Emily P. W. Murphy is a graduate of Lafayette College with a degree in Philosophy. Since graduation, she has worked as an editor both for a small publishing company, and on a freelance basis. She has studied writing at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, and with Orson Scott Card at the Hatrack River Writers Workshop. She lives in Maryland with her husband, Adam. Visit Emily's website and blog.

The Muse

Summer 2022

He first visited her in high school. Senior year. Study hall.

He sat there, shoulders hunched, head hanging forward, long legs stretched out into the aisle. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desk before him.

He had penetrating eyes, probably blue, the kind that made a girl’s heart jump before she glanced away. His gaze overwhelmed her. She tried not to look.

Even though she could not see them, she knew those eyes.

Over time she met his hair: tousled, not long, but not too short either. Dirty blond. Eventually, she discerned the outline of his face. She knew he was tall and lean. Still, she never saw him.

He attended every study hall, probably even when she was home sick, though she could not be sure. Over the weeks, she came to know a little more about him. Not the whole story, but some of his details.

She learned his taste in music, though she never heard it. She found he liked to read, though he never suggested a book. She discovered his denim jeans and cotton T-shirt.

She admired his casual good looks.

By graduation, she knew about his best friend, and how that friend had changed his life forever.

Over the summer, he left her alone. She was free, for a time. If she thought of him at all, she thought he had released her.

* * *

In college, his visits were sporadic. He waited a semester before he appeared. Then one night, as she brushed her teeth, he came into the women’s bathroom. Ignoring the other girls, he looked directly at her. She turned away, returned to her room, and locked the door.

The next time he visited, he brought another. It was late at night as she sat alone. He sat with his mother at their kitchen table. His mother was young and beautiful, with long, straight, brown hair.

The next semester, she heard his voice for the first time.

He was talking to his mother. He warned her about his brother’s problem. Maybe they were at the kitchen table again. She couldn’t see. She combed her hair and listened to his mother finally admit he was right.

Junior year, he joined her in the shower. He was shouting at his alcoholic father. Someone threw a glass. She was not sure who. She only heard it shatter.

Most of his visits were less dramatic. Each time he appeared, she learned more. Sometimes he brought friends. Mostly, he came alone.

He disappeared for a while, but she had other visits: the girl from heaven, the wrinkled old grandfather, that unusual tree. Each had its own story to tell.

They came to her one at a time. Never together. Never staying long.

He returned the night before her biggest final, senior year. The final was early, and she was studying late. She knew she needed sleep. As she closed her textbook, he joined her at her desk.

His eyes, definitely blue, held hers. His sadness washed over her. She could not turn away.

“I need you to tell people about me.” The words were as real as if he had spoken.

“What do you mean?” The question flowed through her.

“You alone hear my story.” He held out his hands. “Write it down, so people will know.”

She shook her head, reaching for her textbook. “You’re not real. Why should I listen to you?”

He smiled. His teeth were straight and perfect. “What is real? Of course, I’m real. I’m right here. I’m talking to you. You know me. I must be real. But I’m small.” She felt him sigh. “If you don’t write my story, I’ll stay small, but you can make me great. You can make me real for everyone.”

“I’m tired,” she whimpered, resting her forehead on the desk. “I have to go to bed. My exam is tomorrow morning.”

His eyes, those eyes she knew so well, pleaded with her.

“If you don’t write it down, my story will fade away. Please.”

She could feel him reaching out to her. She could not refuse. He was too dear to her now. She pulled out a pad of paper and started to write. She recorded his features, his eyes, his hair, and the smile that she had just discovered.

She transcribed his conversation with his mother and his fight with his father. She made notes on each of his friends. Who they were to him, how they belonged in the story. No names. She never learned their names. Not even his.

She wrote about his all-important friend—the one who had changed his life. And she wrote how his story ended.

She tore the page off the pad of paper, opened a drawer, pulled out an empty folder, and placed the page inside.

“Well?” she asked him.

“You didn’t write it all.” His eyebrows drew together in concern.

“I can’t write it all.” She yawned. “Not right now.”

“But you’ll forget.” He shook his head.

“I won’t forget, and if I do, I have these notes.” She flipped through the pages in the folder.

“You’ll come back for me?” He looked at the pages in her hands.

“Of course.”

He hesitated, his eyes searching for the promise. Exhaling, she closed the cover on his gaze.

* * *

Years have passed. She still has the folder. She cannot throw it away. She knows that inside, he waits. He waits for her to return to him, to sit down, to write. He waits for her to release him into the world.

--------------

Sandal Season

Emily P. W. Murphy

(Featured, Spring 2019)

You know, I've had this business for ten . . . no eleven years now, and you'd think I'd get used to them. How can I? They're gross. Disgusting. Warped. I knew I hated mine for a long time, but only when I went to college did I realize how much I hate them all.

What do I hate? Why toes of course. How could you do anything but hate toes? They're stubby, mutated fingers that never grew. They have disgusting nails. They have toe jam. And don't even get me started on the smell. I'm telling you, they have nothing to recommend themselves to discerning human beings.

So, you ask, why on Earth did I ever get involved with shoes? Well, I always knew I wanted to help people, but it took me a while to figure out just how. As a child, I flipped through the possibilities, a new idea each week: fireman, policeman, doctor, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Peace Corps; they all seemed trite, overdone. I wanted to really help people. Then one day I noticed an opening for a manager at the Shoe-Less store 257 in the Acorn Valley Mall, and I knew in my soul that I had to apply.

Shoes. Those wonderful coverers of toes. I thought of all the barefoot children that I could help if I could just get my foot in the door. I'd sell buzz saws if I thought people'd remove their toes entirely, but I figured selling shoes was the next best thing.

So I applied and got the job because, according to my boss, very few people saw shoe sales as a calling, and she wanted to see how long it lasted.

Well, that was ten . . . no, eleven did I say? Eleven years ago, and here I am, the proud manager of Shoe-Less store 257. Of course, humanitarian or no, I have my limits. I couldn't just toe the line. I had to implement some changes.

I put my best foot forward with my first managerial decree: changing the footies that ladies use when they try on heels. The store was stocked with those transparent nylon ones, but I gave them away to Goodwill and invested in some heavy opaque ones, thus reducing the time that ladies toes were visible.

