I used to have a wallet on a chain. It’s called a “truckers wallet”.
I had it when I attended university. I would ride a motorcycle back and forth to and from Campus.
And I got it to make sure that I wouldn’t ever lose my wallet.
…
A friend from the university thought it was a good idea, so he got one too.
Ah. Different times. Different attitudes.
…
Over the years, my wallets have changed.
Eventually I settled on a mini-billfold. This is / was designed to go in the inner lapel pocket of a great coat. And I used it a lot while I lived in Boston.
Now, today… well, I have a few wallets, but I never use them. China is a cashless society. So I never need such an accessory.
But we grow. We change. We adapt. And we move on.
Today…
What’s the most incompetent instance of bullying you’ve ever seen?
I was 13 years old, maybe 14. In my class there was a boy – let’s call him John (because that was his name).
I was not a fan of John, because he was one of those “know-it-all” kids, and at the time he wasn’t very popular as a result. Perhaps the only person less popular than John… was me. I was a new kid and at that age, the new kid is always tested socially.
So, John decides to come up to me one day – out of the blue – and tries to up his status among the class by picking on the one kid that had no friends – again, me.
“So, J, I saw your father yesterday.”
This was curious. I knew my father was at work, so it was highly unlikely that John would have happened to cross paths.
“You did?” I asked. “Did you see him… at work?”
“Yes, I did,” John said, haughtily. “And I told him all the embarrassing things that you do in class.”
What an odd way to phrase that, I thought. “Uh huh,” I said. “That’s odd, because he didn’t mention anything last night when he got home.”
“Well, maybe that’s because he was so shocked by what I told him,” John said, doubling down.
“Tell me, John,” I said, slowly. “Did you just run into him at work, or were you a patient?”
John, obviously not expecting this question, answered. “I was a patient.”
I nodded. “That’s interesting, John.”
“Why?”
“Because my father is a gynecologist.”
[Update]
There appears to be some question as to whether or not the story (or the subject matter) is real. I assure you, every single detail about this story is 100% correct.
My father is a gynecologist, and at the time he was the Department Chief at the Navy Hospital for Obstetrics/Gynecology.
Much later than this episode, he actually went on to be the President of the Society of Gynecologic Surgeons (2014–2015).
John apparently didn’t know what a Gynecologist was, which only added to the hilarity of the moment. The girls in the class took many opportunities during the school year to ask how his regular appointments were going, and if he had any advice…
INTERNET REVIEW CHINESE PRODUCTS || ARE THEY CHEAP || LOW QUALITY PRODUCTS || COMPILATION
Why are European countries warning European travelers to be careful traveling to the United States?
Look, I’m sure the number of European travelers being turned away is very tiny. But why risk it?
What’s here that you can’t see somewhere else? I like many people, things and places in the United States. If you go immediately to your destination and don’t spend days driving down our hellscape interstate highways, it’s really pretty great. For natural scenery, it’s my favorite country. (I’ve been to 40.)
But unless you have family in the US, nothing else here is so great that you need to risk deportation by the most fraudulent, toxic presidential administration in the history of this country. If you just want to travel as a tourist, there are so many other places in the world that provide at least as good an experience, if not better.
American prices are also horrible these days. So much for the myth of “competition drives prices down” when candy bars are two dollars, a gas station donut is a buck fifty, and the crummiest hotels on the interstate are $75 or $100. (This one comes from the paranoid fear that if you’re the cheapest hotel in town, you’ll instantly be assumed to be the creepiest drug den and brothel, so prices have skyrocketed. Nobody wants to be seen as the cheapest hotel in town. Suddenly, boom, Scandinavian Airbnbs look like a really good value compared to a Motel 6 in Abilene, Kansas, a cow town that smells like cow butt. Imagine how much more expensive it is in New York City or Seattle.)
