Please be advised of our holiday schedule!
The movie & pizza will be on Thurs, Dec. 27th at 6 PM, and it will be Rudolph’s Shiny New Year!
We’ll have our waffle cone Christmas tree craft on Dec. 22nd (after our Christmas Concert!) at noon! Ages 3+
The Christmas Concert with Gary Van Slyke will be at 11am on Dec. 22nd!
Join us for the Christmas Party for kids at noon on Dec. 15th!
The drop-in Christmas Card Making event will be from 10 – 3 on Dec. 8th!
Back to the Mansion
By Sally Madison
The plans were all set. Lloyd would provide the distraction at the tea ship, while Earl escorted the
Lord Mayor and Miss Mary to the Bowers’ house through the dark alleys.
Mary, who had been strangely quiet, finally erupted. “I cannot go! I would be deserting all that
my family has stood for, what of our loyalty to Cousin George? It is treasonous not to fight for
civility and put these rebels in their place. I will be shunned by my family.”
Her husband Richard, who was the Lord Mayor, Earl and Lloyd stood there astonished into
silence. “But, Mary, they tried to kill you… and me.”
Mary, hanging her head, knew that he was right, but she still could not imagine the future through
her disheveled life. “No matter what the consequences, I need to get back to the mansion,” she
insisted. “There are things there that are more important to me than anything in the world.”
Earl considered her comment for a moment. She was right; they would need money, if nothing
else. “It’ll be tricky, but I think we can manage it. Most everyone is down at the park. We might
be able to sneak into the servant’s door. Here, put this scarf around your hair like the
washerwoman does. Let’s go, but quiet mind you, and try to stay out of sight.”
At the mansion, there were still a few stragglers who were watching the remnants of the fire burn
some of the paintings, books and small chairs they had taken from the mansion, when the mob
dragged Mary and Richard out to tar and feather them. Fortunately, the looters left alone anything
that was too large to carry easily.
Earl led Mary and Richard into the vegetable garden, and handed them each a few squashes.
“Anyone whats’ spots us, will think we’re stealing these. Either way, they won’t pay any mind.
Now, you go quiet-like into the back door and warn your help not to let on who you are.”
Earl went to the fire circle and poked the ashes. “Looks like everyone went back to Finnegan’s. I
hear that Old Tom Paine was buying beer for anyone of like mind.” said…
“You aint’ goin?’ said one of the straglers.
“Nau, me pa needs me to drag his sorry ‘ars back to our place.” Earl lied, “You go ahead, I’ll be
Mary and Richard stealthily snuck into the house. Mary ran to the parlor. Opening the drawers
and pressing various pressure points of her desk, she finally opened the secret compartment.
With a sigh of relief, she grabbed the mahogany box that matched her desk, and hugged it to her
chest. Gently she ran her fingers across the beautiful desk that had been her wedding gift. “Until
we meeting again she spoke to the desk.” She sighed. Carefully she opened the box, which held
her most prized possessions, her jewels and the black pearls and the family’s heirloom.
Word Count : 498
It’s Nothing Personal…
By Josh McMullen
The president hadn't been in power for more than a day before instituting sweeping reforms all over the
country. His fist act, citing the ever-widening gap between the upper and lower classes, was to basically
sever the bond between them altogether. They would no longer be able to fraternize outside of fiscal and
other essential responsibilities. He handled the backlash with aplomb, citing the mountain the media was
making out of the figurative molehill.
He had even instituted an agency (The Pay Grade Integrity Commission) to make sure his baby never
came into question. Penalties were swift and severe, going so far as lifetime imprisonment and even in the
most severe cases, death.
That was the situation Farley and Dahlia found themselves in on that freezing-cold March night in
Farley's apartment. She had rushed through the office when the PGIC came through on their weekly
sweep, taking Farley's hand and dragging him out the door. No place was really safe, not under the new
regime, but if they could just hold out for a little while, they might just be able to make it.
Farley had just kissed her; that much Dahlia knew. Outside of that, her brain was completely cloudy. She
crawled to the window and peeked outside, where PGIC agents had given up the battering ram and were
preparing to reduce the whole place to ashes. She had heard of this, and it was only the worst case
scenarios that brought out the flamethrowers. If they couldn't make them come out quietly, they would
just smoke them out, and to Hades with the rest of the commons displaced.
Farley remained near the door, the joy of the reckless act he just performed turning into ashes in his
mouth. He leaned his head against the door, wondering if it was all worth it. He could have just went back
to work and left Dahlia alone, no muss, no fuss and certainly no government agency to chase him all over
“You know they're just going to chase us until we can't run anymore,” he said dejectedly.
“I know,” Dahlia groaned, hanging her head resignedly. “I couldn't help myself. That's what this does to
you: when you want something but can't have it, it just makes you want it all the more.”
“You…you honestly wanted me? I'm nothing special…” Farley said, with nothing suddenly making sense
Dahlia responded with a kiss on the tip of his nose, which sent chills down his spine. “You were to me,”
she whispered. They looked out the window; PGIC agents were everywhere; there was nowhere to run
now. She sighed, hanging her head. “Maybe we should just give up. There's nowhere to run.”
