In the middle of a great city known as Manhattan, where steel and glass towers stand tall as mountains and glitter like all the sparkles of light captured by the sea, there stood a noble and virtuous Queen. As for her looks, I invite you to picture your mother, be she kind, or your sister, be she proud, or your friend, be she compassionate: there is your Queen. She had come on that warm November day like many to protest before the Banker. They had come by horseless carriages and by those long steel snakes called Subways. Beside her were her two confidants, the Philosopher and his sister the Poet. They, like all the people gathered there in Zuccotti Park that day, felt the whole weight of Turtle Island on their backs. Their hearts grieved for things the Conqueror, the Banker, and the Scientist were doing to the land and its people. It had become very clear that the Conqueror and his cronies wanted to capture the spirit of ‘Turtle Island’ and make it subject to their Will. They called the Queen and her follower’s sovereignty and plight for Mother Nature a waste of time and bad for business.
The Queen’s passion flared up as she looked out over the crowd and onto the Banker and the Conqueror who manuaovered out of the Stock Exchange and into their grand black carriage called a Limo. She cried, “who will be buying and selling once you’ve destroyed all the human, animal and environmental capital? Who will be praying when all the Gods have been torn from the starry sky to appear your trademarks and brands?!”
In succession, the crowd complained of the Conqueror’s malice, greed, and ambivalence, in short, those things about him that they grew to resent during what they call in Turtle Island, “four-year terms”.
“Philosopher!” the Queen adjoined, “what do we have in our Bag of Symbols? We need something different, we always switch between Hope and the One-Percent, why don’t you find something overlooked.”
He fumbled around in the bag and produced Make-TurtleIsland-Great-Again.
Impatient with his redundancy, the Poet snatched the bag from him and proceeded to toss symbols out by the handful. In a rueful glee she produced,
Culture, Grass-Roots, Anarchy
Love with Money mixed
Patriarchy, Industry, & Terror
Oligarch Terrorists!
The Philosopher grimaced. The crowd seemed especially pleased.
The Queen took her turn. Then as if she had pulled the very sun out and over the horizon, she produced the Heirloom.
The Philosopher intuited the importance of this moment and instinctively bowed his gaze toward the earth, while the Poet gazed up toward the sky.
The throng of people looked upon the Heirloom spellbound.
“Although radiant it may be, the symbol, the Heirloom, m’Queen, which was traded so lightly for material gain upon Turtle Island: it’s broken–it doesn’t work anymore–like the tailbone, it’s become atavistic. Just look at these people, they don’t even know what it means. They cannot imagine it. Nor can I, to be honest.”
“I don’t care how atavistic or medieval its technology is,” continued the Queen, “the thing ought to be repaired. Who knows what memes it will create and our opponents certainly will not expect it.”
“And how shall we repair it?”
The Poet, who had been gazing on the play of sunlight in a pool of water knew the answer. She said as if in a trance, “In the Forest of Immortals, my Queen, for it is there that all repairs are made to mythical things.”
The Philosopher was doubtful. Many minds had gone to the Forest of Immortals to uncover mysteries and endeavor heroic deeds never to return. In the eyes of the Scientist it was a place of fancy, the dream of a dying neuron, and worse a location of mere superstition, adding with a touch of spite, “it harkens back to moonlit matriarchs and turtle shell divination.”
“We must take a chance, Philosopher. If we make the Heirloom work again–who knows–we may have something truly magical to work with and not just hollow slogans and worn out symbols.” argued the Poet.
“Alas,” he said stoically, “It’s often the Poet, the naive ones at least, who are the first to go through the fairy gate and into the Spirit of the Depths.” Thus the Philosopher excused himself, suggesting that while they may go there, he would do his best to study the Heirloom at the Central Library.
Under such auspices did the group, minus the Philosopher, jaunt into the Forest of Immortals, which required a swift ride on their subway snake to a vast and landscaped garden called Central Park. The Poet was first to recognize the magical transition. From dusk appeared the first stars over the trees. A twilight forest came into sight and she began to sing a lullaby. The moon, as her great accompanist, provided a celestial spot light and hummed in a high, inaudible frequency. For the Queen, the moon also cast down her silver wavelets of light, illuminating dancing winged-things in the shadows and bringing forth the fragrances of dormant flowers. Off into the trees the two ladies danced, their savory application melting constantly into uninterrupted waves of euphoria.
