Here in Jungle City, the lion never sleeps.

It's your mind and you're all alone in the ghetto,

scribbling out your dreams on crumpled paper,

writing just about every unlined detail of your

life in big, black ink. After all, it's more than

strange when there's no clock on the wall and

only you hear the ticking sound.

To you, in it's own surreal way, it's almost

atomic how your feelings implode from within,

as the deafening sounds of silence make such a

loud, internal noise.

It's all so lonely but, then again, you know you

are in a one man band now so the loneliness doesn't

surprise you.

And, even though the cracks on the sidewalk cannot

guide you, you methodically count them all, crossing

the streets of your broken dreams and reading the signs.

Green - Go - Stop - Red and all of the colors read you.

It seems that the "stop-red" sign is reading your pulse

today, making your blood boil and the "walk-go" arrows

keep pointing you back to the lion. And, as you well know,

it's the lion who never sleeps.

Hey, can't you hear your own brother who's in heaven

calling out to you? He's saying, "Look bro, the ghetto is

only an attitude, dude." Somehow I think you're thanking

him again because he's the one who has carried you all of

your life

Every lie wears an ageless disguise of truth worn out by time and we live in a kaleidoscope. Life can be like a paradox when it's all surreal to see. Watch how the raven fly's away in the horizon of a red sky dream and the purple rain. See how the lie lurks in the shadows of the hawk.

Personally, maybe I'm just mixed up, like a jigsaw puzzles the mind, as I turn in circles like a marble. Time is skating on thin ice as the wind blows and it all feels like de ja vu. I've been in this feeling before - - - skipping over the stones.

I'm not at all a junkie but sometimes I feel like one.

So, if it cuts, you bleed on the inside of the red blood. And, when you're walking in the rain, it's all icy pain in a cold hurt jabbing your skin like needles in the veins. And, it's all cold, cold hail in the snow. Sometimes life slices the dice that roll. And, sometimes you can see how the lie will play you when you are down in this world. So, listen to your own dreams and get away from the dread.

These days, I feel like I'm living in the charisma, turning the dial on a kaleidoscope, watching the wheels spin around the clock, as I catch it all to throw into the next day to receive. Don't we all live in a kaleidoscope word, coloring time out of the blue as we walk across the open fields of the universe?

What's hopeful comes around to the other side, climbing the grapevines of small talk and, when the rain pours the hardest, we can feel it move us. For sure, it's hope that will see us through it all, time and time again.

A mystery comes to me on an early Sunday and greets me, as so many of my feathering dreams open and close like songs that are swaying in the wind. And, even though an answer isn't in the music ruse itself, the morning plays like an instrument that teaches me serenity. I am a falling leaf and all of the dancing notes are astounding to natures ears.

The unwavering grace of mystery's life sweet speaking voice wraps around the sentiments of autumn and the spirit of rhapsody surrounds me. Yet, I am merely the rosette of a tree that was planted for the touch of the sky to water and nourish.

But I am also like a poetess of the dandelion greens and the dream filled twirlers that have circled around and through the world. If every leaf were a picture of a woman's wandering thoughts, my only natural purpose would be to color her imagination.

The mystery informs me that it isn't a perplex riddle to rise with the dawn and appreciate the simple things. If only for a moment, I can place myself with the most delicate waltz of nature and any falling that I do will find the balance. And so, just for today, I choose to be a dancing leaf in the gentle wind.

Every paradox is visited by a phoenix with wings as it fly's throughout the winds of time. And, so there I was, feeling karma in the blend and the mix of the passageway. It seemed that the circles of the world turned into losing shapes that rolled out of rain and tumbled. So, if this was the truth of the universe, how would I center myself in anything? How would I make a full turn when everything was spinning out of control? Yet somehow love caught me when I was falling and became a stronger emotion than ever. It was apparent that a link formed in the aftermath of previous pain and I connected to a bonding unity.

