Vivian lay back on the emerald grass and gazed up into the infinite azure. Behind her, Vivian’s mother knelt before the rosebushes, spreading mulch with a trowel. Mother’s trowel made a soothing, swooshing sound as she worked. Vivian smiled and watched a cloud make its way across the sky.

“It’s so good to be free,” the little girl mused pleasantly. “Like that cloud.”

“Freedom is important,” Mother agreed. “Freedom to live your life as you choose, freedom to make decisions for yourself.”

Vivian considered this. “I don’t think decisions are a choice.”

“Nonsense. Of course they are. That’s the whole idea.”

Vivian rolled over to look at her mother. “I think decisions just happen.”

“They just happen? You have no control over what you, yourself, decide? That’s preposterous. If you couldn’t choose to make a decision, there’s no freedom at all, and that means no options.”

“Think about it, Mother. If you have to decide to decide, then you have to decide to decide to decide. And you have to decide to make that decision, and so on, until forever!”

Mother tapped her trowel on the ground. “You have a point there, darling.”

“But if deciding just happens, if it’s something you do naturally, without thinking about it, then it makes sense.”

“Vivian, my love, many decisions require thought. You’ll realize that as you get older.”

“That’s true. At breakfast this morning, I had to choose between toast or a scone. It was hard to decide.”

“You see? It doesn’t just happen naturally.” Mother troweled some more mulch onto the soil. “You do have to think, sometimes.”

“That’s true, but I didn’t have to decide to make the decision, did I? You said ‘toast or scone,’ and then I thought about how sweet and melty the scone is and how crunchy and fun toast is and finally I decided I wanted the scone. I didn’t choose to decide, it sort of happened. Like a hiccup.”

“I see. No matter what you did, even if you’d decided not to choose, you still would have made a decision.”

Vivian leaned up on her elbow and grinned at her mother. “Right! It’s just natural!”

Mother extended a finger to beep Vivian on the nose. “You are precocious, Vivian. Very precocious.”

“Could I have toast tomorrow?”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

The day of the twenty-third annual pie-baking contest in Fulburn County, Indiana, is still vivid in the memory of Fulburn County residents, and probably will be for years to come.

That was the day Earl Parker put his fingers in the blender to see what would happen. When his wife Priscilla came in and saw the mess, he lied and said he gotten ketchup all over the counter while trying to open a bottle of Heinz, but she could tell he was lying, because there were little chunks of meat everywhere, making it more the consistency of pork and beans. Earl later swore he would never stick his fingers in the blender again, even if the doctors could sew them back on.

But mere domestic occurrences such as the one that took place in Earl and Priscilla Parker’s life that day pale in comparison to the excitement of the events at the twenty-third annual pie-baking contest.

Sheriff Homer Polk officiated the contest, six-pack in hand, with prune-faced Ruth McKimball, old Ed Coons, and little Bobby Green acting as judges. Most of the contestants baked their pies that morning, so that they would be hot and fresh when the judges sampled their slices.

Pick-up trucks full of families swarmed onto the gravel in the county fairgrounds parking lot that morning. Wiser folks walked to the contest, knowing full well that it’s almost impossible to find your pick-up in that parking lot, seeing as how they all look alike. Last year, Junior Evans and Peevey Ray Boon accidentally switched trucks, and you’d better believe that Mrs. Boon was not amused when she found Libby Evans’ black lace bra in the back of what Mrs. Boon thought was Peevey Ray’s truck.

At ten o’clock the contest was ready to begin. The first pie was the work of Hetty Boggs, who served on the church vestry, chamber of commerce and the PTA. Hetty liked to say she was delicate and bird-like, which was true if the bird in question’s a vulture. This particular pie was a recipe she’d made up herself: “Tomato Pie á la Boggs.” Ruth McKimball was first to try it, and her eyes crossed a little when she put it in her mouth. Ed Coons took a bite, chewed a little, moved it around in his mouth, chewed some more, moved it again, and finally swallowed. It was a fascinating process, as he had taken the liberty of removing his dentures before the proceedings. Little Bobby Green downed his entire slice in two bites and licked his lips afterwards.