Meanwhile, tawny lamp light flickered on between the tall towers. That city, Manhattan, said never to sleep due to these magic fires of various colors, came awake to mad sorrow and drunken laughter in the night. The Philosopher had exited the Library and walked westward to Times Square, where he had the misfortune of bumping into a police officer. As was the custom, the police officer frisked the Philosopher, confiscated his marjiuana and augured a background check on his tablet. Once discovered that he was associated with the Queen the officer had enough reason to arrest him. Rights were read and he was thrown in the back seat of the police wagon. As they drove, the officer made some talk about the sick minds of Turtle Islanders today, referencing the Homeless, the Drug-Addicts, and the Free-Loaders and, of course, the recent Occupiers. But the Thinker couldn’t bring himself to respond. Instead he gazed at the passing corporate coffee houses and clothing stores with a sense of sadness. The officer wouldn’t understand the Philosopher’s real love for this land and for its people, for the officer mixed his patriotism with abstract ideals of freedom and prosperity and a quest for happiness. The officer’s patriotism was not atypical nor truly unjust, only it was a product of the Doctrine of Discovery and of man-made Rights and agendas; the Philosopher’s was a product of the land, of Turtle Island itself and of Turtle Islanders, be they human, animal, vegetable or mineral. Patriotism existed in the flesh for the Philosopher, real as you and me, it was Objective.
When the car came to a halt in front of an obsidian skyscraper, a foreboding of something cruel and painful overcame him. He was shoved past security check points, into an elevator and through doorway after doorway until deep in a labyrinth of brutal architecture, they came to an interrogation room. At first they tried to bribe him for information regarding the whereabouts of the Queen. They offered him paper money, scholastic fame, and a firm place in their hierarchy. Not a native of Turtle Island in the proper sense, rather a descendant of colonists from overseas, he flatly denied these gifts, quoting, “‘I am like a shipwrecked person who learns how to live a certain sense with the land, not on it.’ It is not my place to tell you about her, you must find her yourself.”
The Conqueror , whose voice had become gruff and fierce, tried a different approach. He said, “Think about it, Professor, we’ll make her a heroine—a national icon. And you can be her greatest scholar, the biggest expert on her. You’d have fame, fortune, and respect.”
“It’s thoroughly indoctrinated,” he retorted, “The Banker would drag her to Hollywood, while the Scientist would display her at the MET. You would accept her beautiful image but rape her soul.”
The Conqueror turned around clearly frustrated and gestured to the Scientist, who hitherto loomed in the corner recording the interrogation. If it wasn’t for his white gown, this man appeared like the very specter, Death. He squeezed teal-latex gloves onto his hands and produced a briefcase onto the table, the contents of which provided numerous forms of tortures commonly used during their Oil Wars. Only then, after several hours of waterboarding, did they discover the whereabouts of the Queen.
“Descartes was no fool. I should have known this whole fiasco was started in the pineal gland,” was all the Scientist had to say before disposing of his saliva and vomit covered gloves into the waste bin.
* * *
Since time immemorial the first golden stretches of the rising sun have reassured humankind of a greater pro-creativity, a profounder existence outside their own, and a higher creation deserving of their thanksgivings and prayers. The sun rose up that morning and touched the Heirloom with its first ray of light, providing the final detail of the repair work. It began to chime and woke the two ladies from their dreams, which for the Queen had been of a black snake eating all of the gold of the world and the Poet (mirth be her nature) of curiously happy things: talking dogs and a large banqueting table surrounded by handsome knights errant.
As the watch chimed, the Queen felt joy and a profound sense of purpose in her day. She knew that anything was possible; and that in a way, the day was for her, that she had, in fact, risen the sun herself for everyone to praise and partake.
“Blessings on the day,” said the Queen, “the Heirloom is repaired.”
But no sooner had they collected themselves and began to rally in their fortune, when the Philosopher approached them from behind the brush. His hands were fettered by chains before him, crossed humbly at the waist. Without greeting, he pleaded with them to surrender the Heirloom. But his eyes conveyed not empathy but fear. The ladies knew instinctively something was amiss. The Queen clutched the Heirloom tight and told the Philosopher firmly that she wouldn’t. Then six camouflaged soldiers loyal to the Conqueror approached from behind the Philosopher with guns drawn. The ladies froze in fright–
Guns, you must understand, are incredibly dangerous machines. Although we have our arrows and swords, these instruments of death make it such that with the simple pull of a trigger even an untrained child can wipe out a row of our mightiest swordsmen.