I found hope when I saw a phoenix soar through the fire, as it was reborn in the crystal blue skies. Something beautiful was building on the legacy of dreams that my loved ones had left behind for me. They had painted some wonderful pictures with a brush of fate that helped them along. From that day on, I made a point to look at every picture I was given and to draw some of my own.

Let’s just say that luck was taking a day off at the bowling alley and striking out in the league of dreams. I wasn’t having a ball and I scored badly, trying to roll with the disasters of aging. It’s like my once well rounded life was in the gutter, dropping down hard and coming back up like a heavy weight. I was stuck with the golden years left of me and the jokers to the right. If some wonderful miracle would happen, I just might be O.K.

I say “OK,” as in being touched by someone or something significant and making it through rush hour traffic. After all, home waited on top of the triumphant hills with the sound of frying pans and friends. Tonight was my turn for hosting lively ladies and making pork chops for everybody.

As it is, I’d just gotten through a psychotherapy session with Dr. Pickett and I was confused. Yes, even 80-year old babes like me see a shrink once in awhile. It’s all good and fine this time around though. I was even given a prescription for Valium and told I wasn’t a schizophrenic after all.

“You just have a little case of depression.” Doc said.

Friday’s were out of the picture and we’d thrown back Thursday a long time ago. Tuesday was Blanche and Claire’s bingo night. Wednesday’s were nacho days for our husbands to get the chip off their shoulders and escort us to the Mexican fiesta. Let’s face it, folks. Weekends are made for watching Lawrence Welk and farting.

So, four times a month, on every Monday, we old ladies join in a circle and talk about books. We find it humorous that our adult grandchildren tire of changing their babies diapers and call us.

“Leave a message at the sound of the beep,” my telephone answering machine says.

“Hi, Nana. Do you think you could babysit little Joey for awhile this evening? Danny and I have been invited to a special service at the First Church of What’s Happening Now and we don’t want to miss it.” No can do.

To backtrack a little, on this particular fore mentioned day, I was so looking forward to an interesting book club discussion. Last week, 77-year old Blanche Blotches had chosen Nora’s Ephron’s book, “I Feel Bad about my Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.”

Sugar plums, we all agreed with Ephron’s thoughts and felt terrible about our necks. At age-80, my neck, like the other seven old chicks in the group, was well covered up with a scarf and that’s a wrap. Once upon a dinosaur age, I was a regular Betty Gable though.

My lady friends Blanche, Claire, Millie, Lucille, Gloria, Samantha, and Mabel tell me they were absolute dolls too. Those were the daze, my friends. But, you know how it is; wrinkles happen, life happens. and the next thing you know, you’re a denture wearing, hearing aid user with an attitude.

By the way, to formally introduce myself, my name is Hillary Adeline Dove and I’m pleased to meet you. For short, my husband calls me “Had” a lot.

Henry says, “You had a good memory once, darling.”

I call him an idiot.

Our husbands. or the “boys,” as we girlie girls say, are forbidden to attend our book club meetings and must leave. Especially on this past Monday, as we were adamant about discussing a topic that touched us deeply: today’s youth and what’s with the pants?

As we held the book of discussion on our laps, sipping wine after dinner, sweet Lucile, (our youngest lady in the club), smiled. At the tender age of fifty-two, she seemed like a baby to us. Mrs. Lucille Lambs cleared her throat, batted her blue eyes, twirled her brown hair with her fingers and spoke.

Lucille thought the book, “Bitter is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office” by Jen Lancaster was interesting.

Ditto, we said, applauding every page that Jen had written and loving the words.

Right about then, somewhere in between discussing our growing youth and Prada bags, the wine and re-fills, and the frequent trips to the restroom, an amazing thing happened: We had a visitor.

It being it was my house and all, I answered the door with the glass of wine in my hand and got the surprise of a lifetime. The woman standing in the doorway looked very colorful to me.

“Hello, Hillary. I’m the ghost of your mother,” the visitor said, “You do believe in ghosts do you not?”

“Mom?”

“Sure, why not? Aren’t you going to invite me in, honey?”

