Why’s this happening? Why am I being chased through a bayou? How did I end up ankle-deep in a foreboding swamp that is inundated with what first appears to be blood but upon closer inspection, is actually salsa? And no matter how hard I try; little forward progress is made. My legs aren’t responding to my panicked demands. Lifting my right foot, I see an oversized boot. Where are my Sketchers?

Growing concerned, I glance behind me. A shrouded figure seemingly floats unimpeded over the red quagmire. Pending doom sets in as the gap closes. Looking for help, I recognize my eighth-grade Spanish teacher among the crowd of gawkers to my left. Why is Mrs. Hernandez shaking her head while holding a gato in her arms? I try screaming for help but can’t formulate words. The ominous presence now looms over me. I frantically gesture for mercy then cower as an arm extends towards my head.

Waking up, I’m sweating. My legs are cocooned in the top sheet. Lying there, reality comes into focus. I take a moment to slow my heart rate. Sooooo, now let’s add enchiladas to the long list of food I can’t eat after 9 p.m.

A dark figure stood in the corner of the room, tall and slender, its eyes dark yet somehow faintly glowing. It stared at Dianna. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic surged through her, a cold wave of terror that left her paralyzed. The shadow smiled a smile so wide it's teeth could be seen even in the darkness of the room. Long thin fingers reached into a tiny ornate sack.

It stood there, watching, eyes burning into her. It slowly removed it's long twisted hand from the sack. It came up to it's face, still grinning that impossible grin, laid one finger against it's mouth with a "shhhh". It then opened it's palm and blew sparkling sand at the bed.

The world shifted. The figure vanished, leaving behind only a lingering sense of dread.

Dianna jolted back up, her heart still pounding, her mind racing. She couldn't shake the feeling, the images, she could sense something still watching her. She kept staring at the corner, she swore she could feel a presence. But she had to let the irrational fear go, let it fade, as all nightmares do, back into the darkness from whence it came.

So I sat under the old apple tree looking at some strange curved thing like something out of H.R Gigers fevered dream.

The trunk was hollow while the branches bore apples still of the old crab apple variety no good for eating maybe cider.

A bottle of red I found fit perfectly in a hollow branch like it was made for it as the branches gave me shade from the heat of the sun.

I craned my neck and the branches brushed it giving me comfort like an old friend.

This was all I needed right here right now as I sat for hours and hours by the gnarled trunk riddled with holes and still living an ancient thing.

A beautiful thing must have been over a hundred years old.

If it had words to speak perhaps I heard them if I listened carefully not whispers or voice but a communion somewhere in my mind in the hidden places where thought goes.

All sorts of thought entered my mind as I wondered if trees had thought did they think the same as us I sat silently giving my offering to the old tree.

On this strange summers day a thinking.

A lady walks down the street with a little girl in tow. She looks at her daughter’s face as it morphs into that of a wolf. Frightened, she lets go of her hand. “What’s wrong, Mummy?”, says the girl. “It’s okay, dear. We just need to get you home soon”, says the lady. They hurry along. The girl runs ahead, then her legs turn into flippers. Her mummy picks her up and shrouds her with her coat.Even then she knows it’s too late. The metamorphosis has taken root earlier than expected. A beam of light shot right through her daughter’s chest into the heavens. Frantically, she ducked into the foliage. She tried to shield her from the rays, nearly smothering her girl in the process. She could feel her body lift underneath her. She was losing her grip on her torso. Screaming hysterically, she dug her heels in but there was no traction. Now it was just her arms she held onto. “Don’t worry, Mummy. I will be back soon” said the girl as droplets of gold ran down her face. As her fingers slipped away, she watched her girl float off towards the sun. “What will you be?”she whispered.

The bar was half-empty, neon bleeding into the condensation on his glass. Marcus sat hunched over his beer, tracing the rim with his thumb, watching the bartender chip ice from a block, little shards scattering, melting before they hit the well.

“Funny thing,” he said, mostly to himself. “You don’t really pick a place like this. You just end up here.”

The old guy next to him—gray stubble, hands like he’d spent a lifetime fixing things—took a slow sip of his whiskey. Didn’t look over.

“Guess that’s one way to see it.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “Yeah.” He swirled the last of his beer, watched the foam collapse in on itself. “Guess it is.”