After all three had sampled the tomato pie, they made notes on its taste and went on to try the next, which was titled simply, “Crust Pie,” and seemed to consist entirely of pie crust. Ruth choked a little on it, and Sheriff Polk had to go and get her a glass of water. Ed refused a second bite, declaring he’d already made his decision, but little Bobby Green wolfed down three slices, explaining that he wanted to “fully experience the flavor.”

The judges went right on down the line—worm pie, chocolate gooseberry pie, tomato pie á la Jones, tomato pie á la Kleindorf, frogs’ leg pie, tomato pie á la Bickford, filet of warthog pie, and tomato pie á la Porter, to name but a few.

Ruth remained reluctant toward trying each new pie, and little Bobby Green continued to snarf up two and three slices at a time, but soon whenever Ed took a piece, he would suddenly point at the landscape and yell, “Fire!” or “Look!” or “The Russians are coming!” When everybody turned to look, he would toss his slice over his shoulder and claim that he had tried the pie. This ruse worked well for seven or eight samples, until some of the more skeptical spectators began to get suspicious. Ed was given a severe reprimanding by Sheriff Polk, who firmly warned that from then on, Ed was not to claim any sightings of armed Russians, UFO’s, tornadoes, or the Loch Ness Monster. Least, not until after the contest. Ed licked his lips and mumbled he was sorry, and the judging continued.

It was just after the judges tried Ann Guernsey’s tree-bark pie á la mode (they all liked it, but Ruth got a splinter in her tongue) that Libby Evans brought in her surprise entry—160-proof beer and pretzel pie. This was judged as by far the best of the entries, and the judges ate the entire thing, eagerly licking their fingers afterwards. Ruth started walking a little funny for a while after that, and Ed kept belching. After he finished licking the pie plate, Little Bobby Green declared there wasn’t any point in trying the other entries. They had found the winner.

Hetty Boggs was aghast at this turn of events. She had been determined to win the contest, and even talked her husband, Billy, into slipping the sheriff twenty bucks and a six-pack that morning, to ensure the success of Tomato Pie á la Boggs. The very idea that a slut like Libby Evans could win this contest was absurd. Hetty pushed her big flowered hat forward on her head and went stomping off to find the traitor.

Sheriff Homer Polk had taken an emergency trip to the Port-A-John, thanks to the six-pack he’d been given by Billy Boggs earlier that morning, and was just on his way back to the contest when he met up with Hetty. “Howdy, Hetty,” he smiled, simultaneously tipping his cowboy hat and zipping his fly.

“Don’t you ‘howdy’ me, you bean-dip!” Hetty spat back. “Little Bobby Green just named Libby Evans the winner of the pie-baking contest!”

Sheriff Polk scratched his forehead and squinted up at the sun. “Well, isn’t that nice for Libby. I wonder what kind of pie she—”

Hetty started kicked the sheriff in the shins. “I was supposed to win this, you traitor! I was supposed to!”

Sheriff Polk danced around to avoid Hetty’s feet, showing a surprising depth of coordination for a man who had just finished six beers in under twenty minutes. “But—but Hetty! What are you talking about?”

Back at the grandstand, Libby Evans was smiling widely, displaying her tanned legs, skin-tight cutoff jeans and black high heels. She was perched on Ed Coons’ knee and throwing kisses to the crowd, acting like she’d just been elected Miss America or something.

Billy Boggs clapped his hand to his forehead. This reminded him of something. What was it he was supposed to have told the sheriff before the contest? Dadblame it, he’d forgotten that morning, so he’d simply handed Homer the six-pack and driven back to pick up Hetty—Hetty! Now, wait a minute, she had wanted to win the pie-baking contest! That’s what he was supposed to tell Sheriff Polk. And now Libby Evans was up there, ready to accept the coveted Fulburn County Pie-Baker’s Crown! Oh, shucks, Billy was really in trouble now. He looked around, but he didn’t see Hetty anywhere.

