The two have been around since the beginning of the kingdom’s rise and time of prosperity. They were both given the same powers by the King & Queen of Irph.

But after a little while, one tried to take over the throne. This did not sit well with the other party.

The last time they fought~ the ground violenty trembled and even ripped wide open. Folks had to really be careful and watch their step. Not only that, a massive storm poured down across the land. Never before had there been so much destruction.

The King told the two siblings- ‘‘Let this be the last fight you have. You nearly blew us all to kingdom come.’’ They wanted to take their powers away, but because the other sibling was on their side & told them she would watch over the kingdom, they decided to let them both keep their powers. The Queen said to them— ‘‘this better be the last time we warn you two on how to control your powers.’’

The evil one is currently serving her time in prison. She has a really long sentence.

Good triumphed over evil. Hurray!

So, that’s how their brief story goes. Let’s hope they won’t have to face each other ever again.

#Ladernièrefois.

Wutta setuh saton.

Aunatteral 

AnIsetwEEEEEEEEEEEE!

WuttI wishId

Dusomethimorebetta withachedda.

aTime wshewt

Asetis

Tingsunseemindiffunt

Now

Maybe

Baby

Wuttawatu

Witawate

Go

BabyIgotta

Taagain

Mercewiteleaving

Be kind wittiwittleboi.

I'm only, yasee, aboi.

Burntacsp.

Towdwn.

Tutheflow.

Gotta go.

F'reeL.

Flippem.

Dippem.

Nunsuh quitem.

Her English stinks.

My French, como sé dice, pee-yew.

She eats snail.

She bikes like a turtle.

I need rap to workout and fuck.

She literally still jams to Mick Jagger like it's new music.

Are these people serious?

They watch cartoons like it's regular TV.

They smile for sugar and laugh about bread.

Cheese is dessert and sex partners are friends.

If there's anything we share, it's love.

If there's anything we can't, it's a tab.

She sort of insisted, one time, we go halfsy.

Third-ish date.

What a shitshow.

The front of house came out to see if everybody was alright which was clearly some kind of Michelin Star talk for "is there a problem here?

"Cause if there's a problem here, we can take this outside."

We don't even speak the same language.

"You don't even speak the same langguagggge."

"I know, Ma."

"I'm jussayin, Jorge."

Maybe going Dutch is a thing here.

We're closer to Holland, after all.

If it is though--meaning girls don't mind paying their way through dates, and half of this city has constellation marks from the Michelin Tire mascot--maybe I shouldn't settle down?

Paris is a town for lovers.

New things.

Except tripe.

That shit ain't fish.

And nowhere in Wikipedia is it listed as an aphrodisiac.

Whatever, I'm in Montreal next week and I'm totally getting the cheese fries.

Sorry.

Poutine.

My children say I tell the stories of ten men. But I divide my story into four parts. The first is youth.

My youth began one night, when I was spread eagle on the floor of the Albemarle River. A strand of algae tickled my ankle. It had the width and texture of a dried-together spaghetti cluster as it danced across the exposed skin between the tongue of my tennis shoe and cuff of my rolled-up pant leg. My hands were occupied or I would've scratched it. My left hand was surveying the slippery riverbed floor for a catfish nest: a deep hole in the mud smoothed over by the quick whipping tail of a female flat-head catfish. My right hand was planted beside my right hip, as firmly planted as a boy's hand can be in a muddy riverbed.

I was scanning the river bottom with my left hand when the river rippled, throwing musty water in my mouth and testing my ability to suppress a cough. A boat motor hopped across the water surface, approaching at a speed that sounded uncomfortably fast. I could see a lightpost mounted on the boat's bow, but it was unlit and I only saw it as a shadow against the moonlit backdrop. The boat's edged nose headed towards me at a sharp angle, opening wide the water between us. It seemed to head straight at me, but it's easy to feel like a motor boat is heading straight at you when you're wading anywhere within a country mile of its approach.

I ducked my head, careful not to move too quickly and alert the boaters to my presence. The boat slowed and I felt the diminishment of its progress as a series of large waves slapped against my face. Between the waves, I heard voices inside the boat.

"Too heavy," a man said. "I can't get the damned thing up."

"Here," said another man. "Grab it by the bottom."

A heavy object plunged into the water and there was a pause before the recoiling splash on the river's surface. At that moment, my left hand sunk into a hole in the mud, a deep hole with width to match.