After the footie success, I kicked up my efforts by increasing the store's stock of slippers and swim shoes. That way people would have their toes covered both late at night and when they went to the pool or beach. No more of that nails-on-chalkboard feeling of some child's toes brushing up against your leg while you're enjoying a dip in the pool.

Thank God.

I'm stubborn as a mule, so I also increased the store's supply of socks. Socks are great, you know, because they hide your toes even if you insist on taking off your shoes.

Despite my little victories, all these battles served as mere preparation for the great toe war ahead. Within months of my hiring, I realized there was a reason God put me on the Earth, in this country, state, and county. There was a reason that He placed me just a short commute from the Acorn Valley Mall. God made me the manager of this very Shoe-Less store to defeat my arch nemesis: sandals.

You see, in Acorn Valley, Shoe-Less store 257 is the primary outlet for toe lovers to purchase their sandals, and, it was clear to me, the reprehensible trade had to be stopped in its tracks.

Now, I knew it would be a mighty task, and none too easy, but I'm no loafer, and, as I saw it, if that was what the Good Lord put me on Earth to do, well then, I'd better do it.

To truly understand the nature of my arch enemy, you must understand that there exist in this world toe junkies who actually think their toes are attractive. These sickos refuse to acknowledge how they nauseate the rest of us by lewdly displaying their toes in public. Some even paint them to attract attention down there.

Exhibitionists. But for some reason, Shoe-Less wants their money, too. Blood money, I say, but then I'm not corporate. No, I am just a lowly foot soldier on the front lines. From my position in the trenches, I realized I couldn't actually eliminate the sandals from the store. I had to come up with a sneaky solution. Somehow, I had to save Acorn Valley from the sandal epidemic without cutting them off at their primary source.

I started out by trying to hide the sandals where people wouldn't find them. I'd stuff them behind boxes of high tops and pumps; between cleats and sneakers. I put the kids' sandals up high and the adult sandals down low. I hid sandals in every way I knew how, but my effort was a flop. When people couldn't find their sandals, they just asked me to help.

I tried lying. I said they were sold out; they weren't in season; we didn't carry them anymore. But you know once people are addicted, they have trouble quitting cold turkey. Sure enough, about a week later, I got a call from my district manager ordering me to stop hiding the sandals. When said she'd drop by for a surprise visit in a few days, and if the sandals weren't displayed as was outlined in the Shoe-Less Display Regulations packet, I'd get the boot.

This decree caught me flat-footed. I wanted to sock her, but she was the boss, so I had to bring out the sandals.

That day was a nightmare. As soon as I revealed the sandals, the people whirled in on a veritable toe-nado. Scores of junkies plopped down in the sandal section and whipped out their toes. Believe me, I had a tough time keeping my lunch down.

That night I lay awake, desperate for a way to defeat those wretched sandals. I tell you I fussed so much I lost one of my socks and had my toes uncovered for a good five minutes while I looked for it. I thought about sandals the next morning as I made my bed, brushed my teeth, and shined my shoes for the day ahead.

The great solution first whispered in my ear as I was changing from my slippers to my shower shoes, eyes squished closed. I was just putting my toes into the shower shoe when my right pinky, the most mutated of all toes, caught on the ankle of the shoe before I could shove it in properly. The idea started then, but came to fruition as I was shampooing my hair.

Well, it was such a good idea that I nearly forgot to rinse the suds before jumping out of the shower, pulling on clothes, changing my shoes, and dashing to work. I arrived at Shoe-Less only half an hour before opening, and had a lot to accomplish before the toe-obsessed customers came in for their fix. As soon as I arrived, I cut all of the tags off the sandals. I then replaced the tags with those of the sandals a size bigger, so the size eights were now size sevens, the sevens were sixes, and so on.

Now, since there were so many sandals in the store, it took me the whole hour just to switch the tags, so, I opened the store with my task just half-finished. But half-done is better than not started, and it was all I could do in a pinch.

I let the toe junkies in, and you know, it worked about as well as you can expect. The people came in looking for their sandals, and they just didn't fit. Too short, too narrow . . . too bad. The wilier ones caught on and switched sizes, but a good chunk of the dumb ones left the store disappointed.

That night after closing, I kicked into high gear and went toe-to-toe with the sandals. One by one, I "fixed" them. I used fire, water, and steel, just enough to make them uncomfortable. I melted the plastic sandals so they'd rub those awful toes, I shaved a bit off the cork ones so they'd scrape the heel; I even soaked the leather ones so they'd be stiff and unwieldy.

Now I wouldn't presume to call myself a saint or anything, but if those sandals weren't all altered by opening, I'll show you my toes.

The next day, I was pumped. I waited right in the middle of the sandal section to enjoy my victory. Sure enough, the addicts came in and headed straight for the sandals, and sure enough some figured out about the mixed up tags, and—sure as I'm standing here in our black loafers—Shoe-Less' most popular men's shoe last month; sure as that, I didn't sell a single sandal that day or that week. And I haven't sold a single sandal since—except once, and that was an exception because I threw in a free pair of socks. You see, the sandals just don't fit right anymore. But boy does 257 make a killing on slippers and pool shoes.

Thank God.

The Top Ten . . .

Tips for Parenting Twins

by Emily P. W. Murphy

1. Strength in numbers—Your twins know this already. When they team up against you, they're more powerful than when they work alone. Learn from them. While you're likely to spend much of your time outnumbered, surrounding yourself with other adults can help you manage the chaos. Partner up with other twin parents for trips to the playground. Two adults wrangling four kids using a zone defense is significantly more effective than one adult facing off against two kids "man-to-man."

2. Speaking of playgrounds—Try to find places to play that aren't too crowded, have fences or at least ample space separating the play space from cars, and provide age-appropriate play options. There were perfectly lovely playgrounds that we avoided for years simply because I knew my fearless twin would get himself into trouble the second his sister distracted my attention. Also, look for clean bathrooms.

3. Speaking of bathrooms—Don't be in too much of a hurry to potty train. Diapers are gross but they are also convenient, and I promise you, taking two newly-potty trained toddlers into a public bathroom is no less disgusting than diapers. (Don't touch that! Don't touch THAT! Don't TOUCH ANYTHING!!!) We waited until our twins were 3 to introduce them to the concept of potty training, then did the "pantsless weekend" method. It was rough, but it worked. Waiting so long meant that they were mature enough to take responsibility for their potty needs, and their bodies were mature enough to be fairly independant in the bathroom. It was a rough few days, but then we were diaper free!