A few miles away, Earl and Priscilla Parker were driving home from the Fulburn County Hospital, where Earl had been given medical attention.

“I sure hope we can get to the fairgrounds in time to see who won the contest,” Earl said to his wife, who was driving.

“I don’t see why. You didn’t have time to take your pie over for the judging this morning,” Priscilla reminded him.

“Nope, but I gave it to Junior Evans’ sister last night, on account of she knew who to give it to at the contest.”

Priscilla considered this. “Well, then, do you think you won?”

“Step on it, and we’ll find out.”

Back by the Port-A-John, the Sheriff was being beaten black and blue by Hetty Boggs.

“You—you—horseradish! Beaverbrain!” Hetty screamed as she kicked and punched the somewhat debilitated Homer.

“I’m a lot of things, but not a beaverbrain,” he protested weakly, feeling bruised and nauseous.

“No, he isn’t!” called a voice from behind the Port-A-John.

Hetty stopped her attack and looked up. “Who’s that?”

Junior Evans, Libby’s brother, stepped out, holding his big hands in front of him. “Please don’t hit me.”

Hetty screamed and lunged for him. “Your wife won my crown!”

Junior jumped out of the way as gracefully as a six foot, four inch construction worker can, and pleaded with Hetty not to hurt him. “Sheriff! You’ve gotta listen to me! It’s Libby!”

Sheriff Polk he rolled over and vomited on the side of the Port-A-John.

Back at the grandstand, the crowd had been happy to cheer for Libby for the first thirty seconds or so, but now the wait for the sheriff, who had the crown in his truck, was becoming a long one, and everyone was getting a little anxious. Libby continued to pose on Ed’s knee (which was falling asleep), throwing kisses and declaring that she’d “just like to thank all the little people.”

The Parkers’ truck roared onto the parking lot, spitting gravel every where. Earl and Priscilla leaped out and ran up to the grandstand, where they could clearly see Libby and Ed.

Ruth McKimball, who until this point had been singing chorus after chorus of “Shine On Harvest Moon,” was beginning to sober up, so she saw the Parkers’ arrival. Ruth remembered Earl telling her earlier that week that he was going to enter the contest, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall trying his pie. Maybe Earl was going to make another last-minute entry.

Next to her, little Bobby Green sighed, bored. The pies that hadn’t been judged yet waited there on the table, their combined aromas wafting seductively beneath his twitching nostrils. “Well, as long as we’re waiting for the sheriff anyway, let’s have some of the other pies,” he suggested.

“No!” Libby jumped up from Ed’s lap. “You can’t do that! You said my pie won!”

“Well, it did,” Ruth interrupted, “but it doesn’t seem fair not to try them all.”

“Wait!” shouted Earl Parker, who had finally made it to the grandstand. “Did I win?”

In the crowd, Billy Boggs was getting more and more nervous. He had to find Hetty before she did some real damage. Pushing his way through the crowd, he went in the direction he’d last seen his wife go.

Back at the Port-A-John, Junior Evans bent over to shield his head with his hands as Hetty whapped him with her white vinyl handbag, which she apparently used to hold her collection of bricks. The sheriff lay on the ground, mumbling something about elephants.

Billy came around the Port-A-John just in time to see Junior receive a swift kick in the crotch from Hetty.

“Hetty! Leave that man alone!”

Hetty looked up from beneath her large flowered hat, which had tipped down over her eyes. “Billy, you wart hog, I didn’t win!” She held her purse over her head like a tomahawk and started running toward him.

Meanwhile, Libby was screaming at the sight of Earl and Priscilla. “You’re not supposed to be here! Go away!”

“Do you have an entry?” prune-faced Ruth McKimball called to Earl.

The crowd snapped back to attention, cheering and whistling and spitting on the ground. This infuriated Libby to no end, and she hollered at the spectators. “Shut up! I win! You hear me? I win, so shut your pie-holes! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“What about my beer and pretzel pie? Did I win, or what?” Earl was clambering up onto the grandstand, with Priscilla helping.