My hand-fishing experience was not yet commensurate with my eagerness, born of teenage naivety and its accompaying notoriety pangs. A more experienced noodler might've expected bad things in this hole I'd found, with its slimy sides and mud-congested interior. But I didn't appreciate the predictive qualities of texture in a river floor cubbyhole. A catfish churns her tail inside her nest, smoothing the hole's sides by sweeping sand and algae off the eggs and out of the hole.

This was no catfish nest. If I'd been underwater with goggles on, I would've seen my attacker rear back. I might've carefully retracted my hand as the snake vibrated its tail and flattened its body to appear larger, in hopes of averting the need to attack my darting fingers. If we'd been on land, the snake might've emitted musk from the scent glands on its tail. As it was, my head was above water and I never saw the snake's mouth open. I never saw its oral lining peel back, white as cotton, that soft breathable natural fiber from which that blasted snake's name originates and upon which my region's economy was once founded. Our cotton heritage is probably the reason North Carolinians say "cottonmouth," although I've heard other folks call it everything from blunt-tail moccasin to mangrove rattler, water viper, stub-tail, swamp lion, trap jack, true horn, rusty mokeson, water pilot to just plain gaper.

One stab into the meaty web of my left hand and I lurched back, my eyes wide as whip cream dollups, and I hopped out of the water stiff enough to make a good photo in Sports Illustrated or National Geographic if those boaters had any illumination or a camera on board.

It turned out the boat's light did work because it flashed on as soon as I stepped ashore. By the time I reached my skateboard, it was too late to go back for my bucket of two catfish. The boaters reached shore and I heard two plops as one hopped into a muddy spot on the river bank.

I had a good lead on the man chasing me when I heard a blast. If I'd looked backwards, I would've seen a spark from his raised gun as he ran uphill after me. But I didn't look back. I skated when I reached paved road and then ran where the paving gave way to gravel again. But running was difficult as the swelling spread across the back of my hand. The flesh seemed to darken with each pulsing throb. Breathing became labored and numbness spread to my chest and legs.

I didn't know where I was running. My father had an acute disgust for the river, especially hand fishermen, so I couldn't go home with a cottonmouth stab in my hand and my clothes wet with the vinegary smell of riverwater.

"A cavity of depravity," Dad described the river, "not worth the sacrifice of personal dignity."

Even as a kid, Dad didn't believe in freshwater mermaids. "Two things about mermaids," he told me. "One, they don't exist. Two, if such a species did exist--and mind you, they don't--then don't you think these magical creatues would find a more idyllic swimming pit than the Albemarle River? The mill run-off enough would drive me from Copeland County."

Dad lost his brother to a noodling accident. Uncle Dan was a high schooler, noodling for a mermaid tunnel in the river's catfish nests when he was yanked underwater. His feet were being held by two friends, but the authorities figured a sturdy-gilled catfish was strong enough to jerk Dan out of their startled grasp. The authorities waited several weeks before pronouncing my Uncle Dan dead. With his disappearance, I lost the only family member who believed in freshwater mermaids. And I wasn't born yet.

Dad said he hadn't been to the river since that night. I believed him. I also believed when he said I'd get no help at home if I was hurt hand fishing for mermaids. So I skateboarded to Dr. Barnhill's at three hours til dawn.

One special night, we sat together

At the roof top, alone, with no other

Gazed at the moon

like we were in love's weather

I thought of so many things

Not one was like the latter

Why did you end my world

That was not over?

Why didn't I let her understand

Forever, I thought, we still had

A sharp razor blade stopped that time

I kissed the sun goodnight

When she walked pass me

Her eyes, smile made darkness sprint

I fist the earth outermost shell

When she spake gently

Her words, lips made oxygen rich

I thought I over reached

When I became your friend

Stories of your relationships

Made me pissed

My heart was pieces

Yours in particle physics

Why didn't I see the danger signs?

So blind I fell, you took your life

How dare you take what's not yours?

My love for you terrified the gods

Why did I panic and walk away?

The chain reaction was built with clay

My actions solidified your cruel mistake

As I gently listen to these tapes

Reliving the moments

Of the thirteen excuses you gave

I sought justice for your name

Life is hurt, life is vain

I'm sober, yet tipsy I feel

I can't get over you

Not now that I bleed

I'm puking all over

College dreams and SAT's

Can barely feel my feet

You're still here

Like a cancer in my body tissues

How can I test negative

To a broken heart analysis?