I must say, my “mother” as a ghost was as spooky as spotting a UFO. There she stood, all 5’9” inches of her, and she had her long silver hair braided into hanging pig tails. Her pigtails even curled at the end and bounced. She, too, was wearing a scarf around her neck and she wore knee high polka dotted socks. Sandals. She also wore a midi-length moo-moo, straight from the 50’s, when I was 10-years old and she let me

lick the cake batter.

“Well, I could have showed up as an invisible spirit or something but I decided not to. I figured I’d come as you’ve known me to be and shoot the bull. It’s true. If Mama had lived to be 107, she’d be wearing that moo-moo. It was yellow like Doris Day’s house used to be in the Sixties. How can I forget driving by her house when we toured Hollywood?

“You’re not a ghost, you’re an angel, mom.” I cried.

“Listen up. I’m going to tell you a little secret, ladies. That old show “Highway to Heaven” isn’t so far fetched. Sometimes, angels have assignments and come to earth looking quite human like. An angel can be working as a cashier at your neighborhood grocery store, or a doctor, a nurse, a firefighter, and even a bank teller at your local bank.

Ghosts aren’t at all angels. Ghosts are more hazy looking and they usually come in a memory form. Spirits are the invisible mentors of your hearts and souls. Actually, I guess I’m all three of these things.

No sooner had my beautiful mother come back to me, she left again. For our next book club meeting, she suggested we read, “The Old Man and the Sea,” by Ernest Hemingway. She wanted us to read the book with the men in our lives. She thought we should invite every significant male, from our husband to our youngest grandson, and that is what we did.

We let the men do the cooking through.

#theholdout #randomhouse #theprose.

George Bentley isn’t aware it’s his last day on earth, working in the liquor store he owns and he’s thoroughly enjoying life. He’s simply pricing merchandise at work and thinking about business. His tall, Abraham Lincoln stature and aging frame makes him appear like a scholar, There are a lot of folks who think well of blue eyed George and his soft spoken manner reflects a gentleman.

The wife, Mrs. Bentley, stops by the store an hour prior to the crime and speaks to her husband a bit. After his death, she testifies in court that things seemed to be in order on that day. In fact, her beloved spouse kissed her on the cheek and promised to be home, no later than 7 p.m.

“I’ll pick up some Kentucky Fried Chicken, hon.” He said, embracing her.

At 6:15 p.m., an hour prior to closing shop, Mr. Bentley watches his wife drive away in the Lincoln Continental and waves at her. It is a beautiful day and 68-year old Mildred looks forward to eating supper with her husband. She hopes they’ll catch a rerun of the Lawrence Welk Show later in the evening. One thing for sure, after fifty years of marriage, George and Millie love being together.

Good old George doesn’t make it home to Mildred though. A murderer has come into his store and killed him in cold blood. He dies at 70-years of age and his grieving wife is beside herself. Many of the residents of Dusty are shaken that a killer has robbed and murdered such a wonderful man.

The date is Tuesday, March 17 of 2017 and a George Milton Bentley, Sr. is gone forever. The one and only liquor store in town is torn down and small town Dusty, Arizona is forever changed.

CIRCUIT COURT, 2020

Defendant Grey McLeod isn’t well liked in Dusty, Arizona and being arrested only makes it worse. It’s been three years since George Bentley was killed and McLeod is charged and accused. He is either guilty or innocent of homicide and to be fair, his trial takes place in another city where no one knows him.

An assorted mix of 11-jurors sits in a private conference room in Phoenix and deliberate for three days to render a verdict. Ten of the jurors believe the man is guilty and one disagrees.

“Let’s wind this up and go home.” The jurors complain. If juror #7, Sarah Finks, would budge a little, the trial would be over and people could get on with their lives.

“I believe Grey McLeod is innocent though and I have to be honest.”

At 62-years of age, Sarah Finks, knows enough to see when an innocent man is being railroaded, simply because he doesn’t live up to status quo. A 35-year old man’s fate is being rained on and he doesn’t even own an umbrella.