Ed’s eyebrows flip-flopped. Little Bobby Green, who had already started in on the pies they hadn’t judged yet, dropped his fork. “Brff nnf prrtssl pah?” Prune-faced Ruth McKimball made a “hmmph!” noise and folded her arms across her chest.

“It’s my crown! You said it was mine!” Libby was jumping up and down and waving her arms around and screaming at just about everybody.

“Yes, beer and pretzel pie. I gave it to Libby last night on account of she knew who to give it to in the contest,” Earl explained. “And then I had to go to the hospital this morning and Priscilla and I got here just now.”

Old Ed Coons went to the microphone and announced, “Ladies and germs, we have a new winner.”

The crowd started cheering even louder than before. Started throwing things at each other, too.

Junior Evans came running back from the Port-A-John and made a flying leap onto the grandstand, where he grabbed the microphone right out of Ed’s hand. “Hetty Boggs has gone hog-wild crazy! She’s back by the Port-A-John, beating up Billy Boggs and the sheriff!”

Well, naturally the crowd just plain went nuts when they heard that. The ones who weren’t throwing things at each other ran back to the Port-A-John to watch the excitement and maybe get in a few swings themselves.

But Junior wasn’t done yet. “And not only that, but—but—my sister Libby’s trying to take credit for Earl Parker’s pie and win the contest!”

That, folks, was the last straw. Libby picked up a random pie and lobbed it at her brother’s head. He ducked, and it hit Ruth square in the face. Ruth licked the tomato off her lips and shook her finger at Libby. “You, missy, need to be taught a good lesson!” Bending forward faster than you would’ve thought the old goat could move, prune-faced Ruth McKimball lodged her fingers firmly in the belt-loops of Libby’s cutoffs and gave her a wedgie that Fulburn County would not soon forget. Libby Evans’s eyes crossed, her mouth puckered, her knees sagged, and suddenly she looked a lot like Ruth.

Loosening her hold on Libby’s shorts, Ruth leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Let that be a lesson to you, missy!”

From out of nowhere, another pastry hurtled through the air and landed on Libby’s behind. Shrieking, Libby grabbed another pie and threw it at random at the crowd. Then Old Ed Coons threw a pie at Junior, and Peevey Ray threw a pie at Alice Wilkins, and—oh, heck, pies just started flying everywhere. The only person who wasn’t throwing them was little Bobby Green, and he was trying to catch them in his mouth.

The crowd was hysterical. Why not? It was all good, clean fun. Somebody threw a live chicken at the grandstand. Ever the animal lover, Peevey Ray Boon caught it and declared he was going to call the NAACP about this, but Mrs. Boon corrected him. “Okay, then, I’ll call the ACLU!” The crowd started throwing even more stuff at the grandstand, and, well, that’s when things really got out of hand.

No one knows for sure who did what, or everything that went on after that point that day. It remains unexplained how that cow ended up in the Port-A-John, or where the grandstand disappeared to, or how those weird-looking char-marks in the neighboring wheat fields got there. (Old Ed Coons swears they were caused by a pie-shaped spaceship, but then, old Ed’s eyesight isn’t so good.) Suffice it to say, the Right Reverend Jimmy Joe Jones saw fit to have everybody re-baptized the morning after Fulburn County’s twenty-third annual pie-baking contest, and no one doubts that they needed it. And we all agree that Earl looks downright spiffy in that crown.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I was painting my toenails this morning and thinking how exasperating it is that I can find time to write something every day, yet I can’t manage to do something as simple and quick as paint my toenails more than like twice a month.

My priorities are all fucked up, I told myself. Today’s the day. I’m gonna get to work, make a hair appointment (two months since my last cut and probably four since I last dyed it…it’s looking a wee bit shaggy) and even make a nail appointment. Ooh, I felt really proud of myself for the nail appointment idea. I haven’t had a manicure since…um…

Junior high school.