Farley suddenly found newfound confidence. Maybe that's what this does to you too, he thought. He
stood up and took her hand. “I'm not giving up, not as long as you're alive.” Without hesitation, they
disappeared into the night, just as the flames began licking the building…
Word Count 500
Like So Much Smoke
By Sam McManus
My sister doesn’t smoke. Oh, I’m sure she would if she took any time to think about it, because she’s all
about ritual. Every morning she runs a brush through her lustrous locks exactly twenty-seven times,
because that’s how old she is. Every afternoon she takes a nap at 4 p.m. because that’s when she gets
home from her job as a waitress at Sal’s Diner. Every evening she watches an episode of Arrested
Development, even the ones she’s seen about a hundred times, just because. She says it’s something about
Jason Bateman, but I think she has a crush on the guy who plays Tobias.
So, what’s more ritualistic than smoking a pack a day, two packs a day, a carton a day? The way the
smoke fills your lungs like so much air, the way it twists, serpentine, through your system, there’s nothing
quite like it. But it would have to be Camels. If my sister did smoke she would choose Camels because
they have more nicotine in them, as much as fifteen patches stacked end to end, snaking up a flabby arm,
or two arms, or from head to toe.
I had a buddy who smoked Camels. He would tap the box before he slid one out, another ritual, you see.
He would tap the box, then turn his hand upside down until one came tumbling down. Then he would
deftly capture it between his thumb and forefinger, flicking the lighter at the same time as a flame erupted
from thin air. The thinner the better. He used to light up when we were standing outside the biology lab,
flicking his ashes into the nearby bushes, which I’m sure were planted by some honorary class or
something. He didn’t care. They did the trick.
“Dude, I’m living the life,” Jimmy Hong would tell me, as the smoke collected in his moustache, giving it
an otherworldly look. Then he would cough once, twice, thrice, and then collect himself. Every single
time. My sister would have found him dashing and debonair, like Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember.
He smoked in that movie.
Of course I’m not sure if Jimmy Hong would have been her type, even though he smoked like a chimney.
My sister always did like the academic type, the kind who would look down their noses at those who did
salacious things like smoke.
“Find me a guy who likes Poe, and I’m good,” she told me the other day when she had gotten out of the
shower and I was getting in.
“That girl who sings ‘Haunted’?” I asked, good-naturedly, firmly tongue in cheek.
“The raven guy, doofus,” she said, punching me on the arm. I looked at her and thought, “You should
smoke. You’ll appreciate more than Poe could ever offer you, with his brooding nature and early death.
That’s so Kurt Cobain.”
But I said absolutely nothing. I just let the silence stretch like measuring tape between us. Like so much
Word Count 500
By Mike Cecconi
He sinned against every religion he knew, on a regular basis, just in case the end of the world
was really coming. None of the big ethical ones, none of the ones that hurt other people. Just the
ticky-tack sins, the sins of outmoded cultural baggage, the minor missteps that meant something
one obsolete context but lived on in faith anyway. Nevertheless, he made sure he kept the small
sins in all popular cosmologies fresh, in case the end turned out to be anything like The Rapture.
He insured against Islamic or Judaism being Truth by eating crispy bacon every once in a while,
indemnified himself against Hindus with the occasional well-cooked-through steak. He wanted
minor sin, of course, he didn’t want to risk food poisoning. He was never much of a drinker but
made sure to do the occasional vodka shot in orange juice, just in case it was the Mormons, ate
hamburgers on Lenten Fridays on the long odds the Catholics had nailed it down, even though
having been raised Catholic himself, he was certain the Catholics were out of their minds.
He cursed the gods in every tradition he could get his mind around, could swear a blue streak in
nearly any formulation. He could well have been crowned world expert in profanity if there was
money in it, though he knew when to water down and only use tame versions of the damn things.
He’d perfected the art of being ritualistically-impure, just ritualistically-impure enough to not get
in any heaven on the first shot. He didn’t want to assume anything in his quest to avoid an initial
Assumption. He was ritualistically-impure in every faith he could think of, he was in fact ritually
ritualistically-impure. His life was a vast array, a Technicolor dreamcoat, of itsy-bits infractions
and had rules-lawyered himself out of The Chosen Ones, any cosmic system you could name.
If all the “good” people were going to be taken up by sky monsters, he wanted to be down here
in the world’s ashes instead, so he could instead be on Earth to help, to aid those abandoned by
the magic or the holy, make The Tribulation better for us suckers who won’t make the cut as pre-
determined by some high-priest, hairy thunderer or cosmic muffin. You don’t just leave people
behind, he thought, even if the spirits of the air abandon all but The Elect, we’re all just people
and the shunned deserve assistance, so he kept sinning just enough to get stuck in the real.
Maybe he’d end up in hell eventually, but he’d just try to make hell less painful too. Maybe he’d
end up in heaven and give God a stern talking to. Or maybe this is all there is, maybe the idea of
sin is an absurdity, and all we can ever do is try to ameliorate each other’s suffering. He’s ready
for that too, though if that’s the case, he might start hitting the vodka a little bit harder.