As jurors, all seven woman and six men understand the severity of the offense: The accused may or may not have committed a homicide. What if McLeod did, in fact, enter Bentley’s Liquor Store on March 17th, rob and kill George?

“All the evidence proves that McLeod is guilty.” Juror #7, a well polished middle aged Southern man, born and raised in Alabama says. He explains that he moved to Phoenix a decade ago and hasn’t ever been to Dusty, Arizona. He’s says that he is simply a no nonsense postal worker, stuck in jury duty, and he hates it.

“Folks call me Raccoon,” He explains, as he shakes his head at Sarah Finks and scowls.

“Go ahead and think he’s innocent, Sarah. I cannot agree with you.”

Grey’s own words in trial were, “I’m glad someone killed the son-of-a-bitch but it wasn’t me.” To look at McLeod sitting in the courtroom is to see a defiant alcoholic and a homeless man.

“McLeod strongly resembles Charles Manson.” Raccoon remarks to the group.

Mr. Smutty quotes McLeod and thinks of his own father. Even now, at age-42, he hasn’t forgiven his dad for being a drunk all his life. He wonders if Grey’s defense team is aware of this and will use it to win points.

Shady Grey McLeod is an admitted people hater and he’d gladly tell the world. When prosecutor Sam Tiller asks him point blank if he killed George Bentley, he looks the man in the eye and laughs.

“How could I have killed George Bentley when I was miles away from the liquor store on that day? If truth be known, I was nursing a tall one and talking to myself. I have better conversations with me, myself, and I than anybody.”

“I’m sure Mr. McLeod is happy to know the camera in the store was destroyed.” Sam Tiller said on day one of the trial. Mr. Tiller has a track record for prosecuting cases and winning. At 50-years of age, he believes the accused should spend the rest of his life in prison.

Juror #7 scowls, tapping her fingers on the table and rolling her eyes. Red haired, Mrs. Martha is tired already and she’s also keeping a secret. She believes in capitol punishment and lied in the jury selection interview. She feels that no further explanations are needed, it being the evidence is quite clear. She’s heard more than enough to cast a guilty verdict. As a 47-year old housewife, she thinks of her children and wants McLeod electrocuted.

“McCloud killed Bentley for a free bottle of booze.” She fumes.

“It isn’t a crime to talk to yourself,” Grey says to his court appointed lawyer in private conference. With his one brown eye and other blue eye casing the room for a get away, he smirks at her.

“I was first in line for going nowhere when the men in blue hunted me down in the park. I was under arrest and I didn’t know who, what, or why. I was asked, “Did I understand my rights” by the “good” cop in the good cop\bad cop game and I cursed out loud.

“I told Johnny Law to go to hell.”

Convincing her fellow jurors to vote “not guilty” isn’t easy for Sarah to do. Where is the concrete evidence though? What has the prosecutor presented to the court that puts McLeod in the liquor store on that day? Grey’s fingerprints aren’t found anywhere in the store and there isn’t so much as a cigarette butt to test the DNA.

“One young man has sworn under oath that he’s witnessed arguments between McLeod and Bentley. Let’s face it though, ladies and gentlemen; this same young man admits these arguments occurred weeks before the crime.

McLeod wasn’t the only man to ever have words with Mr. Bentley.

“Maybe so but many witnesses saw McLeod in the area that day.” Juror #5 pipes up. Kimberly Stratton has her mind set on the defendants guilt and can’t be swayed.

“Grey’s lawyer, Becky Tipper, brought other witnesses to the stand as well,” Finks interrupts. “What about Bentley’s only son, 45-year old George, Jr.? Hasn’t the son testified that his father received threatening calls? Did he not tell the court that certain people in town wanted the liquor store forcefully shut down?”

Even though Sarah Finks is a short, petite woman with graying hair, she is not easily intimidated. She is well dressed in a gray pant suit today and she talks slowly. She asks Stratton, the librarian, if she likes the peace and quiet of her job. When Kimberly smiles and says she does, it’s all Finks needs to hear.