4. You don't need two of everything—but you do need two of SOME things. In our case it was floor potties. Two per bathroom! Sure, your kids can share a potty, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go, and that's especially true for preschoolers! But we didn't need two giant matching swings. We didn't need two tricycles. We didn't need two bouncy seats. We didn't need two floor mats. They can share. They always have.

5. Sharing is HARD!—You'd think those 9 (okay, 6, 7, or 8) months sharing a womb would have taught these kids to coexist without conflict, but nope! Sharing is just as hard for them as for anyone. The good news is that twins are more or less the same size, so when they get physical with each other, they usually don't do too much damage. Once our twins were verbal, a friend introduced us to this magic phrase "may I please when you are done?" It was a game changer. I mean, my kids are nearly 5 and they still fight over toys, but now when I hear the dreaded "MOOOOOOOOM, s/he won't give me the toy" I just direct the whiny child to use that magic phrase. "May I please when you are done?" The answer is always yes. Now, when one is "done" is a different matter, but it diffuses the "mine, no mine" tension and they are fairly good at taking things from there.

6. Don't hear whining—When I was a kid my mom had this odd form of deafness where she simply couldn't hear us when we were whining. What do you know, I have it, too! When my kids whine, they have to take a deep breath and regulate their voice before I can "understand" them. Getting them out of that whiny brain space is sometimes half the battle.

7. Speaking of self-regulation—This is a hard one for kids. Not just twins. When my twins were three I heard of Dr. Daniel Siegel's "Hand Model of the Brain"

https://youtu.be/gm9CIJ74Oxw. Game. Changer! This way of using your hand to visualize a brain that is in control vs. out of control was so simple that I went home and immediately taught it to my preschoolers. They got it. Instantly. From that point out, when they, or anyone else, started to "lose it" we could discuss it. When some stranger was melting down in the grocery store: "What is that kid's brain doing right now?" My kids held up their hands, fingers outstretched. When my child was getting hysterical. "How can you close your brain?" When I'm starting to lose my cool: "Mommy's brain is looking like this" while holding up a half-open hand model. That one got wide eyes and immediate cooperation, by the way!

8. Different people have different strengths—Try though you might to treat them entirely individually, people will compare your children with each other CONSTANTLY. It's worse when your children are identical, but even with my fraternal twins, people want to know who's older, who's stronger, who's better at this, that, and the other thing. It's natural, but it can also cause your twins to compare themselves against each other. "I'm better at X" while true, isn't really the healthiest way to go through life. Remind your kiddos that different people are different. They grow in different ways, learn at different rates, and possess different talents. Each of my kids is "ahead" of the other in different ways, and that's just how it should be.

9. Hey, speaking of comparing—Be KIND to yourself. This is crucial. My hardest moment postpartum was when my babies were about 4 months old. I looked around at all the singleton moms in my baby group and they all had it SO TOGETHER! Somehow they'd wake up fully rested, shower, dress like a sane person, tuck their perfect little baby in their perfect little baby carrier and dance through their day saving puppies and spreading fairy dust wherever they went! Okay, so obviously that's NOT what was happening, but that is how it felt when I compared myself and my two little 3-month-adjusted infants who each wanted 150% of my attention. That's 300%! I didn't HAVE 300% WHAT WAS I DOING WRONG???? Obviously, nothing. They didn't have it as easy as it looked, and no one but myself expected me to handle things any better than I was. At about that point, we changed the rules of what "success" meant. "Success" wasn't dancing through the day saving puppies and preforming miracles. It wasn't even taking the twins to a baby group or a playdate. Success was getting the twins into the car. That's it. If we had baby group, I'd succeeded simply by getting us all up, fed, clean diapered (them, not me) and into car seats. And if that was all we could manage, it was still a successful outing. If we actually drove somewhere, that was a bonus. If we got out of the car at our destination, gravy. If we actually did whatever social event we had on the calendar, well, that was AMAZING!!! It helps the twin mom who is trying to be "normal" with two babies screaming in public to realize that she reached her "successful day" point simply by leaving the house. So what if the outing is a disaster of tears and spit up and blowouts? IT WAS STILL A SUCCESS!

10. Did I mention strength in numbers?—I'm going to say it again! There's strength in numbers! If you're not already part of a Parents of Multiples club, find one nearby and join. Parents/Moms of Multiples clubs are more than just those amazing consignment sales everyone talks about. The wisdom (and commiseration) available in such groups is beyond valuable. "How do I feed two babies at once?" They know. "How am I going to get my two 13-month-olds from the house to our car, through a snowy parking lot in the dark?" They know. "How should I react when some stranger takes pictures of my babies without permission?" Oh, believe me, they know! And they're never going to ask you if your twins are "natural" because THEY KNOW. Remember point #9? When I was at that 4-month, self-judging stage, I went to my first Parents of Multiples gathering. One of the veteran moms asked how old my kids were and when I said 4 months, her jaw dropped. "And you're out of the house! Way to go, Mama! How are things going?" I confessed when it was very hard and said I'd heard it got easier around 4 months. She shook her head. I asked when it got easier. She thought for a moment and said "around a year. Sorry." Sorry? That was AMAZING! It was the best news I could have heard! Twins are not easy. They're wonderful, they're a blessing, but they're not easy. And they're not SUPPOSED to be.

What's That Even From?

The story of one woman's struggle to live with her afflicted husband

Emily P. W. Murphy

(Featured, March, 2013)

I first noticed the symptoms of my husband's condition on our first date. We sat together across a café table, and he entertained me by quoting long conversations from television shows we both enjoyed. Although I had seen the very same episodes, he could quote dialogue I could barely even recollect, and he did so with apparent ease. Still, it was a bonding experience, and it saved us from those awkward silences so many first dates provide.

At the end of the evening he slipped his arm around me and said in his best Humphrey Bogart, "Sweetheart, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

What started as a convenient "getting to know you" tool evolved into a character trait for which my husband became well-known. My friends joked that more of his speech came in the form of quotations than in actual original thought. They had a point. Rather than say "I'm fine" when asked how he was, he would say, "This is as good as it gets," and leer like Jack Nicholson. Instead of "go" he would say, "Engage," gesturing like Star Trek’s Captain Jean Luc Picard. If we were ordering tickets online he would say, "Book 'em, Dano," as he made the keystroke, and as he left a room, he always promised, "I'll be back," in a deep Austrian accent.