Existing in this world can feel akin to finding oneself lost in a fever dream. Like drifting at sea, floating in delirium, while simultaneously floundering with increasing certainty. Awaking, yet dreaming. Disoriented and desperate, grasping for something beyond one's current reality. How quickly the years and moments flash by and yet also drag on at the same time. Memories washing away, like waves on a beach dragging sand out to sea, the incessant passing of time that strips away so much of our lives and pulls us closer to eternity. Yet many memories remain, small fragments that cling to the consciousness and make one question their sanity. Am I remembering or imagining? Moments in time that slowly lose their clarity, as fragile as seafoam, eventually dissipating completely. Vanishing into a place just out of reach. These are the pieces of our lives that have shaped us, the people and places, the joys and the losses. Childhood and adulthood, overlapping and clashing- who we once were and what we once knew. Floundering in an ocean of forgetfulness, grasping at the memories ever cherished and seeking to hold to them tightly so that they never slip below the waves and beyond remembrance.

Let’s call it what it is. This is an assault on chocolate with the goal being its elimination. Nothing more, nothing less. It may sound far-fetched, but I formulated this theory by scrutinizing the rationale behind replacing Valentine’s Day with Friendship Day. Turns out, it doesn’t have anything to do with promoting “friendship.” Or preventing the terminally lonely from having their feelings hurt after being ghosted by Cupid for the umpteenth year in a row. Looking at all the facts, I turned over the final stone and unearthed the culprits behind this scheme.

With or without chocolate, I’ve always been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. When the only measure for a successful celebration is impressing just one other person, what could go wrong? Aiming at a target consisting of a solitary bullseye taking up your whole field of vision increases accuracy by like 100-fold. With minimal effort, who can’t be an Olympic marksman on Valentine’s Day?

And we would be stupid not to pick some random date in the middle of February to express our undying love to whoever is our plus-one at the time. What better way to break up the weeks between New Year’s and Arbor Day?

I also fervently subscribe to Valentine’s Day’s credo: Forced, sentimental materialism is key to a solid relationship. I willingly torpedoed my budget by maxing out my credit card on time-sensitive, overpriced meals along with flowers and spa days and jewelry that will be eaten or tossed or forgotten or pawned (when the relationship comes to its inevitable rocky conclusion). That’s fine.

These tasks were completed in anticipation my “loved one” would monetarily reciprocate in kind. Or God willing, equated The Cheesecake Factory, roses, a mani/pedi and earrings with foreplay, signaling spontaneous coitus. The accumulated receipts were offset by the chance I’d be culminating three and a half minutes of euphoric bliss before Sportscenter started. Six if I thought about the possibility the charges wouldn’t be posted on this month’s Visa’s statement. How is this bad?

The build-up to 2/14 isn’t protracted. That’s a bonus when you’re single. The implication that only couples can enjoy this special occasion isn’t shoved in your face for weeks prior like Christmas or my birthday. And the pain of not being an active participant in a Valentine’s Day lovefest subsides within 23 hours. Chocolates discounted up to 80%, even if in the shape of a heart, are the sutures that close my soul’s deep wounds. At reduced prices, when’s a better time to be Pro-Valentine’s?

It was the bargain-priced chocolate that brought everything into focus. That was the linchpin enabling me to wrap my head around who would benefit from introducing Friendship Day. Since GET RID OF CHOCOLATE couldn’t possibly be the #1 priority on Congress’ “To Do” list, the government was eliminated. There had to be another nefarious force spearheading the quest to abolish Valentine’s Day.

Proponents of Friendship Day would have to reap something from Valentine’s demise. Like all good sleuths, I followed the money which led me directly to Haribo and the Jelly Belly Jelly Company. It’s always the ones you least expect.

Here’s the rationale. Chocolate dominates Valentine’s Day sales. Gummy Bears and Jelly Belly jellybeans are tied for distant second. Destroying Valentine’s Day forces the sugar-craving public to seek other options for placating the milk chocolate monkey on its collective back. GB and JB will Pied Piper the downtrodden right to Friendship Day with its corresponding treats laden with elevated fructose levels. This guerrilla marketing results in a bigger piece of the moolah pie.