Really? That long? Well, yeah. I file and paint my fingernails about as often as my toenails, with even shoddier results. Honestly, I have no idea how anybody who’s ever looked at me can take me seriously.

And yet I am. I am dead serious. (See? There was a point to all this.) I make time for the things I care about, the things that are important to me. Special quality time with my daughter. Good, healthy meals for my family. Reading books about things that I believe are important for me to know. And writing.

There’s a difference, I’ve found, between wanting to be a writer and wanting to write. I write. It’s like I was saying to a friend the other day: if you write, you don’t wait for inspiration to hit, then struggle for the phrases, the forms, the narrative voices. It’s like any art in that you need to practice. If you’re an artist, you sketch or sculpt every day. A pianist practices every day. Those who wish to write, write every day, even if what they write has no ending, no plot, or is just a series of phrases. Then, when the inspiration does hit — and believe me, it does — you don’t have to go scrounging for the right words and agonizing over how to portray your idea. Your toolbox is open. It’s all right there at your fingertips.

What am I going to do today? I’ll tell you. In a couple of minuites, I’m going into the bathroom to finish getting ready for work. I’m going to get to work, completely forget everything I resolved to do today, not remember about the hair appointment or the manicure until I get home tonight and read my LJ replies, and then I’m going to smack myself in the forehead for having forgotten, forget again, and not even think about my hair and nails again for another week or two. This is my M.O. I never remember this type of thing.

What I am going to remember to do today is write. It’s not just a habit, it’s a pleasure. Even more, it’s an investment in my chosen art. I’m going to come home tonight, fix dinner, do some stuff around the house, and then I’m going to sit down and write whatever I want.

What are you going to do?

xo, Amy

For Martha

Gloria the secretary was in the midst of typing when Mr. Nims arrived at her desk, short of breath. She looked up, irritated. “What’s the matter?”

The little accountant blinked. “Er…”

She rapped her fingernails in impatience. “Yes?”

He straightened up and cocked his head to one side. “Well! Isn’t that the funniest thing.”

Gloria eyed the stack of papers in her IN basket. “Isn’t what the funniest thing?”

Nims smiled brightly. “Why, do you know, I just sprang up from my chair at my desk, ran up one hall and down the other to tell you something, and now I’ve completely forgotten what it was!”

“Fascinating.” The secretary took a deep breath and looked the little accountant straight in the eye. “Do you see this pile of papers? Fifty pages of your notes, which I have to decipher, transcribe and put into readable form for the board meeting tomorrow.”

Mr. Nims nodded sagely. “I believe that was what I came about.”

“The notes?”

Nims scratched his head, nearly dislodging his green visor. “I think so. You know, it’s quite interesting—I’ve been reading a book, you see, which my sister recommended to me. Of course, I don’t make a habit of reading about psychology, you understand, but she is quite taken with the field since she and Everett—that’s her gentleman friend, do you recall him? The psychologist?”

Gloria sighed. “Did you have a point, Mr. Nims?”

“My point, Gloria,” the little accountant replied patiently, “is that this particular volume has to do with the phenomenon of short-term memory. Why, did you know that there are different types of memory?”

“Right now, I wish you were a memory,” the secretary grumbled.

Mr. Nims didn’t hear her, because he was already counting on his fingers. “Recognition—which is of course when you recognize something—recall, something you recall without provocation, naturally—”

“Nims!”

“Sensory memory, which affects your ability to—”

“Will you put a sock in it already? I’ve got to get this done!”

The little accountant faltered. “But I haven’t finished telling you about the different classes of—”

“Tell me later.”

“Oh.” Mr. Nims folded his hands. “You’re busy?”

“Yes. Talk to me at the end of the day, when I’m finished.”

“Ah. Smart girl. I’ll come by later to finish explaining.”

“You do that.”

“And if I recall what it was I came to tell you?”

“Let me know later. Any changes, I can always make at the end.”

“Excellent!” This was a wholly satisfactory turn of events. The little accountant scurried back to his office and sank into his chair—only to leap up again.

He remembered what he had wanted to tell Gloria. Nims reached for the intercom.