I learned to communicate with my husband in the same way that I imagine couples from different countries learn to communicate. I learned his language. Though I had an advantage over most bilingual couples in that we both spoke English, I had a disadvantage because his language was constantly evolving. I came to dread pilot season when the networks were filled with new shows, new characters, and new quotations for me to memorize.

Still, in order to truly understand my husband I knew I needed to understand what his quotations meant.

To that end, I spent months learning scenes from everything from Mystery Science Theater 3000to American Dad. We subscribed to Netflix and Tivo, watched online "webisodes" and "podcasts," and even tracked down an old Laser Disk player. I watched so many programs that often I could not remember what I had seen. More than once I realized halfway through a movie that I had watched the same film only a month before. Sadly, even knowing this fact, I could not remember how the movie ended. My husband, on the other hand, could not only tell me when we watched it, he could quote the whole thing from memory.

In the interest of equality, while he acquainted me with his programs, I, in turn, introduced him to the world of musical theater. Alas, what I saw as a sharing of interests soon turned into something much darker. As I showed him "my" type of movies, his litany of quotations only grew. For weeks he proclaimed, "I'm beside myself" in the voice of Bela Zangler from Crazy for You, and at every meal he asked "Please sir, I want some more?" from Oliver!. There was even a phase when rather than Arnold bidding me adieu, I was serenaded by the family Von Trapp’s, "So long, Farewell.”

After only a couple of years, it was clear that his brain did not process information in the same way that mine did. The more shows he saw, the more he could remember, while I had trouble even remembering what happened on last year's season finale of Downton Abbey. I was terrified that once we had children they would learn to speak only in Barney and Big Bird quotations.

A recurring nightmare of our future conversations went as follows:

"Welcome home, Honey, how did your meeting go?"

Shaking his head: "I wanna take a dump in Mother Maggie's shoes."

I know that one, it's from “Family Guy.” It means the meeting went poorly and he's pouting."I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

Scowling: "The truth? You can't handle the truth!"

This one is obvious, it's a classic. It means his boss didn't take well to the report he had to give this afternoon. "Do you think things are going to get worse?"

Shrugging: "Worse? Or better?"

He's not being optimistic here, this is from “Invader Zim.” It means things will undoubtedly get worse. I decide to change the subject. "I'm sorry honey, let's not think about it. How do you feel about giving Janey a dollhouse for her birthday this year?"

Smiling, but in a gruff bark: "Sounds like work."

This does not mean that he thinks building the dollhouse will be work, it is just a standard response to any mention of dollhouses… Mr. T from “Saturday Night Live”, I think. "Do you think she would like it?"

"I'm sure she'd love it, but let's get her one of the old fashioned ones, not a Barbie plastic thing."

I don't recognize that one. Is it from a movie? Television? Maybe a book? I search my memory, desperate to figure out what he means. Nothing. Oh no. This conversation was going so well. I have no choice, I can't fake it, I have to ask. "Honey, what's that even from?"

A strange expression crosses my husband's face: "What do you mean? That's not from anything. Don't you think she'd like an old fashioned dollhouse?"

"Oh. Of course."

Years passed before I learned we were not alone. In 2011, my husband was among the first people to be diagnosed with Schlockenvolk Syndrome, a rare condition that stems from visual-phonographic memory that remembers and regurgitates everything seen and heard in the movies or on television. Experts theorize that the afflicted quote in a desperate attempt to glean true, pure communication from the world around them. Alas, as the name “Schlockenvolk,” or "garbage to the people," suggests, the fruits of their efforts are quite the contrary.

It turns out that tens of thousands of Americans suffer from this newly-discovered condition, and for each of those patients, there are countless friends and family members who have endeavored to understand them. The condition is gaining more attention in recent days thanks to a 10-minute mention by Brian Williams on NBC Nightly News. The sufferers who saw that story can quote it by heart, mimicking Brian's solemn tones with great accuracy.

Unfortunately, for a non-sufferer, this level of instant quotation recall is virtually impossible, so thousands of people like me have constantly had to ask, "What's that even from?" seeking the origin of our loved ones’ quotations, and seeking to truly understand what the afflicted are trying to say. Sadly, since we try so hard to understand our loved ones, rather than trying to change them, we have been classified by some as enablers. Still, when the alternative is not speaking to my husband, the world has, in effect, made me an offer I can't refuse.

I have had to content myself with identifying voices, for I cannot hope to identify every snippet of quoted dialogue that my husband recites. I find that recognizing the difference between my husband's Rimmer (From Red Dwarf) voice and his Peter Griffin (a la Family Guy) are easy, though others, like Bill Murray and George Carlin are, well, Lost in Translation.

Medical trials are underway as scientists search for a treatment, if not a cure, for Schlockenvolk Syndrome. So far, what treatments there are have side effects that most sufferers deem unacceptable: impotence, compulsive gambling, and “jimmy legs” (thank you, Jon Stewart) to name a few. For now, the only thing that can be done is to limit the patients' exposure to any new television shows. We must hide the remote control, unplug the Tivo, and for goodness sake, cancel that Netflix membership— anything to try to stem the tide of quotations.

So, until a cure is found, I will endeavor to communicate with my husband, hoping to glean some sense of intelligibility from the constant flow of "Schlock." And, every night I pray that tomorrow will be the day that a cure is found to this terrible syndrome— or that the entertainment industry might dry up and blow away.

“Yeah....That’d be great.”

The Top Ten . . .

Media References

(March 2013)

(by the anonymous, real-life inspiration for

our featured story above)

1. “The battle of wits has begun.” (The Princess Bride) Balanc-ing classic fantasy (with an actual giant) and humor (Billy Crystal caused the only injury on set when Mandy Patinkin sprained a rib holding in his laughter), this movie always reminds me of the over-the-top adventure of a child’s imagination. I’ve lost count of the times we launched into the duel dialog at fencing practice.

2. "Jayne is a girl’s name." (Firefly) Joss Whedon’s shows tend to have very quotable dialogue, butFirefly combined excellent characters and sharp wit into a show that is easy to re-watch/quote.