“Dusty, Arizona is a small retirement town,” Sarah cries out, “and it isn’t just McLeod who doesn’t fit in. Sadly, though George Bentley was a well liked man, the liquor store he owned wasn’t appreciated. Bentley loved the store though and adamently refused to even consider giving it up. Working was his hobby.

“The most revealing testimony I heard in trail come from Bentley’s son. George Bentley Jr. testified that, three days prior to his father’s death, he witnessed a heavy set man named Jackson Cody yelling at him. The man was full of hell, fire, and brimstone, shouting out that Dusty, Arizona is a well established, fine Christian place to live. Liquor stores don’t belong in the picture.”

Sarah cleared her throat, looking each juror in the eye and continued.

“Six years ago, Cody’s own daughter was killed by a drunk driver. She was only 17-years old and her death drove her father crazy. Mr. Cody said something else to Mr. Bentley on that day. He told George Bentley that he should be dead.”

This evidence was overlooked somehow, it being that Grey McLeod acted defiant in court and didn’t carry himself well. He admitted he disliked Bentley because he eyed him like he was a criminal when he came into the liquor store. Mr. Bentley didn’t care for Grey’s grizzly appearance and openly called him a bum.

At last, Finks finally convinces her fellow jurors there is a “reasonable doubt” that Grey McLeod killed George Bentley, Sr. Where was Jackson Cody on that day? Could it possibly be some of the residents of Dusty are self-righteous enough to protect and even encourage Bentley’s death? Maybe Grey McLeod was manipulated all along.

Bentley’s Liquor Store was originally opened in 1975, long before the town turned into a retirement community. After the area was fixed up and beautified, a lot of well established people moved to Dusty and turned it into a quiet little town. McLeod stood out like a sore thumb, it being he was so dirty looking and confused. He had lived in the town as a young boy and returned to his roots.

As it is, the jury found Grey McLeod “not guilty” of homicide and he was released. Word has it that he left the town of Dusty to find himself someplace else. The residents are more than happy that he’s not coming back around. After Bentley’s Liquor Store burned down, someone bought the property and turned it into a barber shop.

Jackson Cody was ultimately arrested for setting fire to the liquor store.

“How is Bentley’s wife doing these days?” Sarah Finks asked George, Jr. one day. She couldn’t stop herself from calling him a few years after the trial was over.

“You want to know about my mother?” George replied. “She died of a broken heart two years ago.”

“What about McLeod?” George asked, “I always believed he was innocent.”

“Funny you should ask,” Sarah replied, “Grey McCloud went into rehab and straightened his life out. He’s studying to become an ordained minister. It goes to show that we should never judge a book by it’s cover.”

The circle of life will never implode; it recycles truth and sometimes magnifies it with illusion. We are carpenters by trade, building on the universe. The mind’s eye is the creator of what we see. Though we don’t always hear each other’s internal rivers, our worldwide tears make the oceans.

Too many tsunami tears have been shed here. It’s over. Though the corona virus has ended and life continues, everything is different now. I’m standing before an ocean of tears in California and I want to drown in the waters. At this point, my only wish is to take my last breath on earth and join my daughter in heaven.

“It’s OK, Mama, I’m still here for you,” I hear her say, “And so is Dad.” Laura is speaking from beyond the rainbow now and she’s blocking my movement. I can no longer run into the waters to kill myself and I am unable to run away from her. Her blue eyes look into my greens, as her spiritual auras comfort my crying soul.

“You know I’m still your little Princess, mom,” she giggles.

She walks with me in spirit, to the beach house I’ve rented to be alone, as I reach for her hand and I am with her. I’m in the now of the moment, standing in the same house I rented three years ago when she ran away from me and my death wish is disappearing.

“You can’t give up now, mom.” Laura whispers, as if saying it out loud makes it unbearable for her. My saving sunshine girl is explaining that even angels cry when someone they love is hurting as much as I am. I’m in awe of every word I hear as I listen intensely to my gifted daughter speak.