These soldiers positioned themselves, looking down the barrel of these guns, and had Queen and Poet locked in sight.
“Execute?!” cried the Queen, “It’s unlawful.”
“On the contrary, Queen,” said one Soldier who stood out as Captain, “ The Conqueror wants a noble myth and a myth is better dead than alive. We have a right to kill you, because by killing just you, we let live the desires of countless others; you stand only as a limiting force; holding us back from our destiny, which is manifest and self-evident. So stand up dignified-like and let us deliver you your martyrdom.”
The Captain had been prepared by the Conqueror himself to make such a speech before the execution. And it wasn’t entirely untimely for the Philosopher perceived an opening to save the Poet and Queen. “Well said, Captain,” he said charismatically. “You know, it was the Poet who inspired such speeches in times past. You know, she’s very valuable to people who will later admire you. They will be sorely disappointed if you kill her out-right.” Further piquing the Captain’s interest by saying, “Its evident to all that poetry is a useless profession, but killing her or even giving it the appearance of suicide will look bad for the Universities. Many young people still spend tens of thousands of dollars to follow this educational whim. Why don’t we tie her up and send her back to campus. I have read over and over that poets make excellent teachers.”
To consider the matter more clearly the Captain reached for a stimulating drug called Adderall. But at that very moment the Heirloom began to chime and he poured not a pill into his hand but a butterfly. More butterflies took flight from the pill bottle until they all stood enveloped within a kaleidoscope of flapping wings. During this magnificent flapping-chaos that is usually known only in dreams, one of the cadets began to uncontrollably sing Big Rock Candy Mountain while another took a seat and began to speculate the virtues of a local violet flower. The Captain, most head-strong of them, at first tensed himself and called for composure. But his tensions loosened into a wiggle and his body began to move about as if in an ecstatic dance. To further his astonishment, the Philosopher looked down to find his chains were turned to loose papers, which on closer inspection revealed to be academic certificates.
Thus they grooved their way past the soldiers like a needle on a track and soon found themselves back in the city. It was now morning, about seven-thirty AM on a Tuesday. They crossed onto Madison and began traveling south. Strange things were beginning to take place the further they traveled. The Heirloom, working its potent druidic magic, began to transmute everything in their path. Old memories and songs emerged from the inert material. Things modern and mechanical were turned into relics. Cars were turned to horse and carriage, trucks into oxen drawn wagons. People who had one moment been talking on their remote speaking devices called Smart Phones, found themselves speaking into scroll-bundles and leather bound books. Skyscrapers were made into great and ancient trees, streets into cobbled lanes. And the great beaming lights bloomed into great flowers of field and ferns of the wood.
While some would like to frolic in this paradise that was being made of Manhattan, many more resisted. One police officer held a loudspeaker and appealed to the Rule of Law, but found his device bent his words into a touching and personal soliloquy on life. Another, an Uber driver, tried to crash into the entourage but found his car turned into a rickshaw. These sorts of scenes continued until, finally, there was a general retreat. People who wanted to preserve their phones and computers, simply went to New Jersey or Upstate. However, on that day, there were some who would come to stand with the Philosopher, the Poetess, and the Queen of Turtle Island. These people had found their psychic individuation completed by the Heirloom. To name a few: there was the Carpenter, the Weaver, the Baker and the Musician.
And yet their biggest foe had yet to arrive. The Conqueror assembled fighting squadrons to head off the Queen. First to come were multitudinous lines of riot police. But the Heirloom dwelt with them as simply as a hot knife cuts through butter. It had turned their psychology inward and many of these troops began to question their masters, who in turn questioned theirs. Next the Conqueror sent armored vehicles; spaced out from the Hudson to the East River to hold the decisive 23rd Street. But the artillery was useless. The lumberous equipment was toppled as the street itself dramatically rose up from underneath to form a stone wall.
My personal favorite moment of this unforgettable series of true events, was when the Queen and her entourage entered the portcullis into Gramercy Park. Confetti of all colours floated like snowflakes around them. The Queen rode a white stallion, which had once been a Tesla, one of their newest horseless carriage models. Beside her the Poet held up a quill triumphantly as a sword. And the Philosopher, bless his simple dedication to nature, held a crooked staff of oak.