3. “When two planes almost collide, they call it a near miss. It's a near hit. A collision is a near miss.” (George Carlin) George Carlin was the greatest comedian of all time. He brought a view of language and situa-tions into my formative years and so holds some of the credit/blame for the way I am today. He made the ordinary fresh with his humor.

4. “The spice must flow” (Dune) Duneintroduced me to a complex universe that was fully realized and complete as few others. Frank Herbert’s focus on language and mysticism created a mental space that has left me with quotes in my mind and the hint of cinnamon on my tongue.

5. “Me fail English? That’s unpossible.”(The Simpsons) Matt Groening’s The Simpsons has been a part of a my life since I was a kid, so it’s no great surprise that it is part of my vocabulary. It’s covered so much territory it’s like an animated I Ching.

6. “Getting an edu-cation was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuit-able for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on.” (Discworld) Terry Pratchett is my favorite author (that I don’t know personally) and the Discworld series has kept me happily addicted for years. His sly references and clever turns of phrase leave me with many levels to explore as I read and reread, and eventually quote them.

7. “Engage the Force Chevron" (Star Trek/Wars/Gate) Any-one who hasn’t pre-tended to use a light saber won’t understand, and those who have already do.

8. “I'm not aRepublic Serialvillain. Do you seriously think I'd explain my master-stroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting its outcome?” (Comic Books & Graphic Novels) Comics are the best repositories of serialized fantasy. They’re wish fulfillment, plain and simple. Though I no longer wear a cape, I still love the stories and the pithy one-liners that abound in the panel format.

9. “Greetings it's a... [rolls dice]... pleasure to meet you.” (Gary Gygax) Collaborative story-telling through roll-playing games takes the wildness of imagination and gives it a structure.

10. “There can be only one!”(Highlander) There isn’t much I can say about this one. Give a Scotsman a katana, Queen the soundtrack, and you’ve got a franchise. There is something wonderful about immortals wandering the modern world armed with swords. Let’s face it, swords are cool.

The Party

Emily P. W. Murphy

(January, 2013)

He sat in the corner of the small, shadowy basement and watched the crowds of college students talk to each other and jostle their over-full beers to splash on the faded carpet. The room had a wild energy that he craved. He watched, trying to intoxicate himself with the throbbing of the music, and the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke that flavored the air. It didn’t work. No matter how long he sat in that corner, he wouldn’t get drunk. He wouldn’t reach that wonderful world of Abercrombie and alcohol. The best he could do was watch as others kissed their red plastic cups.

The song changed to another throbbing beat he recognized from the radio. He still could not make out the words. Not far away a circle of students played a card game that was far more about drinking than about cards. He imagined sidling up to the table and joining in as if he belonged. He shifted in the chair and heard his pills rattle in his pocket.

“Remember, you can’t drink alcohol while you’re on antidepressants,” his doctor had firmly reminded him. “There can be very serious side-effects if you do.”

She had seemed very serious. He wondered if the alcohol would just reduce the effectiveness of those tiny pills--those caplets that promised to make him happy, to help him join the crowd of smiling befriended people. The only thing they really did was isolate him.

The crowd around the table broke into bubbles of laughter as someone tried to chug a beer and ended up dousing himself instead.

“How could you miss that mouth?” A girl in a tight tube-top shouted. He felt a surge of loneliness rise in his throat and turned his head away.

To his left, four people were playing Beirut: tossing ping pong balls into cups full of beer. He was sure he would do well at that game. He had spectacular aim. As a young child he had won dozens of fish tossing ping-pong balls into cups over the course of several years’ worth of annual town carnivals. They had all died. He couldn’t remember ever actually playing and winning, he just remembered the fish floating belly-up at the top of that fishbowl less than a week after the fair, and the bowl sitting empty for a year, until he won another fish.

“Are you here?”

He had not seen the girl sidle up to him. He knew her. He had seen her around campus; in fact he knew her class schedule by heart. She had never spoken to him before.

He forced his well-rehearsed smile, the one he had practiced in the mirror so many times, the one that never quite reached his bright green eyes.

“Am I here?”

“Yeah, you seemed to be somewhere else.” The girl smiled a wide toothpaste grin.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he mumbled.

“Great! I was just talking to my friend Stacey over there, the one with the red curly hair, and she was saying that she has this class with you--I forget which one--but anyway she said that on Thursday you. . .”

He heard the click of a lighter not far away and turned his attention again to the card table. One of the players was lighting a cigarette, the personification of suave. He wondered why the girl had come over, maybe for a dare? Go talk to the crazy boy. I bet you twenty dollars you won’t.

“. . .and anyway, so Julie, she’s Karen’s roommate had this cousin who also loved that movie. . .”

He could picture them over there against the wall, planning what she would say to him. He felt his smile slipping and corrected the corners of his mouth.

“So anyway I was just wondering, since she said you liked theater, is it true that you like theater? So anyway I was wondering if you’d like to go sometime, with me I mean, or not if you don’t want, I was just wondering I guess.” She took a deep breath and stopped, biting her lower lip as she studied his face. He saw her lipstick smear onto her teeth. He looked down at his grey shoes.

“Maybe,” he kept his voice low, avoiding the commitment of enthusiasm.

“Great!” squealed the girl. Did she say her name was Karen? She stood there for a moment more, but he didn't look up from the orange carpet. She was probably scrutinizing his Wal-Mart purchased shirt and sweatpants. Finally, she spoke again.

“So I guess… you can call me or something?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Umm… do you need my number? I guess I’ll give you my number so you can call when you want to go. Hmm, let me just get a napkin.” She left, but returned after a moment with a napkin, beer-stained only in one corner, and a pen. “Can I use your back to write on?” She asked, biting her lip again. He leaned forward in his chair and, using his back as a clipboard, she wrote down a phone number. She handed him the napkin, and stood for a moment before saying, “Well I guess I’ll hear from you?” He shrugged, staring at the cinderblock wall over her left shoulder. Her smile drooped, but she caught it before she turned and walked back to her waiting friends.

He looked away; he didn't want to see them laugh at him. He knew they would.