I think Europeans criminally underestimate the quality of American food. I’ve had some amazing meals in the US. But of course, by the time you tip the waitress 20% on top of the already inflated prices thanks to “Covid,” eating dinner here is pretty pricey now. (Unless you’re going to Bob Evans or Denny’s, but why come here to eat there?) If you haven’t traveled to the U.S. in a few decades and you remember it as being a good value, it isn’t anymore. The US has become one of the most massive ripoffs in the world. I’ve traveled in every Scandinavian country, which for some reason are considered famously expensive, and I thought they were mostly a pretty good value compared to the United States. Even where I spent more money in Scandinavia than I would’ve liked to, at least I got something really quality for my money. There’s still some value in the US, but it’s getting harder and harder to find. (Untraveled Americans, of course, will be flabbergasted to discover this, because most of us believe we live in one of the most affordable countries on earth — at the same time as half of us voted a fraudster mafioso into office because everything has gotten so expensive. He’s about to make everything even more expensive, so why would you want to come here?)
There’s a lot of interesting things in the US, but they take a long time to get to. Surely there’s somewhere closer to you where you can see something just as good… and hey, you’ll be “saving the world from climate change.” (I’m not really a climate change denialist, but I find it hilarious when Europeans think it’s still OK to jet around the world despite all the pollution that comes from airplanes. Try a staycation. Most Americans who travel to Europe find every square inch of it interesting. Maybe it’s time for you to discover the same thing.)
I really like the northwest corner of Washington, but when I was in Bergen, Norway, it reminded me almost exactly of that part of Washington. You’ll be fine in Bergen. I’ve been to the Canary Islands. The interior parts of Tenerife reminded me precisely — and I mean precisely — of the area around Flagstaff, Arizona. Want to see JD Vance’s Ohio and the Rust Belt? Go to the most squalid, run down, depressing towns in East Germany in January. That’s Ohio. At least you can buy a good bottle of wine at the Lidl there for about three dollars. It’ll be more like $12 in the Benighted States. After Trump’s 200% European alcohol tariffs go into effect, a 12 ounce can of Guinness here will probably cost $10. At a bar? It’ll be more like 20. On the bright side, maybe this will encourage you to discover some of our American beers, which some Europeans are really too snooty about without ever having tasted them.
Maybe spend the next four years in a library reading about American history, which is much more interesting than some Europeans give us credit for. The history of the Gilded Age, the classic age of money-grabbing and corruption, are pretty relevant.
But seriously, go to Mexico or Canada. They’re wonderful and won’t treat you like a criminal for wanting to visit.
if you do come, read the very tiny fine print on your tourist visa. Don’t do anything else other than what is specified there. Do not cross into Mexico. Do not go to Cuba. Absolutely do not go to Venezuela. Don’t cross to the other side of Niagara Falls in Canada. Don’t say anything about Trump on social media. JD Vance just lectured Europeans about how you have no freedom of speech. But if you criticize the American government now, you’re at serious risk of getting deported.
Never forget that all this is brought to you by people who partly funded their childish campaign by selling merchandise that said “Fuck Biden,” and now they want to suppress any criticism of the Trump administration while bloviating about “freedom.” It’s a criminal racket. Even as an American, I encourage you to spend no money here until this is over. Until Americans really feel the pain, it won’t end. There’s no way to get them to wake up until this guy bankrupts them and America hemorrhages all the respect and goodwill it once had.
On the other hand, if you’re a European and a Trump supporter — I’ve met dozens of European Trump supporters, and some of them were much more intelligent than American MAGA voters and actually really good company — maybe you’ll have a good time. I really don’t think CBP will be turning you away. At the very least, a visit to the United States will be educational.