And leaned back. No, no. She had very specifically instructed him to return at the end of the day, and she was very irritable, for some reason. Best to let it wait till later.

He only needed two pages transcribed, not the whole fifty.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

“Of course, lemonade was invented by the motherfuckin’ Mongolios in twelve-something VD,” Snake attested.

Freaky John coughed and passed the joint back to Snake. “Bullshit. Nobody invented lemonade.”

“Don’t be doubting the Snapple Facts, dude.” Snake took a quick hit and passed the bud back. “Fuck, it had to be invented by somebody, why not the goddamn Mongolios?”

“Who the fuck are the Mongolios?”

Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “Fuck, dude, you serious? The Mongolios, man, fuckin’ Attila and…and I think Coolio or some shit like that.”

Freak rolled his head around and belched. “No fucking way.”

“Way.”

“Dude, no. Coolio doesn’t ride around Asia on a horse in some dipshitty hat murdering people with Attila the Hun.”

Snake tossed his hair back impatiently. “Coolio doesn’t have to murder people, fuckbrain, he’s in charge of the motherfuckin’ lemonade!”

Freak shook his head and fumbled for the joint. “What, is that an option in the Hun Army? Kill people or make lemonade?”

“Oh, now you got something against lemonade?”

Freak coughed violently. “No, I got something against Coolio being a fuckin’ Nun.”

“Hun.”

“Hun. Yeah.”

Snake laughed. “Shit, you’re stupid sometimes.”

“Word. Look, Coolio wasn’t back in fuckin’ Mongolian times, he’s like a twentieth-century dude.”

Realization crept across Snake’s visage. “Holy—fuck, dude, you’re right. Music.”

Freak nodded. “Hell, yeah.”

“Metallica even wrote a song about him.”

“Now you got—what?”

“Shit, dude, he’s the big fuckin’ evil sea monster.”

Freak stared.

Snake thumped Freaky John’s shoulder. “C’thoolio! Am I right?”

Freak’s eyes were watering. “Unbelievable.”

“I know, I’m like a fuckin’ genius or something. Dude! Let’s make toast!”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Oh, sure, it started out as a fairy-tale romance, but things got hairy in short order once the vows were said.

Maybe it was her morning breath. He’d thought maybe it would go away when they first got together, but one whirlwind courtship and a Caribbean honeymoon later, those rose-red lips still emitted the smell of Satan’s ass until she’d had her first cup of coffee.

Or maybe it was the sex. His little kink was cute in the beginning, but now his thing about her pretending to be sleeping or dead when they had sex—well, it got old quick. Then again, he’d never fully accepted that all those guys she was keeping house with when he met her were just “friends.” Somehow, that was always in the back of his mind.

Maybe it was her stepmother, a nasty old witch of a control freak whose cooking sickened both of them.

The point was, it usually doesn’t take just one thing to break up a marriage. More often, it’s an accumulation of little irritations, little disrespects. Little mistrusts, chipping away at the relationship until what seemed perfect and beautiful just a couple years ago is revealed to be a façade, an empty shell.

Snow White and Prince Charming’s divorce took place quietly, in the kingdom court. He kept the cottage, she kept the castle. Maybe that was for the best.

Neither wanted custody of the dwarves.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Andy looked up from his pork chops and mashed potatoes. “Dad? Are people born evil?”

His father patted his mouth with his napkin while he thought of a reply. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“We’re reading about World War Two in school. Hitler was a terrible person and he got all these other people to do terrible things. What made him do that?”

His father exhaled a long, deep breath. “That’s a hard question. I don’t know enough about Hitler to answer that. But most people don’t become bad people with any intention of being evil. Most people become that way because of various circumstances in their lives and the choices they make.”

“Like what?”

“Gosh. Abuse, maybe. Fear and anger can make people do some awful things. But then, they can bring out the best in some people, too. It’s a hard question, Andy. I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer.”

“It’s okay.” Andy mixed his mashed potatoes in with his peas and ate a little bit more. “So there’s not a point when people just become evil? You don’t just make the decision to be that way?”