“You haven’t really been alone at all.” She speaks with a heavenly smile that fits perfectly with my longing for companionship and I breathe her in.

Lord of mercy, my daughter was only 17-years old when she ran away from home though. Once she took off, I never saw her alive again. A full year passed before I even heard her voice on the phone. It was the year of 2017 and her last words to me were, “I’m ok. I’m sorry I waited so long to call you, mom. I was just afraid you’d be mad at me and I couldn’t handle it. I can’t talk long now anyway. I’ll stay in touch. I promise.”

Of course, the dreaded call comes in the wee of the morning two years later, as I lay awake in my Capitola home missing her. Drug addiction has taken a toll on this young 20-year woman who cannot hear the music anymore. All of my daughter’s bittersweet songs sift in the wind and blow away. She dies in the alone of a lonely shell that has broken her.

She is dead now, gone forever, and I, Brenda, am a 40-year old widowed woman on the verge of insanity. How can I possibly find happiness without a living husband or a child to love? Danny’s fatal heart attack killed him eleven years ago and my sweet baby girl passed away from a heroin overdose in 2019.

A short time later, the corona virus enters mankind to upset the world. At this point, my faith simply disappears into the air and I crumble into nothingness. There isn’t much left of me when the virus plagues America and my hometown is hit hard. The only thing I can do is to roll up my sleeves and help to save others.

I am a much needed professional nurse in our local hospital, with a decade of experience and I’m willing to take on the world. I immediately begin working 12 hours on, 12 hours off as a Nurse in San Jose and witness death everywhere. The days turn into weeks and months of exhausting work and there’s a 40% pay cut to go along with it.

The end of SARS-CoV-2 is an unexplainable, mysterious miracle that makes every road Elm Street. Some say that God, Himself simply uttered the words “be gone” and the virus was no longer. The remaining year of 2020 is finally over the worse and the nations are rejoicing. There is a healing in the universe that runs deeper than words could ever say and gratitude is unmeasurable.

Not for me though. Maybe for me, it’s “post stress syndrome” or an inability to truly appreciate that the crisis is over. Perhaps it is a guilty conscience I have, it being I did not get sick and die when so many others did. Many of my co-working nurses passed away through this ordeal and I cannot count how many patients we tried to save and failed.

Though my beloved daughter sits with me in the beach house now, I know she isn’t really there. I’ve merely borrowed her from heaven for a short while and she will leave me again. She intuitively knows I feel this way and she adamantly disagrees with my opinion.

Don’t I know that I, too, am merely passing through, from the earth places I live in to enter my very real home in heaven? Can I not look through the transparent eyes of time and see the clarity of my worth? Laura’s eyes are the color of the sky she has traveled above and over. She’s telling me that her questions already have an answer that reached through me on the day I was born.

Life goes on and, one by one, we’ll pick up the fallen pieces and build another bridge somehow. Our mourning cities and towns will cry out loud for as long as it takes to repair broken hearts and find laughter again. My daughter tells me the answer to our question is in the pearl of life that every hand holds.

“I won’t walk into the ocean,” I finally say to her, “I will continue to work as a nurse and polish the pearl everyday. Everything and everyone I have lost through this crisis is a light that shines through me.”

“That’s right,” Laura beams, “and may the candle never burn out.”

Once upon a time sadness made a house of tears fall down and the house couldn’t stand any longer. So, the tears became a river that flowed alongside a trail of hidden meanings and found the sandman. Only the sandman knew there had ever been a house and that the tears were not made merely of water. The one thing he didn’t know was just who had lived in that house and where they had gone.

Of course, it being the man was made of sand, everywhere he walked to, the wind would steal his footprints and carry them in the air. The Sandman was as much a mystery as the residents of the house had been. No one could ever add the countless grains that were produced for creating such a guy. There wasn’t a soul in the world that had ever taken any notice of the fellow.

Yet, it was this sandman who walked every mile of the hidden trail, looking to see the eyes behind the tears that had created such an emotional river. As a sandman, he’d cried a lot of dry tears in his life and figured there had to be a reason for his search.

