Now Just Shut Up and Keep Your Hands on the Wheel

Walkin' Down A White Sandy Beach Somewhere, Eatin' Something...

"Listen," I said.

And she shook her head. "I'm not going to listen."

So we fell silent. For another 20 miles.

Then I tried again. "We can talk about it if you want."

She shook her head.

We'd been in the car for 10 hours. I'd driven her to see a long-lost relative. Then waited outside for 20 minutes.

When she came back out all she said was "home."

Hours later, we stopped for gas. I stretched my legs. She bought a Coke.

I knew better by then. I didn't ask.

But I shot her a look. And she knew what it meant.

So she took a sip of her Coke. Looked me in the eyes. And said again "Home."

Then she turned and walked back to the car.

"Home," I repeated.

Sometimes that's all you need to say.

It Was Cold and It Rained, So I Felt Like an Actor

Telephones, Opera House, Favorite Melodies...

Delia was adament.

"I never want to get old."

She wanted everyone to remember her young. Didn't want laugh lines. Or wrinkles. Or grey hairs.

We scoffed at this. We were teenagers and couldn't imagine any of us getting older. Let alone Delia.

Between the multiple speeding tickets and the multiple drinks and the multiple other things that were hinted at but never confirmed, she seemed the least likely to get old.

But still.

The news always takes you by surprise.

Especially since she gave up speeding. And drinking. And all drugs and most of her other vices.

Still, she didn't give up walking.

In a town where brakes fail. And trucks can't stop.

So Delia got her wish.

And word filtered out (in those pre-internet days) through a series of phone conversations, delivered haltingly up and down the east coast on a rainy, cold Sunday in the early Spring.

Today there'd be emails. And Facebook pages. And probably a website.

Back then the news flashed up, flared, and faded.

Delia loved David Bowie (although if she'd lived she probably would have hated much of his output from the last 20 years).

But today is Bowie's 65th birthday. And this was her favorite Bowie song:

Emerging from the White Out

From the Shadows


She walked into the woods in Autumn. Said she was going for a hike. Took a vegan protein bar with her.

But she didn't come back.

The town organized search parties. There were helicopters and stories on the news.

But no one found anything.

Except a bandana. With a speck of mascara and a drop of blood.

Just a drop -- not enough to seriously warrant concern.

And then she vanished.




Five months later, she emerged.

Walked out from the snow. Thinner. And much lighter.

She talked about the birds she'd seen. Said she'd had long conversations with them.

She said she'd built a snow cave. And eaten berries she found.

But after a few months, she needed sustenance. Needed company. Needed food.

So she lured wild animals to her, told them stories about far-away places, listened to their stories of the woods, then thanked them, killed them, and ate them.

This, she said, was sacred.

This was important.



And then, in the Spring, she lured a bear to her camp with stories of cheerleading practice.

But the bear said she couldn't eat him.

The bear said perhaps he should eat her.

She agreed. This seemed the normal way for things to end.

Then the bear wandered off. Distracted. Drooling over a deer fattened by eating out of a dumpster of a trendy restaurant.

When the bear was gone, a fox came by and told her it was time to go.

Besides, there wasn't enough meat left on her to satisfy the bear. She'd die for nothing.

And, said the fox, there might still be things for her to do.

Outside the woods.

So she walked out. Back into town.

And the fox nodded, knowing more than he would say.

Which is often the case.

Thought for 2012

Forests of Crailsheim by Alex M. Stein

Hail Dropped Like Bullets Through the Air

Cold night air everywhere...

Carrie had a boyfriend. Someone she knew from High School.

We never saw him, but we heard all about him.

Then, one night, she showed up crying. He'd dumped her by letter. Couldn't even wait until they saw each other. Couldn't call her (although it was before cell phones, back when long distance still meant anything).

She waved the letter and we looked at it. It was filled with typos and grammatical mistakes. Someone said "he's an illiterate dope, you're better off without him." This made Carrie cry even more.

I took her for a walk. We went down the hill. To the statehouse with the big fluffy lawn.

I made her roll downhill on the lawn. This momentarily made her feel better.

And we walked back up the hill.

"I never thought we'd be together forever," she said. "But I thought we'd make it to New Year's Eve."

And she started to cry again.

I wanted to hug her, but I didn't. Instead I distracted her with a story about a girl I knew in High School.

It was a funny story. And it made her laugh.

But she would have rather had the hug.

When we got back to the dorms, she thanked me for the walk. Then she hugged me.



"Maybe you and I should hang out later," Carrie said.

And I nodded. I wanted that too.

But I didn't want to swoop in after she'd been dumped.

And it was right before finals.

So I didn't do anything about it.

And then Carrie started dating this guy named Marc. And whenever she saw me, she'd give me a sad smile.

A smile that seemed to say "you should've hugged me."

And I nodded. Because I should have.

The Four Suzannes

Not Your Usual Christmas Present, part 2

The Four Suzannes by Alex M. Stein

Listen (the Snow is Falling)

Between your head and my mind...

This story starts with a girl.

A girl who lived in the Rockies and hated the lack of snow in New England my freshman year of college.

But then it snowed overnight. And that made her happier than I'd ever seen her.

"We should go sledding. Down that big hill near the sports center," she said.

But we were college freshmen and we didn't have sleds. Or anything that could pass for sleds.

Still, I wasn't about to let her go without sledding, especially since the idea made her light up so much (and since her lighting up made everyone we knew happy as well).

So I hatched a plan. (Okay, more of a scheme than a plan.)

We'd sneak hard-plastic cafeteria trays from the dining hall, use them as sleds, and return them later.

But it turns out the workers didn't want us taking the trays out of the dining hall.

So elaborate plans were drawn up.

Diversions were planned and executed.

Trays were tucked into backpacks and under shirts.

And our small group, 11 guilty-looking nerds and the girl who grew up in the Rockies, tried to hurry through the door and out into the fresh snow.

But just before we made it to freedom, the seemingly ancient woman who guarded the door called out: "Stop."

And we all stopped. We sheepishly turned back, prepared to give up the trays.

The girl from the Rockies stepped forward. She started to speak. I knew she'd take the blame for all of us.

But the seemingly ancient woman waved her off with one wrinkled hand. "Do you think I'm stupid?" she asked.

We shook our heads and shuffled our feet.

"Good," she said. "When you remember this, remember that I was nice to you."

We stood there, unsure what she meant until she added "You better bring all those trays back this evening."

And we did.

Years later, I remember the snowfall and the act of sneaking the trays out of the dining hall. I remember the girl from the Rockies. But as much as I search my memory, I can't recall the actual sledding.

But maybe that's okay.

Because right before we brought the trays back, she took me aside, and she kissed me and she thanked me for being the only one who understood what the snow meant to her.