You can't love someone back to life

No buckets of tears will bring them back

It's a mystery that science can't reply

I can't truly explain how I feel

Just knowing I will never see her again

Makes me confused

Like I used.

Hulu's announcement of The Handmaid's Tale series and the book strategically positioned in my favorite book store prompted me to buy and read this 1986 publication. I wanted to read the original story before viewing today's interpretation. This book surprised me. How I missed the "hubbub" about this publication when it originally was launched is beyond me.

The reader is plunged into a society where woman can't read, aren't allow to work, and all women are placed in a caste system. It is a must read for all teenagers and their mothers (great material for discussions).  

Yet this dystopian theme attracts readers of all ages. It is a tightly written. It is a reminder of what happens when a culture despairs and looks for security in lock step rules and societal roles where the slightest deviation is punishable by death. 

I enjoyed the book. This story offers the opportunity for lively book club conversations.

"I wanna rock your gypsy soul,

just like way back in the days of old

And together we will flow into the mystic"

~ Van Morrison

The song hits me where it hurts tonight, reaching places I needed to find. Tears flow, and I wish that I was 17 again screaming these words out the window of my old beat up Benz driving down country backroads. Wild auburn hair blowing in the warm Texas breeze, wind burnt, sun burnt, yet so fresh and new. I can't go back physically, but I can find that place in time forever. I can sing and remember and pretend that I'm that girl again- the one who didn't give a fuck, who thought she was invincible, who felt beautiful, alive and free. She was free of regret and responsibility, she just didn't know it. Free of the chains that come with all of the things she was chasing- the things she thought she needed. There was nothing stopping her, so she didn't stop. She got those things she was chasing, but in return she lost herself.

I don't know what happened to her...one day she was there, and then suddenly she vanished. I reminisce of our time together and try to dig deep to see if I can still feel her. Bits and pieces of her come to me in bursts of beautiful memories that bring rivers of silent tears, memories of a time when life really was like a song. She is the soundtrack to my life. I find her sometimes lost in a memory, deep inside. I beg her to come back- even for a little while. We sing the songs, dance the dances, twirl, laugh and cry until it's time for her to leave me again.

"Everything dies, baby that's a fact,

But maybe everything that dies some day

Comes back.

Put your makeup on,

Fix your hair up pretty,

And meet me tonight in Atlantic City"

~ The Band

I Hold on to her,

Smell her, I touch her hair.

I Tell her she's so beautiful,

Her voice is lovely,

The body she's sometimes afraid of?

Embrace it, it's gorgeous.

The loud voice of reason that she uses,

Even in the face of opposition?

It's the greatest tool she'll ever have.

The boy that made her cry?

Forget him.

I tell her she'll always love him but greater loves will come.

We hold on to the moment.

She fades away deep in my soul,

She's gone.

The world keeps turning without her,

it's just me again.

With each spin

she's one day further away from me.

The records keep spinning

and I wait for our moment in time.

Until next time, you 17 year old gypsy soul.

Everything changes, but you're the only thing that stays the same. Come back soon.

This endless rain is falling

Every dusk when night is calling

This vicious cycle circling ’round

Until one is six feet in the ground

Before he even enters the fight has begun.

An utterance of words triggers the rerun,

Of many nights before and many to come.

Different but not the feud is never done.

And the child prays to not be afraid,

As she holds tight to both her French braids.

“Mommy please stop, Daddy please no” but the cry is unheard,

And she’s forced to listen to every word.

There’s no hero to save her not even unsung,

Only her teddy to which she clung.

Feeling no hope inside,

Silently she escaped and cried.

What awaited ahead was pure solitude,

Where all her unheard feelings brewed.

Although alone the fight rages onward,

In her mind and also out yonder.

She hid by the window to drown out the pain,

As she sat she focused on only the rain.

Screams that always poured through her ears,

Were they finally fading after what felt like years?

This endless rain stays grieving

Every day that they're still breathing

This vicious cycle circling ’round

Until one is six feet in the ground.

Is this new guardians movie better than it's predecessor? In my opinion, yes, but just slightly. I will give you a breakdown of the overall quality of the film and what parts I did and didn't like.

Script- 9.5

Acting- 10

Visuals- 9.5

Villain- 8.5

Overall grade- A

What I liked- 1. This movie goes into a more emotional depth with These characters that we got to know and love in 2015, causing many tear-jerking moments that made a little boy that sat next to me cry. Honestly, it was kind of funny.