“Hmm. I guess there could be a point in someone’s life when they’re faced with a certain set of circumstances and they deliberately make a choice to do the wrong thing, for selfish reasons. And that’s a hard thing to grasp, even for some grown-ups. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Andy nodded. “I think so.”

His father placed his hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Nobody’s really born evil, I think. And sometimes when a person becomes evil, you can understand why without actually excusing what that person does. There are some acts and deeds that are unacceptable, no matter what the reason.”

“I get you. Hey, my show’s on. Can I be excused?”

Andy had finished most of what was on his plate. His father smiled. “Sure. Put your dishes away first, okay?”

Andy picked up his plate and glass and walked to the kitchen. What his father had said made sense. You couldn’t be born evil – that sucked. But maybe he could engineer the circumstances…

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

People don’t just disappear off the face of the earth. Well, sometimes they do, but the practice is generally frowned upon. Elaine Caudwell headed up the Missing Persons Unit of the local precinct. She didn’t love her job – love wasn’t strong enough a word. She lived her job. There was nothing else in life for Ms. Caudwell. The job had eclipsed every other person in her family, everyone she’d gone to school with, every individual who did not pertain in some way to her mission of finding those who couldn’t or wouldn’t be found. Cases like those of Jimmy Hoffa, Judge Crater and Amelia Earhart both obsessed and infuriated her.

As Ms. Caudwell often said, there is no such thing as a perfect disappearance. Forensics always turns something up. A hair, trace of blood, activity on a credit card or bank account. A Social Security number. Anything. The point was, people didn’t exist in a vacuum. They had basic needs that had to be fulfilled, and if they were dead and beyond needs, then evidence existed somewhere. People didn’t stay missing long with Elaine Caudwell on the case.

Until she realized she was in menopause.

Sometimes you don’t realize you want something until you can’t have it anymore. Now, the uselessness of her womb gnawed at her. Elaine’s famous concentration faltered. Her recovery rate dropped. Never having bothered to make friends among her co-workers, she no longer had anything of value to add to her job. Recognizing this, Elaine took her retirement, with full pension.

And then she did a very strange thing. She disappeared.

Well, not quite. Her old co-workers could have found her, if they’d bothered to try. They might have found airline manifests. Phone records of calls to an attorney. A passport application.

Elaine was gone for a month. When she returned, she was the proud adoptive mother of a young Zimbabwean girl. Elaine’s face hurt from smiling so much. The child took an instant liking to her, and they spent long, happy days in the park, at the Zoo, at her toddler gymnastics class, making cookies together, singing, laughing.

A few years later, Elaine sat on a bench in the park, watching her daughter run around with the other children and feeling more contented and purposeful than ever before. One of the women from Missing Persons was there with her child, too. Seeing Elaine, she was reminded of the tight-lipped, tense workaholic she used to know, and wondered if this was Elaine’s sister.

Whatever happened to Elaine, anyway? After leaving the force, she’d just disappeared.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Father Patrick Shaughnessey O’Riley Houlihan answers readers’ questions about sex.

I’m a 32 year-old virgin. Should I be worried about this? – Gary

Young man, your purity is nothing to be concerned about. Why, I’m 54 years old, and I’ve never sullied myself with a woman, either. Yet I’m just as “normal” as the next man of God. Yes, indeedy!

Two months ago, I had unprotected sex with a prostitute. Now I have lesions and running sores on my penis. Should I see a doctor? – Carl

Yes, unfortunately, it does sound like you’ve caught something there. But don’t bother yourself seeing a doctor — all you need is the counsel of a man of God, like myself. I’m 99.9% sure you’ve caught a disease called “syphilosiphus.” If not treated properly, you can go blind. Luckily for you, the treatment is easy. Take some salt – any salt will do – and gently rub it into your sores. You’ll feel a soothing, numbing effect immediately. Now, strike your manhood soundly with a leather belt until it turns purple. Not red, Carl, purple. That’s very important if you want to feel better. Soon, you’ll be right as rain! And mind you, while Our Lord did “hang out” with prostitutes, He did not have sexual intercourse with them. You would do well to remember that next time you go “cruising.” But enough of that — I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson. Send me a postcard when your filthy, sinful disease is healed. I’d like to know how you’re doing!