And then, just when Sandman thought he’d come to the end of the trail, there was a fork in the road. Either way he decided to go with it, he noticed the river was completely empty and the tears were gone.

He made a left turn at the fork, and kept walking with great anticipation. Soon enough, another house appeared and, it was not only a beautiful sight to see, it was filled with a family of people that lived in it. Even better than that, the people seemed happy.

“Would you folks happen to know anything about the river of tears?” Sandman called out, walking towards a woman who was watering the front yard garden and smiling.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” The woman said, “we were all pretty upset there for awhile but, yet, all those tears we cried were worth it. I guess you could say we had to go with the flow and see where life would take us. Somehow, we pulled ourselves up from under the river and decided to build on each other as a family. We don’t cry over the things that made us sad yesterday and I think we’re a little stronger now.”

“Miss, I walked on that trail forever but I only saw the tears. I wonder why that is so.”

“I guess there are just some folks who don’t see the people behind the tears and they have to look a little harder. It’s ok. Perhaps they have their own rivers to deal with.” The woman replied.

“and I suppose you think that when I look at you, all I can see is a sandman, am I not right?” With that, the woman handed the sandman a mirror and asked him to look at himself a little closer. So, the gentleman took the mirror in his hand and he was totally flabbergasted.

All of the sand the man thought he was made of disappeared like the river of tears. There, standing before the then 46-some year old woman he would someday marry, was an angel. The woman said she knew he was an angel right away.

“How did you know I was an angel?”

“Well, my love, you were a loner and you couldn’t see behind yourself but I spotted the wings when you said “Hello.”

The Sandman and Johnson have been married for years now and, to this day, believe that the things they cried over yesterday were worth the tears. It’s what the hidden meaning of the trail had been all along: find strength in yourself by letting go of what made you cry in the past. It’s not really a fairy tale when it all comes true. Life’s sad house of days gone by can turn into a beautiful place to live if we build on each other.

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT FOR FICTIONAL CITY, USA

JOHNSON’S INNER CHILD

Plaintiff

v. Conscious Docket

No. 01-2020

JOHNSON, ET AL. ,

Defendant

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS

(JURY TRIAL – DAY ONE)

Fictional City, USA

January 25, 2020

BEFORE:

THE HONORABLE GOD ALMIGHTY, JUDGE

PROCEEDINGS

The Clerk: All Rise

The Court: Good afternoon everyone and everyone be seated. Now calling for the record the case of one Inner Child Hurt v. Johnson’s Heart & Soul, et al., it’s a dire matter 01-2020. And if Council would identify themselves for the record.

A. Grace: Good afternoon, Your Honor, Amazing Grace here, on behalf of the Defendant, Inner Child.

F. Time: And Father Time as well, Your Honor, on behalf of the Defendant.

I. Child. And, Your Honor, Inner Child on behalf of the Plaintiff, Johnson.

B. Heart. And good afternoon, Your Honor, Broken Heart here, also for the Plaintiff.

THE COURT: And good afternoon, everyone.

A. Grace: And, your Honor, seated to my right is Jane Doe (phonetic), a paralegal at our office, and seated to her right is the Accused, Johnson.

THE COURT: Okay

A. Grace: Thank-you, Your Honor

THE COURT: and, are we ready to proceed or are there any preliminary matters?

A. Grace: I believe we are ready to continue, Your Honor.

OPENING STATEMENT BY BROKEN HEART

May we speak now, if it please the court, good-afternoon. What brings us here today to this Fictional Courtroom is the law of consciousness. And it is the law that protects inner children. But only if corrective measures choose to enforce the law, shall it be so. And, what you’ll hear from the Judge are a couple of terms. And, you’re going to hear the term “unconditional love” a lot. And, basically this term means one important thing: Inner children have a right to depend on their caretakers to provide the attention and love they need to be happy. This is a trial of consciousness. It’s not a criminal case. No one is going to jail. No one is being punished.