The music switched to Jewel’s Foolish Games and people started yelling for a more uplifting song. Yeah, he thought, this is a party. Everyone is supposed to be happy. He stood up, dropping the napkin on the floor, and walked over to the bar.

Repossession

Emily P. W. Murphy

(November, 2012)

Dear Repo men,

Please be aware that this silver Honda Accord belongs to me, Mary Price. I am a 72-year-old grandmother of five, retired elementary school librarian, and Red Cross volunteer. Please note that this car is not a red Sentra, nor does it belong to Marty Price. Furthermore, I am not 19 years old, and I have never defaulted on my car loan, or any other loan for that matter.

The first time, I laughed it off. The second was an honest mistake. But not I've had enough.

Stop stealing my car.

Yours in Christ,

Mrs. Price

Laundry Day

Emily P. W. Murphy

(November, 2012)

I counted them as they went into the wash. One, two, three, four, five, six white socks.

I counted them as I loaded the dryer. One, two, three, four, five, six white socks.

I counted them as I folded them. One, two pairs of white socks.

I found one missing sock wedged between the couch cushions, another under the kitchen table, and a third on my bed. One, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven white socks.

The Perfect Gift

(Featured, December 2011)

"Honey,” my boyfriend, Ethan, says over coffee. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like for Christmas?”

I put down the newspaper. “No, not really. It’s only September. Why?”

Ethan smiles. “Well, I know you like to shop early.”

“Sure, I shop early if I think of something perfect for someone else, but I don’t shop for myself.”

Ethan shrugs. “I just figured if you were thinking Christmas thoughts, you might know what you wanted, and I could do my shopping early, too.”

“Sorry, no such luck.”

“Well, when you think of something you want, just let me know, and I’ll get it.”

I frown. “What do you mean by that?”

Ethan tilts his head to the side. “Huh?”

“You want me to tell you exactly what I want for Christmas, so you can just go buy it?”

Ethan nods. “That way you’ll be sure to get what you want.”

I shake my head. “But it doesn’t work that way.”

“I know it’s not what we did last year. But this year we’ll be at your parents’ house, so in a way it’ll be my first Christmas. I want to make sure I get it right.”

He has a point. I hated the money clip he gave me last Christmas. The man does not know how to shop.“ Still, he has to learn eventually. Right?

“That’s sweet, honey, but don’t worry so much. You can’t really mess up Christmas.”

“Really? Because you can mess up Hanukah. Maybe if you can’t mess up Christmas you’re just not trying hard enough.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure the only way you could mess up Hanukah would be to bring me home for the Seder.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would do it. Especially since that’s Passover. But I’m serious, Jen. This isn’t some seasonal gift exchange. It’s Christmas with your parents, and I want to get it right.”

I nod and decide to give the guy a break. “Okay, I’m not going to tell you what I want, because that would spoil the surprise, but I’ll give you some advice. You have lots of time, so don’t panic. Just remember, the gift should be a surprise, and keep in mind it’ll be at my parents’ house so they’ll be there when I open it.”

“So no edible underwear?”

“Definitely no edible underwear.”

“This isn’t over, Jen,” he says getting up to put his dishes in the sink.

I pick the newspaper up from the table, but I can’t focus on the words. What would I like for Christmas? Clothes? Books? I shake my head. There’s only one thing I want for Christmas. It’s the same thing I wanted, and didn’t get, for my birthday and Valentine’s Day and the third anniversary of our first date. The same thing I hoped to receive on Memorial Day, Flag Day, the Fourth of July, Martin Luther King Day, Earth Day, not April Fool’s Day, but definitely on Presidents’ Day and Cinco de Mayo. It’s sparkly and comes with a four-word question. But—if I can’t tell Ethan what I want for Christmas, I certainly can’t tell him I want him to propose. Telling him would make it all wrong. As much as I want to marry him, I want him to want to marry me. I want him to decide that it’s time to go to the next level of our relationship. It has to be his idea.

***

Halloween comes and goes—no proposal. Christmas decorations appear in the stores.

“Have you figured out yet what you want for Christmas?” Ethan asks on November third as we walk past a plastic North Pole set up in the middle of the mall. A skinny Santa with a fake beard is already sitting in the oversized throne, and eager children are lining up to have their pictures taken.

“Yes,” I say giving Ethan what I hope is a sly look. “I know what I want, but I’m not going to tell you.”

Ethan frowns. “Why not?”

“Because it has to be a surprise.”

Ethan stops walking and turns to me. “Wait, I have to be surprised by what you want me to give you for Christmas?”

“No.” I roll my eyes. “I have to be surprised by what you’re giving me. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“The point is you’ll get something you like.”

“We’ve been dating for years; I’m sure you can come up with something I’d like.”

He nods and thinks for a while, then looks toward the North Pole. “Would you tell him what you want?” he asks pointing to the Santa.

I glance at the display, and then back at Ethan. “What, so you can listen in?”

Ethan winks. “Then you wouldn’t be telling me . . . so it’s not cheating.”

I shake my head. “Surprise me.”

***

Thanksgiving comes and goes with no proposal. I remind myself to be thankful that Ethan cares for me, but it is hard not to wonder whether he’s avoiding a permanent commitment.

“Here you go,” Ethan says, coming into our bedroom on the evening of December first. I put down the book I am reading and take the sheet of paper he holds out to me.

“What’s this?” I ask, looking at the typed page.

“It’s my Christmas list.”

I frown and read the list. “What’s with number seven?” I ask. “Kitchen trash can with foot pedal?”

“Yeah, one that you step on the pedal and it opens for you, you know?”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m not getting you one for Christmas.”

“Why not? It’s on my list.”

“You’re not three, and I’m not Santa Claus. I don’t have to stick to some silly list. And even if I were to get something from the list, a trash can is a lousy present.”

“It’s a nice trash can.”

“It’s a trash can; it’s meant to hold trash!”

“Nice trash?”

“Giving you a trash can is no way to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior.”

“Your Lord and Savior.”

“Whatever. If you want a trash can, go buy one. You’re not getting it for Christmas.”

Ethan shrugs. “There’s lots of other stuff on the list.”

I read the rest of his list. “Why do you need virus protection software?”

“I have some money saved up, so I’m buying a new laptop. It will need to be protected.”

I frown. I thought he might use that money for a ring. “What do you need a new laptop for?”

“Mine is four years old; it’s too slow.”