Although I’m impressed with the tactics employed, obviously inspired by Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War, I can’t idly sit by while a sinister plan to eradicate the beloved cacao bean is executed. My conscious (and sweet tooth) will not allow such a travesty. I am willing to risk my life or limb by unveiling the perpetrators.

It’s always about the Benjamins. And paper portraits of dead presidents are amassed by either crushing your competition or through a hostile takeover. Both are bad PR. It puts corporate greed in the spotlight and your company in the headlines. However, if a business does not appear to be involved with the competition fading from view, it doesn’t get its hands dirty. Wearing a clean cape of righteousness, it can come to the rescue by filling the void left behind. The company assumes the persona of a confectionary savior to those hurting. A genius Machiavellian strategy.

Corporations don’t want their consumer base to sour if profits skyrocket due to unscrupulous dealings. It needs to be more covert. Sure, the major grocery stores’ CEOs getting nondescript packages containing bits of multi-colored, crushed M&M shell sends a clear message. Such intimidation can even extend to getting Little Debbie and the Keebler Elves pulled from stores. But it’s bad optics.

Loyalists to Quicky, the Nesquik rabbit, will notice when he goes missing. Unvetted blogs pop up, raising awareness of his absence. A GoFundMe page starts. Rumors will swirl that some men in black suits forcibly hippity hopped Q’s furry butt to a cosmetic testing facility operated by Revlon or L’Oreal. That reflects poorly.

Nobody wants to know how many licks from a metal baton it takes to reach the middle of Mr. Owl’s skull. If he had abandoned his Tootsie Pop research when asked, he wouldn’t be tied up in the basement of some Hoboken stash house. He should have accepted the Avian Protection program offer. Now he’s getting fitted for concrete shoes. Could of, would of, should of doesn’t help.

And what about the disappearance of the two lobbyists from Big Chocolate last month? The media glossed over this. The only detail mentioned was they never rendezvoused for a scheduled meeting with their lawyer and the delegation from Lindt. Within two days, the story was buried, found only when scrolling through many pages. Chilling to think those two hard-working men were recipients of what I refer to as the KST (Karen Silkwood Treatment). Highly concerning.

But these tactics are very heavy-handed. Executing them will ensure the FBI will start snooping around. Much better for a business to come across as benevolent and bask in the afterglow of chocolate’s implosion.

And that’s how Friendship Day came about. I now fear Easter is on the chopping block. Someone should alert the Cadbury Bunny.

Mrs. Patel’s knees nearly touched her chest as she sat on the miniature blue plastic chair. At the edge of the circle, Logan rocked back and forth on his heels, his hand stretching so high it threatened to detach from his arm. His eyes darted between Mrs. Patel and the construction paper hearts scattered across the tables, mouth twitching with barely contained information.

“Okay, Logan.” She smoothed her skirt, voice soft as a library whisper. “You wanted to tell us about Valentine’s Day?”

Logan’s entire body became a nod, his mop of brown hair flopping in his face. “Uh-huh. It’s all gone.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped open. Maria crushed her paper heart. Zoe stared.

Mrs. Patel’s hand froze mid-reach toward the glue stick bucket. “Gone?“

“Yeah.” Logan bounced on his toes. “Daddy says we can’t do it no more ’cause it makes people sad.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Mrs. Patel’s mind raced to process this proclamation, delivered with all the gravity of a breaking news report before snack time.

She leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath. “Makes people sad?”

Logan’s face scrunched up, his lower lip jutting out. His fingers twisted the hem of his dinosaur t-shirt. “Like... like when Tommy has a cookie? And I don’t got one? And my tummy feels all yucky looking at his cookie?”

Mrs. Patel’s chin dipped slowly. “Like snack time?”

“Yeah!” Logan’s arms waved everywhere. “But it’s hearts and stuff!” His fingers spread wide, then squeezed tight. “Some kids get lots and lots of hearts, and some kids don’t get any, and they cry and get mad and stuff. So now we got Friendship Day instead!”

The only sound was the gentle whir of the classroom hamster wheel.

Ethan’s eyebrows squished together, his crayon stopping. “But... but my mommy and daddy still do Valentine’s.”

Logan shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay. Like... like...” His face pinched. “Like how some people got fish and some people got dogs. And both is okay.”

