Photo, by Sankar Chatterjee

7/7/2018

 
Like fellow millennial, Ms. Mary Hayworth has been a prisoner of modern technologies, gadgets, and associated social media. Her list of friends and followers exceeds more than a couple of thousands on several social media sites. Though surprised, she was delighted to learn when a giant network recently alerted her of creating a photo-album on its web-cloud collecting all her posted photos on different sites. However, Mary couldn’t remember ever giving them any such permission. But once she accessed the album and began to look into some past photos, her memory of those long-forgotten events began to resurface, some sweet, some bitter.

As Mary began to explore the album in-depth, she discovered that the site had capability of grouping the photos based on the nature of the events, for example, birthday parties, marriage ceremonies and similar gatherings. Likewise, the site created mini albums involving her parents, siblings, and friends from past and present, utilizing “face-recognition” technology. And that’s when she stumbled upon a small album containing only three photos of a gentleman. But Mary couldn’t identify the gentleman either as a relative or a family-friend. Then she remembered. All three photos were snapped inside a beach-front restaurant during her family’s last three summer vacations in the town of Cape May on Atlantic Coast. The man in the picture always wore a blue polo-shirt, drinking a dark porter. He would sit at one corner of the restaurant near them, thus inserting him into those pictures. But she couldn’t remember ever seeing him with any companion.

This summer, while the family was in the middle of their vacation, Cape May got shaken up by a brutal murder of a vacationing young woman. She was strangled in a dark alley behind a famous restaurant. Local police force released some grainy black and white photographs of the event taken by the nearby security cameras mounted on light-posts, while appealing to the beach-goers to offer tips to apprehend the perpetrators. As she watched the “Breaking News”, the face of that “mystery man” from that small album suddenly flashed on Mary’s brain overlapping with the face of the man in the news. She had no doubt they were the same man. She immediately called the hotline, while e-mailing that mini-album containing three photos to the investigative officers.

Next day, the authority nabbed the suspect, while he was playing poker in a resort in Atlantic City, fifty miles away. He was wearing the similar blue polo-shirt and drinking a black porter. Later, during interrogation, he would admit to the crime as an aftermath of the victim’s resistance to his sexual aggression.

While happy to be a part of the solution, Mary now worries about the unchecked power of a giant network to peek into an individual’s wealth of personal information.

(Author’s note. This fiction benefited from a social conversation with Dr. Shari Rosenbloom and Ms. Cathy Bowen.)

The Lone Ranger Rides Again, by Mark Tulin

2/7/2018

 
When I was a kid, I rode a wooden hobby horse named Silver and imagined that I was the Lone Ranger.

I got a bunch of grass from the backyard and made believe it was hay. I brushed Silver's long mane and hindquarters and made sure that I talked to him low and soft because I wanted him to relax. “A calm horse was better at riding than a nervous one,” my father said.

When there were bad guys to catch, I whistled for Tonto, who had his own horse, and I hopped on Silver and yelled: “Hi-Yo Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!”

Tonto and I caught cattle rustlers, bank robbers, and the guys who were on the Most Wanted posters and put them all in jail. They were no match for Tonto and I because we knew how to draw our guns faster than any bad man in town.

After a long day of chasing bad guys, Tonto and I would relax by the campfire and roast some weenies, heat up some beans and eat all the grub with our fingers, something that my mother disliked.

Sometimes when I rode Silver, my dad used to sing “I’m an Old Cowhand” and make believe he was John Wayne just to get my goat. He would call me a “pilgrim” and act like he was a tougher cowboy than me. Once I got mad at him for mocking Tonto and me, and I shot him a couple times with a six-shooter.

“Ya got me,” dad said, holding his heart and falling backward. He dropped right on our green shag carpet and stayed down for a while to make like he was really dead. Of course, he’d get up later when mom asked him to take out the trash.

I shot a lot of bad guys back when I was the Lone Ranger, but the one thing that I didn’t do was shoot Indians because my mom told me that I had to respect all kinds of people and not just good cowboys.

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