I feel my patience evaporating. “Are you sure this is the best time to spend so much on a computer?”

Ethan shrugs. “Why not?”

I hand him back his list. “I don’t need this.”

***

On Pearl Harbor Day, Ethan pulls the list out of his pocket and tries to hand it back to me as we walk through the grocery store. “I’ve added a few things,” he says.

“I won’t take it,” I say, shaking my head. He shrugs and sticks it in my purse. I choose to ignore him rather than make a scene in the cereal aisle.

“I’ve made things easy for you now, so you have to help me out. What do you want?”

“No,” I say a bit too loud. A woman with a toddler glances in our direction. I lower my voice and turn away from her. “Listen, if you’re so worried, then you can always ask my mom for ideas.”

“Your mom?” Ethan throws a box of Cheerios into the cart.

“Yeah, she knows me pretty well. I’m sure she’ll have a good idea.”

“You want me to ask your mom what I should get you for Christmas?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I can just imagine what she’d say you need.”

“What’s that?”

“A nice, Catholic boyfriend.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—we’re Episcopalian. Besides, Mom loves you.”

“This would be the same mother who made me sleep in the basement when we visited for Thanksgiving?”

I shrug. “Her house, her rules. We’re not married, and that’s the way it has to be. What’s so bad about the basement?”

“It’s unfinished!”

I suppress a smile. “You had an inflatable mattress and a space heater. It could have been worse.” I don’t mention that the basement was my idea. Mom probably would have let him sleep in the living room.

***

Once the groceries are put away, I sneak off to take a good look at his Christmas list. It’s extensive.

Great, now I have to come up with something not on this list. He’s asked for every book, CD, and DVD I would have thought of. He’s certainly making things difficult.

***

On December fifteenth, he asks again in the car on the way to his office Christmas party. “What’s a good, traditional Christmas present?”

I sigh. “Still don’t know what to get me?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m just curious.”

He’s a bad liar. “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” I say, looking out the passenger-side window.

We drive in silence for a moment, the windshield wipers squelching a staccato rhythm.

“What the hell is frankincense?” he asks at last.

I turn back to him and shrug. “Who knows? What the hell is myrrh?”

***

I know what I’m getting you,” he says on December twentieth.

“Good for you. Now don’t tell me.”

“Oh, I won’t. It’ll be a complete surprise. I just have to order it.”

An hour later he walks into the kitchen where I am mixing up a batch of Christmas cookies. He holds up an old sneaker of mine.

“Jen, does this sneaker fit you?” he asks.

My hopes crash down around me. “Subtle,” I mutter.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Yeah, they fit fine.” I pause, then decide to make him squirm. “Why?”

Ethan shuffles his feet. “I, uh, thought I’d clean out the closet, and if these didn’t fit, I figured I’d donate them to Goodwill or something.”

“Ah, of course.”

***

I decide to get him a laptop case for his new computer. I hate that computer, but I love Ethan. Besides, it’s the only thing that isn’t on that stupid list.

On December twenty-second, I find the perfect case online. So much for shopping early. I order it and pay extra for the overnight shipping.

The next day, I hurry home early from work to pick up the mail. I don’t want Ethan to see his gift before Christmas. There is a package waiting on the front porch, but it looks too small for a laptop case. I check the return address. DiscountEShoes.com. I sigh, leave the box on the stoop, and go into the house. I try to ignore the shoebox when Ethan brings it into the house, but it’s hard since he “hides” it on our closet shelf.

His laptop case arrives later that night, just in time for me to wrap it and add it to our pile of luggage for the trip. Ethan is in the shower when it arrives, so I work quickly.

***

The next morning, Christmas Eve, we pack the car together. Ethan raises an eyebrow when he sees my gift for him, wrapped in bright Christmas paper.

“That’s not a trash can,” he says.

“No,” I say. “It’s not.”

He shrugs and puts the shoebox, unwrapped, into the trunk. I pretend not to notice.

Holiday traffic makes the drive to my parents’ house longer than usual. We spend most of the time in silence. I am too annoyed to make small talk, so I pump up the Christmas carols on the radio. “You better not pout,” Bing Crosby reminds me. I sigh and turn the radio down.

When we arrive at my parents’ house, we change and go with them to church. I look at Ethan, all dressed up for the occasion. He looks dashing.

He gives me a lopsided grin. “You think God will mind I’m Jewish?”

I laugh, remembering why I love him. “I’m pretty sure he’s okay with the Chosen People. Jesus was Jewish, too, you know.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” he says winking.

The Christmas Eve service opens with my favorite hymns. We sing together with the congregation, our voices filling the nave. Ethan hums the parts he doesn’t know, but, for a guy who has never been to church, he does great. We sit holding hands through the scripture reading, and I remember how thankful I am that he’s supportive of my faith.

The priest takes the pulpit and delivers the Christmas Eve homily. “Christmas is a time when we show our appreciation of others,” he says. “It is a time when we give gifts, just as Christ gave us the ultimate gift of eternal life. It can be easy to get caught up in the shopping and gifting, but we must not forget Our Father and all of His gifts. He says ‘ask and ye shall be given’ . . .”

Ethan nudges my ribs with his elbow, and I stifle a laugh. I was definitely too hard on him. I resolve to love the sneakers when I open them in the morning. He tried hard, and deserves my appreciation. I bite my lip, hoping he’ll like his gift, too.

The service closes with “Silent Night.” The lights go down, and we all sing in candlelight.

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” the priest says when the last notes die away. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks be to God,” we all respond.

***

The next morning we gather around the Christmas tree. I look at my family. My parents, married for thirty-five years, my brother and his wife and their two children, and Ethan—all together this Christmas morning. I smile. No Christmas could be more perfect. When it is my turn to open my first gift, I pick up the shoebox, now wrapped in tacky birthday paper.

“Can I open this now?” I ask.

Ethan shakes his head. “No, it’s too good; you should wait.”

I laugh, and open a gift from my dad.

Ethan picks up my gift to him. “This one?” he asks, looking at me. I nod.

“Yeah, open it now. I hope you like it.” It’s a nice laptop case, but it’s not something he asked for. He’ll probably like the gifts from my family better since I gave them the list. He picks at the tape.

“Rip it!” my brother yells, just like he did when we were kids.