* * *
Alarmed by the rapid decay of their institutions, the Conqueror, the Banker, and the Scientist held a council in a luxury office on the 78th floor of the Chrysler Building.
“We shall go about this,” said the Scientist, “without the aid of technology and use our barest wits and resources. We will appeal to common sense and ask them what the point is of all these things; and see how they answer.”
The Conqueror remained silent. His back was turned toward the conference room. He gazed out the window bewitched by a strange scene over Central Park. A few of his military helicopters had turned into hot air balloons. It was almost comical, he thought before turning around. He rubbed his chin and almost said something but hesitated. Instead he took a seat in a leather arm chair. A strange mood was coming over him. He didn’t know how to place it. It was ridiculous. As if all his usual habits of thought were no longer valid, as though all his normal longings had been replaced with one painful longing for which he did not know. The Banker and the Scientist made unquiet eye contact. Not in all their colonial years, had they ever seen the Conqueror waver. Out of custom, the Banker began to express that reelection polls needed to be considered and the public opinion figures.
The Conqueror gave a wearied nod.
The Scientist had a sudden idea, that perhaps they could find some help in the Eastern Classic, the I-Ching. As he busied himself with the coins, the Conqueror, poured himself a glass of wine.
“Jiji. Ferrying Complete,” the Scientist read out loud from the Book of Changes, “is such that even the small enjoy prevalence. It is fitting to practice constancy, for although in the beginning good fortune prevails, things might end in chaos.”
The Conqueror chuckled obscurely.
“Do we,” he finally said out-loud, “Do we have a right to own Turtle Island?”
The Scientist explained that the Doctrine of Discovery implied they did.
“Yes. But does anyone really have the right to do whatever they please on land that’s been acquired by force of arms?”
The Banker shot out, “Property must be liberated from those undeserving… or from tyranny. Where would we be without such property? It’s the backbone of every nation since Roman times and before. It is Empire. And, I’d add, the natural course of humanity; one could say it’s even civilization itself.”
“I see. Then why would the Queen not see it our way? If it is natural then everyone under the sun would agree. Can it be that we are somehow missing her point?” Of course, the Commander could feel that he was onto something, “do they not call our Colony also a patriarchy? Do they not also call our Colony, capitalism. Their Bag of Symbols is very clear about this.”
“The Bag of Symbols is useless compared to my Facts and Figures,” explained the Scientist.
“But that says nothing,” countered the Banker. “Facts and Figures are also symbols. So are words. So too is our Money and our Property.” These words had just dropped out of her mouth and they seemed to invite the same paradox into each mind. Luckily, before they might have time to self-reflect, a servant brought in a meal of steak, potato and bacon-fried brussel sprouts. The three ate solemnly. An hour later, they were evacuated along with many more inhabitants of the city.
* * *
In the course of the day many more transformations took place as a result of the Heirloom. Concrete gave way to flora and steel to fauna. Mid-Town and the Upper West and East became the forest they had once been. Once again Manhattan could be called the Island-of-Many-Hills. Below the wall that had been 23rd Street, the Queen established her beautiful kingdom. As servants of wisdom anyone was welcome to join in the efforts of the magic Heirloom. Gardens grew well, forest lands were stewarded and became the living orchards of Eden. There were inns, guildhalls, and even a hippodrome. Not only did the Lady and her people prosper but all local beasts and birds as well. Even the chestnut trees flourished, which had been wiped out by a blight some 110 years before our tale. The Philosopher began work on writing a new history. The Poetess invented songs and stories. And the Queen commissioned countless craftspeople to build aesthetically pleasing homes and halls.
And so time passed peacefully, until on one fine summer’s eve, when it is said nightingales don’t dare to cease, a message came for the Queen out of the South-West, from the District of Columbia, where the Conqueror had maintained his hold. The message came in the form of a runner, an errand boy, who spoke with a fair but occasionally cracked voice. They sat in the Queen’s banquet hall.
“My Queen, since you refuse to answer our emails and your cell-phone seems out of service, we are subject to yet another of your anti-progressive devices; to send a message via a messenger.”
Our Queen couldn’t help but laugh.
“They had you remember that insult, did they? They’ve such a passive-aggressive way about them. But still let them have their sense of righteousness. Continue, errand boy.”