Mrs. Patel’s teeth caught her lower lip, her head tilting to one side.

She cleared her throat, voice climbing an octave. “So what do you do on Friendship Day?”

Logan jumped up and down. “It’s super cool! You pick your bestest friend and give them a hug! No yucky kissing—” he stuck out his tongue, and giggles erupted around the circle “—or fancy stuff that makes grownups all grumpy. Just friends!”

Mrs. Patel’s fingers drummed against her knee. “That sounds... kind of nice, actually.”

“Yeah!” Logan grinned, showing his missing front tooth. “Daddy says nobody’s sad on Friendship Day ’cause everybody’s got a friend!”

The classroom grew still, like the moment before snow falls. Twenty small faces turned inward, trying to understand.

“Move! That’s MY spot!” Jason lunged forward, both hands shoving Mia.

She toppled sideways onto the carpet.

“Jason!” Mrs. Patel’s voice snapped through the air.

Mia’s chin trembled. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, darkening spots on her pink unicorn sweater.

Mrs. Patel’s eyes found the rainbow-shaped clock. 9:07 AM. One hand reached for the tissue box, the other for the behavior chart. So much for Friendship Day.

A young woman dressed like a Pirate now stood before Jahno, smiling a sweet, yet bold smile. Jahno did a double take, and then he burst out laughing.

"What a wonderful waste of a fusion spell!" Jahno roared with laughter. "You turned down my offer and stalled me just to become a hot girl version of the Pirate? Amazing, ha ha ha ha!"

"True, if we have only fused in order to become a gender flipped variation of the Pirate, then this should be of no concern to you." The young woman said. Her voice wasn't soft like Cerissa's and it didn't have the rough yet smooth tone of the Pirate's, but she had a femine, confident tone that gave her words their own impact.

"No concerns here, but I look forward to dancing with you my dear." Jahno smirked. "So, what shall I call you while you are in this new persona?"

"You can call me the Pirate Mage. And don't worry, I will be sure to keep you entertained, but I hope you can also keep me amused. Come at me Jahno.... or better yet, come at me..... as Cyclo!"

"Absolutely, let's give this our best!" Jahno yelled with delight, as his body expanded back to the hulking form of the cyclops monster he originally started as. Jahno's eyes merged back into one eye, and his once charming, yet evil smile was once again a menacing, hideous one.

Cyclo charged at the Pirate Mage, laughing hysterically as he prepared to pounce. The Pirate Mage stepped back gently and grabbed the head of the airborne Cyclo, slamming him face first into the ground.

Rick, Essie, and Tamma all gasped at how quickly this slender new Pirate form had downed their monstrous foe. Cyclo got up from the ground and charged again, fuming with rage.

"I'm sorry sweetie, are you not entertained anymore?" The Pirate Mage bantered with a million dollar smile. She stopped Cyclo's rampage by gently pushing on his forehead with her hand, knocking him backwards onto the ground. She walked over to her downed opponent and looked him directly in the eye.

"Well Cyclo, or Jahno, or whatever you want to go by..... you are quite a disappointing dance partner. Do you agree that it may be time to sit this one out?"

"No." Cyclo smirked, as he pointed at the Pirate Mage and sent a blast of fire directly at her.

To be continued....

I was six the first time I met him. My mom had tucked me in bed after making me sit in a tub of ice water to get my temperature down - as my Aunt Mabel had recommended. We weren't ones to go to the doctor in those days.

I was falling asleep, snuggling with my favorite teddy bear, Buster. Apparently, my temperature had barely dropped despite the ice bath and was still hovering around 105. I could hear my mom on the phone whispering outside my door. Sounded like she was crying a little, too.

Then I saw him. He was standing next to my bed, just watching me. For some reason, I wasn't afraid. I just said, "Hi."

"Hi, little one."

"That robe is too big for you."

"It's comfortable."

"Hmm, my purple jammies are comfy, too. So soft. Like Buster," I whispered, pressing my nose into Buster's belly.

"I thought I might take you on a trip."

"Mommy wouldn't like that."

"No, she wouldn't. Fortunately, it seems that an error was made. It happens sometimes. Live well, little one. Be seeing you."

Now, eighty-two years later, he's back.

No mistake; I'll be traveling with him this time.