“But it’s so nicely wrapped,” Ethan protests.

“Rip it, rip it,” the kids chant.

“Rip it, rip it,” I join in.

“Rip it, rip it, rip it,” my parents cheer.

Ethan laughs and, taking one corner of the paper, rips it lengthwise along the box. He tosses the paper aside and flips the box over to inspect the picture.

“This wasn’t on the list,” he says.

I swallow. “No, sorry. I hope that’s okay.”

He looks up at me and his expression is one of awe.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “I love it. How did you know?”

I smile. “I have a lot of experience Christmas shopping,” I say, relieved.

“I guess I have a lot to learn,” he says, flashing me that lopsided grin. “Teach me, sensei.”

***

Several more rounds of gift giving pass, and still Ethan insists that I wait to open his gift. I love how much he’s getting into the celebration, even chanting “rip it, rip it,” when my mom starts picking at a piece of tape.

Finally, the shoebox is the only gift I have left. I pick it up and shake it, hearing the shoes clunk inside.

“Now can I open it?”

Ethan makes a show of considering my question, then nods. “Yeah, I think you’ve waited long enough. I tear the paper open to reveal the Nike box.

“Sneakers!” I cry. “How did you know?”

Ethan grins. “Remember when I asked you whether those ratty sneakers in the closet still fit?”

I pretend to think back. “Ye-eah,” I say nodding as though it is a vague memory but I do remember it, now that he mentions it.

“Well, I saw how old those were and knew you’d need a new pair.” He grins, clearly proud of his deductive skills. “And,” he says with a flourish, “I got them for a really good price.”

I laugh and pull the lid off the shoebox. The sneakers are grey and yellow, and at least two sizes too big. God, they’re ugly.

“I love them,” I say, resolving to exchange them for an identical pair in the correct size.

“Try them on,” Ethan says.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see how they look.”

I bite my lip. I bet, if I tie the laces really tight, he won’t even notice they’re too big. I shrug. “Okay, why not?”

I pull out the first shoe. With everyone watching, I struggle to loosen the laces. What was he thinking when he bought these? I reach in and pull out the paper stuffing in the toe. It wasn’t as much as I had expected to find in such an enormous sneaker. I start to put the shoe on, but my toe hits more wadding.

“Sorry,” I say, looking at Ethan whose grin now seems mixed with a level of anticipation far beyond anything these shoes deserve. I pick up the sneaker, and reach in again. A tear forms in my eye as I look at Ethan and realize that my fingers are touching a tiny velvet box.

Emily P. W. Murphy's Top Ten Holiday

Traditions

(December, 2011)

With the holidays upon us, I thought I would think back (or forward)

to my favorite holiday traditions. Some of these traditions are older than I am, others I picked up along the way, but all of them are

important to me. In chronological order:

10. Gift Shopping.

No, not the hectic "wall-to-wall people" kind of holiday shopping, but rather the careful consideration of what to get or make for my friends and loved ones. Sometimes the perfect gift idea comes to me in July, sometimes not until December, but I love anticipating the recipient's joy.

9. Christmas Carols.While I am firmly against holiday decorations in stores before Thanksgiving, I also reserve my right to play Christmas carols whenever I really NEED them. This includes grey rainy days in August, if I think they'll improve my mood. However, sometime during NaNoWriMo the Christmas carols go on full time around my house. They're inspiring for writing, and help keep me focused on what's important . . . and fun.

8. Latkes.

This is a holiday tradition I picked up after my marriage, but something this good has to become an annual tradition. In fact, latkes with homemade applesauce and sour cream are prefect just about any time of year.

7. Baking.

What's Christmas without cookies? We have a number of holiday staples including spritz cookies, snowball cookies, peanut butter balls, and Christmas fudge.

6. Christmas Eve Service.

I know in the bustle of the holiday, it's easy to forget why we're all celebrating, but for me, it's not Christmas unless we venture out late at night on Christmas eve to sing hymns and take communion.

5. Hanging Stockings.

Even though there aren't any kids in our family for Santa to visit, we still make a point of hanging stockings over the fireplace. You never know, the guy in red might just want to stop by, and who are we not to welcome him?

4. 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.

Every Christmas eve since I was a baby, my father has read T'was the Night Before Christmas to the family before we went to bed. Even now that my brother and I are grown, and I am married, we all still gather around Dad for this essential holiday tradition.

3. Christmas morning/afternoon.

At my house we celebrate Christmas sloooooowly. No mad tearing into gifts for us, we open gifts one at a time. That way each present, and gift giver, gets the appreciation it deserves.

2. Turkey dinner.

Turkey, it's not just for Thanksgiving anymore. Part of the reason Christmas takes so long around our house is the mandatory pause between stockings and wrapped gifts for the turkey to go into the oven. Then, as we savor Christmas, we also get to savor the delicious smells of dinner cooking.

1. Family time. Christmas is the one day out of the year when the tv stays off and we all stay home together. When the phone rings, it's out of town family and friends reaching out to us. No telemarketers, no work, just the things that matter most in the world. Without family, the other traditions are just traditions, with them, they're joy.

Happy holidays, everyone!

COMMENTS:

12/4/2011 -- Carol W.: Such a sweet, funny, touching story!

12/4/2011 -- Adam Holland: Interesting twist to the cinderella story! The anticipation is great reminds me of wanting to open my presents before Christmas.

12/5/2011 -- Sal W.: Love Christmas stories, and this one is especially meaningful!

12/5/2011 -- Marianne: Great story, Emilly. I also like your top ten list.

12/5/2011 -- Annette: Since Ethan did not get the trash can he wanted, I may shop for that for myself. Cute story -

12/6/2011 -- Pat M: Cute story!

12/6/2011 -- Linda G: Sweet story Emily! I love your top 10 list too :-)

12/6/2011 -- Ann D.: Heh. Aw, c'mon we knew she was going to get that ring. But it was sure fun seeing how she got it. Nice work, Em.

12/8/2011 -- Gloria Alden: What a wonderful Christmas story, Emily. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

12/8/2011 -- Emily P. W. Murphy: Thank you all so much for your kind comments. I am so glad you enjoyed it. Happy holidays.

12/10/2011 -- Ralph H.: I enjoyed this story a lot.

12/31/11 --Japhet: That was a good story. Thanks for its clear shape.