“The Conqueror has been hit by hard times as of late. The DOW has tumbled to below 10,000 points. The Terrorist symbol isn’t working anymore, instead people are afraid now of the Environment changing. It’s all about flooding, fires, and more recently, viruses. Worse, more people than ever are relying on the Conqueror’s social services because of these environmental disasters. He’d like to ally with you and your collective.”
“An alliance is out of the question,” exclaimed the Philosopher.
“We are a peaceful and rational people,” reminded the Queen, “perhaps their right-based society with its egoic quest for happiness has grown up and is ready again for our council.”
The messenger stared blankly at the Queen and her subjects as if he were hearing a foreign language.
“He’ll give you all your ancestral lands back. But you must, at least, listen to his request.”
The Philosopher was curious. He asked about the Conqueror’s terms.
“He would like the Queen’s hand in marriage, sir.”
Everyone held their breath.
The very thought of it had invited so many possibilities. One could guess that the Queen’s mind, heart and soul were all shaken. But tactfully, she held her tongue.
The Poet felt the danger and said, “Marriage to such a man is slavery!” And gained the approval of many in that royal hall.
The Queen excused the boy with a wave of her hand. She had heard all she needed. She addressed her audience, “Don’t worry, I have no intention of marrying him. I don’t even know him properly. Besides the smug, self-assured way he used to talk on television is repulsive to say the least. But, I’ve an idea, perhaps we can use this opportunity as a pretext to sneak the Heirloom into DC and to change him.”
Meanwhile, back in Washington the Conqueror and his bed-fellow the Banker were speaking in a bedroom suite in the White House. She sat on the foot of his king-sized bed with one of their interactive tablets balanced on her bare lap and watched as he adjusted his collar in the mirror. His frown didn’t go unnoticed. Although his vanity was notoriously unconquerable, today he felt unconvinced.
“Do you really plan on returning all her ancestral lands?” asked the Banker concernedly. “I know it will be merely symbolic, but I do not like this idea of marriage. What if she changes you? Just the thought of you as one of their moneyless hippies disgusts me. You’re better than that.”
The Conqueror smiled and thanked her politely. He heaved a long sigh, nonetheless. Then, with a lightning-like shift in mood, he pulled the shirt up over his head and threw it angrily on the ground.
“There’s nothing Turtle-Islandly about that shirt,” he said in a fury, “Its fabric is Italian, bought at Barney’s on the East Side which is now, what, a weaver’s cottage? Suppose she brings her magic Heirloom here, what will that shirt become? A roman tunic? A woolen bag? I need something authentic.”
She always became aroused when he was in such a fiery temperament. First conveyed as a jest, she answered, “We’ll tailor one of those English robes that might have been worn by the Monarch, Charles the Second. Then you can take it off for me.”
The Conqueror’s eyes flashed. It had been a good idea, not the innuendo but the robe. And soon he decided he’d prepare himself with a wide array of royal regalia for his meeting with the Queen. Further touches would be made: his guard would hold halberd and sword and lighting to be replaced with candles and oil lamps. Modernity would be banished from the White House that night.
* * *
Society was grand and in its grandness for the first time since the transformation of Manhattan the Queen reflected on a particular feeling, a feeling that would not leave her as she stepped off the train at Union Station in DC. It lingered with her as she viewed all the people coming and going, paying no heed to her or one another. Folks scampered about with their ears plugged, mouths to microphones, and their hands busy with the interfaces of Facebook, Twitter, and Spotify. All of these things, including the money behind them, had become rapidly meaningless under the light of the Heirloom. The feeling, she had, among all these people, was one of loneliness. And she remembered why she had gone to repair the Heirloom all those years ago: to remedy the affliction that civilization puts upon the human soul.
But, she reflected, had not the Heirloom only made her kingdom an oddity to the rest of the world, a strange bubble: an Arcadia, a Peach-Blossom-Spring (桃花源記), and a Tír na nÓg? And on her Island-of-many-Hills there were how many residents? A pleasant 8,606 according to a recent reckoning (and that included the four-legged people). Had the destruction of Manhattan been worth it? Had it been, in fact, selfish to displace so many people?
Then it struck her: that her society required space. Like the natural range of pumas in the Andes, human activity, be it harmonious and in tune with the Heirloom, had a range. Humans couldn’t help feeling the nausea of existence, and moreover, they couldn’t help being destructive to the environment when they lived on top of each other in highly dense communities.