I’m just curious — since you’ve never had sexual intercourse with a woman, how do you know so much about sex? – Alan

I can see that you’re a curious man, Alan. Curiosity is a fine quality in a young man. Bless you.

One of my friends claims she only has one orgasm during sex – sometimes none at all. I usually have several. Why the difference? – Gina

God made every woman different. That’s why some ladies have big boobies and some have little boobies. The same thing applies to the size of a woman’s clitoris, which is a wart-like mass outside the vagina that makes women have orgasms. The bigger the clitoris, the more orgasms. Obviously, your clitoris is bigger than your friend’s. But she shouldn’t lose hope! One way to increase the size of her clitoris is through wholesome thoughts. The Virgin Mary probably had an enormous clitoris, because she was so pure. Tell your friend to pray to the Virgin Mary to cleanse her thoughts, so that she can have lots of orgasms.

Confidential to Sadie: Although the Church frowns upon the use of condoms as birth control, I believe that a prophylactic device is permissible when having intercourse with a sheepdog. I don’t know why God, in His infinite wisdom, created fleas.

Well, my children, that’s all for now. Next week, I’ll answer your questions about fisting and sadism.

Love, Father Pat

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Thanks to revme and Bonnie Nogin

“Blessed are the poor, for they—“

“Holy shit! Is that Jesus up there?”

The crowd turned to find two men the Messiah’s age, waving their arms to get His attention. “Yo, Jesus! Get your ass down here, we’re going for brewskis!”

Jesus cleared his throat and continued, “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are those who—“

“Jesus! J-man! Over here!”

Jesus peered out into the crowd and nodded. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to give a sermon here.”

The taller one scoffed. “You gonna ignore your friends from the old neighborhood, J?”

“The ones you grew up with,” added the fat one.

“Yeah. Forget your best friends?”

Jesus cleared His throat and looked apologetically at the multitudes. “Everyone, these are my friends, Rachman and Potzie. We went to Nazareth High together.”

The tall one ran up and punched Jesus in the shoulder. “Yeah, J-man, four years of drinking the beer and smoking the buds!”

Jesus reddened. “I seem to remember you doing the smoking, Rachman.”

“Yeah, man, but who was doing the drinking, eh?” he chuckled, nudging Potzie.

Jesus cleared His throat. “We had a lot of fun in the past, but right now, I’m doing something a little different. Would you mind sitting down so I can finish what I’m doing?”

Rachman gave Jesus an affectionate noogie. “No problemo, J. We’ll be waiting. Get some brewskis.” Potzie gave Jesus a high five and followed Rachman down the hill.

Jesus smoothed His hair and began to speak again. His voice was gentle and strong, providing sustenance to the hungry souls before him. “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed—” “Yo!” “—are they which do hunger and—” “Yo!” “—thirst after righteousness: for they shall—” “Yo!” “—be—what is it, Potzie?”

“Yo! J! Like, what if you mourn, but you’re also, like, meek?”

“Er… double blessings.” Jesus coughed. “Blessed are they which do hunger for righteousness: for they shall be filled. Yes? Rachman, you have something to say?”

Rachman grinned. “The crowd’s looking a little restless, J. I think you need to entertain them.”

“I think my sermon is quite enough.”

Potzie clapped his hands together. “I know! Remember when you used to belch ‘Girl from Ipanema?’”

Jesus shook His head. “Potzie, nobody wants to hear that.”

But lo, the assembled multitudes called forth for entertainment. Again, Jesus shook His head. And lo, the multitudes did call forth again.

Jesus sighed. “All right. Potzie. Hand me that wineskin.” And the multitudes did watch in amazement at the miraculous noises coming from the Savior’s lips.

And there was much rejoicing.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.