OPENING STATEMENTS BY INNER CHILD

Good afternoon

THE JURORS: Good Afternoon

As the Plaintiff, I am Johnson’s inner child and, on this day of January 27, 2020 in Fictional Court, USA, I not only represent myself, I stand in defense of all the other inner children of the world. Some may select other titles to describe who and what an inner child is. Many people might think that the inner child is the better part of the dreams and challenges that live inside of the soul. Others think it is simply the instrumental flow of consciousness that defines the meaning. And, still other folks often say that the “inner child” is simply symbolic of better wishes that don't always come true. The wishes sometimes not granted because of the fact that our caretakers give up on themselves.

Your Honor, realistically speaking, I know this Court cannot force the Plaintiff to better love herself and bring out the best in her inner child. I ask only that the Defendant, Johnson, is required to take a clearer look at MY need for her attention and care. Let it be known that all the Jurors selected for this trial are, in fact, secret angels that have been in the Defendant’s life since birth. Amazing Grace and Father Time are on Johnson’s side. I, too, as well as the broken heart that comes from years of the Defendant’s self-neglect, love my caretaker. Your Honor, this trial isn’t about pointing fingers of guilt or sentencing Johnson to a self installed prison. The Jurors do not have a single vote cast as a “guilty” vote and the only hope set forward is for the Plaintiff to love herself and change.

THE COURT: On the record of this matter of Johnson’s Heart & Soul vs. Inner Child’s Right to Live, Conscious Docket 01-2020, are we ready to begin?

A. Grace: We are, Your Honor.

THE COURT: Okay

A. Grace: And, of our only witness today, I call

GUARDIAN ANGEL

A witness, produced on call of the State, first having been duly sworn according to law, was examined and testified as follows:

VOIR DIRE

BY THE COURT

Q. Miss Angel, if you would tell me your name for the record:

A. Guardian Angel, the mom.

Q. Would you tell the Court what your relationship is to the Defendant, Inner Child?

A. I am the Defendants guardian angel and beloved mother. I was also the Plaintiff’s loving, earthly parent and cared for her, from diapers to adulthood. When I reached the age of eighty-seven, I went home to heaven to be with the Lord and my beloved husband, Kenny, and continued to do my work. As of today, I am the guardian angel, watching over both the Defendant and the Plaintiff, 24/7, and I do so with a willing heart, your Honor.

Q. G. Angel, for a verdict to be rendered, would you please tell the court in what

ways the Defendant has harmed the Plaintiff?

A. Yes. There have been many times that the Plaintiff did not love herself enough

and, in turn, failed to see she had an inner child within that needed her. Even now, at age-62, the Defendant still has the same inner child that is often left alone in the world. Let the Court know that Johnson’s unhealthy habits have had a bad affect on the little girl that lives in her: overeating to the point of obesity, starving herself when she was near anorexic, her excess worry, self-denial and shame. The list of “sins” could go on and on as it is; we all fall short and make mistakes in our lives. As Johnson’s mother, I have returned from heaven to testify to the fact that forgiveness is in the Hands of the Lord.

SENTENCING AND CLOSING STATEMENT FROM THE HONORABLE GOD ALMIGHTY, JUDGE

IT IS THE JUDGMENT OF THIS COURT:1. For the neglect of self and lack of self-love, the Defendant is sentenced to instant forgiveness for all of her sins, past, present and future. 2. For the cause of creating a broken heart within her inner child, the Defendant is set free of guilt and sentenced to serve a term of lifetime friendship with said Inner Child, seeking guidance from above and finding mutual harmony. 3. These sentences are to run concurrent with each other and the costs are waived. Sins are paid for in full by the Son of the Honorable God Almighty Judge. Both the Plaintiff and Defendant are unconditionally loved. Unconditional love means that I, the Honorable God and Almighty God, will always love you, in spite of your mistakes. I find true pleasure when you care for each other with unconditional love as well.

COURT IS ADJOURNED. YOU MAY BE DISMISSED.