The mainstream idea was that technology would smooth out these troubles. And society would evolve in suit. But the Spirit of Times provided clear evidence that this was not the case, at all. There were numerous wars, corrupt businesses and banks, cooperations, and passionate killers of all varieties who harnessed and led the technology. Yes, in the 2000 so odd years since they murdered their own Savior, this 20th century provided a grand example of this particular sickness. How many people had to die in their World Wars and their colonial take-overs? Technology did not put out a single one of these fires, it instead fed them, made them fiercer and more horrible.
She considered this deep and troubling dilemma as she walked past the Capitol and west along the National Mall. She entered the White House and was frisked by secret service and led to the oval office. Soon one monarch stood before another. The Queen rose her eyes to meet those of the Conqueror, who stood wearing a jovial smile and a crimson robe with golden tassels. This was somehow reassuring. He looked like a regal fool. He invited her for a glass of wine and a seat on a sofa. He sat opposite her.
“If only we could all live as you do now on the Island of Many Hills,” he said, “Unfortunately, I have discovered that probably we cannot… there are too many of us… to live the way you do. We would need several Earths to accommodate so many people, so many creative, unique, and free people.”
She admitted that she had thought the same.
“It has led me to think,” she stated, “that regarding your way of living, your Empire, you have been living this way too long. And now, like someone who has climbed too high and too fast on a ladder that breaks below him, we are falling forever into our own nightmare, a hyper-normalized paradigm of separation from the Heirloom.”
“That might be,” He continued, “ it is broken people who rule a broken world. I impress people, I organize them and attempt to reduce their sufferings, I don’t set them free. By what means do you rule?”
“I inspire my followers to lead themselves, to be responsible and to take care of those that are weak. And I lead by following; I seldom force anything to be done. Only I make the conditions right for their fostering, but I cannot determine their Destiny for them.”
Meanwhile, he stood to refill the glasses, using this pretext to sit on her sofa, though still at an arm’s length.
The next phase of their discourse revolved around Healthcare on Turtle Island, which had been the collaborative-project of the Banker and the Scientist. The Conqueror was very proud of their efforts and it had made him and others very rich. The Queen’s response was simple, “In matters of health we defer to the Physician. Why should I interfere? I merely give him, as Queen, the resources he needs to attend to the people.”
There had been a few extra pours of wine for the Conqueror. Casually, he maneuvered himself closer beside her on the sofa during their conversations. And with each closer move, the Queen felt correspondingly more uncomfortable. Finally, as he put his arm around her, she pulled back. This unwelcome game of pursuit continued until he had cornered her against the arm rest and grasped her firmly on the thigh. She resisted by pushing him away, but his weight and power were too great. She had still her last defence, the Heirloom and in this moment she put it between herself and him. Her eyes had been clenched for fear of abuse…
When she opened them again she saw something so harmless, so cute that its very vestige would make a baby coo. There on the floor before the sofa the Conqueror had become a blue-eyed Royal Calf, black in hide, and with a triangular patch of white on his forehead.
Such a Royal Calf was nearly as old as the Heirloom itself and, like it, it was a symbol seldom seen. The Queen fell instantly in love with the beast and determined it would receive the very best of treatment in her Kingdom. She draped the regal robe over his shoulders and onto his back, adorned him with the crown, and led him out of the White House. The Queen walked him across the mall causing quite a sensation. Many clicks and many comments were made on Youtube and Facebook. Memes were made that would never be forgotten.
Thus the Conqueror had finally found true happiness as a progenitor of beasts of burden. He was taken back to the Island-of-many-Hills and became the emblem service to the greater good. He was given ample field to roam and a harem of heffers. On occasion the Banker and the Scientist would pay a visit to the master. The Banker would stroll with the Philosopher and discuss Utopia, while the Scientist and the Poet would invent new and colorful stories of Creation. These visits were profitable for these old adversaries as they returned to their respective Colonies and Empires. And, finally, our Queen would come visit her darling Conqueror in his pen. His bull eyes full of adoration, he would grunt and snort. She approached and with her kind eyes and her kind hands, and would scratch him behind the ears. And there was no joy greater for him than when she would whisper into his floppy ear tales of New York City, Los Angeles, and an ever distant Berlin.
The End.
Rickey Lee Bauman 