2. This movie has A LOT more comedic moments than the first guardians, and it was hilarious!

What I didn't like- 1. there's a shocking revelation regarding Peter's mom that never gets the big question, Why? You will see what I mean once you see this movie.

2. Some of the scenes where characters are giving background information to the audience, felt a little forced.

So there you have it! Let me know what you thought of this film! Fill free to juice me if you want cx

Chapter 1.

When I explain my plan, Grandma tells me not to bother. She says my father is the reason the sky is gray—always gray like everything else in Benton, including our dog. I pat the floor. Ash ambles over and nudges my hand with his wet snout. I scratch behind his ears.

"Your father could suck the color from anything he touched, aging it on the spot. He's the reason I'm old." She laughs. "Might want to reconsider your trip, Elaine."

"You're being dramatic," I say.

Grandma stands and, without grabbing her cane, limps over and lifts my chin with two thick fingers, demanding my gaze with her cloudy green eyes. I feel the momentum of the slap she wants to deliver. Because Mom is in the kitchen, within earshot, I am emboldened and stare back. There is a spark in her eyes then, something like lightning, and I scoot over, begin fiddling with my phone.

The last time Grandma lost her temper, I was seven. She paced the living room, looking for me, yelling because I had cut up her bra to make my doll a new dress. When she found me hiding behind the chair next to the fireplace, she spun around with such velocity that it seemed the contents of the room lifted and moved with her. A sturdy handheld radio, an antique, fell from the mantel and hit me just above the ear. It didn't hurt at the time, but I was upset enough to let Mom think I was in agony and to watch, pleased, as Grandma placed her cards and sweaters into an oversized canvas bag, all gloomy-eyed about the move to Uncle Don's trailer a few miles away.

Grandma was only gone a week, that delicious week, but she came back looking as though we'd sent her to prison. "How can anyone live like that?" she kept asking us, nodding her head back and forth. She was appalled by Uncle Don's constant flatulence and poor grooming habits, not to mention his inability to remember to put the milk away after cereal.

Now, Grandma spends most of her time asleep or in a mildly threatening state of near-wakefulness. She says she gets more accomplished in her dreams than she does during the humdrum of waking life. Sure, she gets angry regularly, but she doesn't lose her temper—not in the same way. Instead, she lets her anger out in quick-witted insults that sometimes cut so deep that I'd prefer the slap. Her eyes contain the storm, and it's most visible with any mention of my father.

Mom enters the room holding two spoons heaped with raw brownie mix. She hands me one, looks at Grandma, and says, "Rattle never made things gray, or any color, for that matter. How about focusing on something positive, eh? When the girl goes back to school, it's countdown to the big track meet, then graduation." She winks at me, and I place my phone face-down on the table.

"Rattle didn't help her with any of that. She did it on her own," Grandma says. It's almost a compliment, but she quickly takes it back by adding, "I'm just saying. Why doesn't the girl think about boys, like a normal teenager? She should have had a boyfriend or two by now, rather than running herself into the ground, then going off on some crazy trip to find a loser—"

Mom puts up her hand, a stop sign, and Grandma purses her lips.

"I'm focused! Grades and track matter more than any Benton boys. Besides, I could have a boyfriend if I wanted one."

I feel the warmth of Grandma's breath as she hovers. "Every girl wants a boyfriend in high school. You're all just a bundle of hormones and teeth."

I examine the chocolate on my spoon, and though I would ordinarily take small bits of it onto my tongue and savor the sweetness, a thing I don't allow myself much of during training, I do something I know will unnerve her. Locking her gaze, I unhinge my jaw and open my mouth as wide as I can. I put the whole spoonful in, quickly realizing it's too much and resisting the urge to gag, instead letting the mixture soften on my palate. Grandma's eyes rage.

"Very ladylike."

"Chocolate shot!" I say, my mouth still sticky with the thick batter. I am about to cough, and need water, but I give Grandma a glimpse by opening my mouth wider instead. Before yelling at me, she looks at Mom again.

"She acts like she's seven, not seventeen! For heaven's sake!"

"Mother, lay off. It's a high-stress time for Elaine. Lay. Off." Mom puts the other spoon in her mouth the same way I did and smirks defiantly. She always takes my side, but this is because Grandma is mean. Acerbic might be a better word.

"You two are out of control," Grandma says.

A look of familiar regret crosses Mom's face before she swallows the mass of chocolate. She says, "Don will be happy to entertain you if you want to play the mean old woman this week, you hear?"

Grandma waves this off. "Oh, you know I mean well, Josephine. I worry about this kid is all. She doesn't have her head in the right place. She's in fantasy land, and she's too old for that."

Mom winks at me. She reaches for my spoon and tucks her long dark hair behind a tiny ear with three diamonds dotting the lobe. I examine her shadow-heavy eyes, searching for the hopefulness I used to see glimpses of. I know she's proud of me, but I worry she's lost confidence that anything will ever change for her.

She says, "Your father would be damn proud of you right now." She looks past me, as though she sees him. I can't help but look back too, toward the empty space leading to our front door.

I stand, kiss Grandma on her cool cheek as I pass, and take the spoons back from Mom's hand before they fall. "Your opinion is the only one that matters," I whisper. I squeeze her arm and toss the spoons, ready for Grandma's exasperated gasp when they clang against the sink.

I'm known around Benton, not only for being Rattle's daughter but also for running the loop faster than any other girl in the history of Benton High. Faster than most of the boys, for that matter. I'm a champ when it comes to the mid-distance, but my championship status stops at the local scene.

Two years ago, I started writing about my race times, eating tips, and visualization strategies. I've read a lot of books about training and techniques, and I've always taken my running seriously, but all the effort has never mattered more than it does senior year—my last chance to attract the attention of a recruiter. I can't rest on my laurels. Who cares if I am featured in the local paper or win a race if, five years from now, I’ll just end up working a crap job and dreaming about what could have been? I need to set new records. I have no choice.

The sad fact is, I haven't seen any recruiters, and my test scores aren't as good as I know they could be. For a while, I thought I could defy the odds by posting my running times and race pictures to a blog I started called Catch Me: Elaine's Running Life. But I haven't had many hits. I have eight followers: Joey, a theater kid who wears checkered belts and always quotes—or misquotes—Mamet plays; Uncle Don, Mom, two people who live in South Korea and have cartoon profile images; my bestie, Michaela; and Owen, a nice guy who is in love with Michaela and runs long-distance. Then there's Anonymous, no location and no image. It could be my father. It'd be appropriate, the mere shadow outline of a man's profile.

Only my friends post comments. No recruiters, no coaches.

Grandma was right last year when she said, "Big fish in a small pond. No, not even a pond, a puddle." She'd said it right after track finals, laughing as she shoved a forkful of steak into her mouth at what was supposed to be my celebratory dinner. I should've been rejoicing, but the truth stung worse than my cramped quads.

I wrote about my frustration, in list form: "10 Reasons No Recruiters Come to Benton." I got an immediate response from Owen, who wrote, "Keep moving forward," which I found equal parts kind and annoying. Later, I got a more pessimistic response from Joey: "The comparative scales are unbalanced in the Rust Belt."

"Maybe, but it won't stop me," I wrote. Determined emoji. I wait for a recruiter to take the bait. I know how unrealistic it would be that some college recruiter from Stanford or Florida State would happen on my blog, but I keep checking nonetheless.

Benton, Ohio, is a small town known for Sal's Pizza and Jenny's Ice Cream, not championships of any sort. I often wonder if this trapped feeling is why my father left without thinking about recourse. Sometimes I feel the desire to just keep running, to find a new reality, and I wonder if it’s in my genes.

What tempted my father to leave is one thing, what made him do it with a daughter and wife—I don’t know. I’d like to know. I’ll leave the right way, stay in touch and give back. But to get out, I’m realizing that an opportunity needs to arrive, and I’ll have to be better than good. I’ll have to be so fast that my running times will be impossible to ignore.

I set local records in both the 400- and 800-meter races my freshman year and broke them both by junior year. I know what it is to set a goal and to work toward it. I know I can push harder, but I also know it will require an insane amount of focus. I imagine myself on my best day. I see myself just ahead, and I surge. I see the whole race in my mind. I glance at the corner of the room.

When I finally get the chance to shake my father's hand, I won't mention how tired Mom is. I won't mention my desire to go to college or interest in economics. I won't mention anything about running, or Grandma's expensive medications, or even the constant questioning in my mind. I won't mention anything at all. I won't even ask him why. The only thing that will matter if I meet him is that my grip is firm.