RUSSIA Buried British, French, and Polish Officers Alive Under the Rubble of Hotel ‘PARK HOUSE’
Cajun Chicken and Pasta
Ingredients
- 4 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into thin strips
- 1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
- 2 tablespoons butter
- 1 green or red bell pepper, cut into thin strips
- 3 or 4 green onions with tops, thinly sliced or 1/2 of a red onion, cut into thin strips
- 6 large mushrooms, thinly sliced
- 1 1/2 cups Half-and-Half
- 1/2 teaspoon basil
- 1/4 teaspoon minced lemon peel
- 1/2 teaspoon lemon pepper
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon granulated garlic powder
- 1 tablespoon cornstarch mixed with 2 tablespoons water
- 8 ounces pasta, cooked and drained
Instructions
- Place the chicken and Cajun seasoning in a plastic bag and shake to coat.
- In a large skillet, over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the chicken and cook for about 5 to 7 minutes (just until it loses the pink color).
- Add the vegetables and cook and stir for another 3 to 4 minutes.
- Add the Half-and-Half and the remaining seasonings; heat through.
- Serve over pasta.
How do you feel about the “America First” crowd’s belief that “the US must have surpluses with its trading partners”?
America First crowd should look at the math and use commonsense.
US deficit in the goods trade had been rising over the years. It was $1.1 trillion in 2024. That’s a lot of goods. These are real goods. How are Americans going to live without them?
It cannot even narrow this. A surplus is impossible.
America is about consumption, not production. Costs are too high. People prefer the free and easy life in air-con places than to work on the factory floor and subject to work discipline.
Don’t be misled by Trump’s tariffs. They are swagger and mistaken show of power.
America will have to bear higher costs and shortages.
The Never Changing Weather of Umbra
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story in a place where the weather never changes.… view prompt
John Buzzard
Elder Talis, his weathered face cast in a red and blue glow, folded his arms. “And yet the quake forced us toward the light, not away from it. The Ember Star calls us home.”
Lyra took a slow breath. “The star does not call. It burns. It floods the daylight side with radiation that our bodies cannot withstand. We have survived in the twilight because it shelters us.”
“The twilight is stagnation,” another elder muttered. “Our ancestors did not belong in the shadows.”
Murmurs of agreement spread through the hall. The elders had spoken of this prophecy before, that their people had once lived in the light, cast into the darkness by some unknown sin. To them, the quake was a sign of forgiveness, an invitation to return.
Lyra clenched her jaw. She had expected resistance, but this wasn’t just denial. This was faith.
“The sickness will spread,” she tried again. We’re already seeing an increase in…”
A younger man, Wren, stepped forward. “My daughter grew ill long before the quake before we even considered moving daylight-side. Is that also the fault of the Ember Star?”
“She was born too close to the dawn border,” Lyra said, trying to keep her voice level. “Exposure builds over generations.”
Wren shook his head. “We cannot live in fear of the light.”
“It isn’t fear, it’s fact.”
“It is your fact,” Elder Talis said. “Not ours.”
The room fell silent. Lyra felt a weight settle in her chest. It was not that they did not believe her, some of them did. But they believed in something else more.
A bell rang outside, its low chime signaling the return of scouts. The elders turned toward the entrance. Lyra exhaled sharply and followed.
Outside, the sky was painted in shades of violet and deep crimson, a permanent twilight had cradled their civilization for centuries. In the distance, the daylight side shimmered, a golden promise to those who longed for warmth, a death sentence to those who knew better.
She had to make them understand. Somehow. Because if they stepped into that light, they would not return.
***
The great migration had begun. Streams of people moved toward the Ember-lit horizon. Their silhouettes were swallowed by the shifting glow of the daylight side. Lyra stood at the edge of the departing crowd, the bioluminescent vines curling at her feet like restless spirits. She had fought against this, pleaded, argued, and presented evidence. None of it had been enough.
Until now.
Elder Tillman stood beside her, his face drawn with something deeper than exhaustion. His daughter, Miro, lay curled beneath a woven blanket in the back of their transport, her small frame barely moving. The sickness had already taken hold.
“You were right,” Tillman said at last. His voice was quiet, thick with regret. “the sickness isn’t a warning. It isn’t a test. It’s death.”
Lyra swallowed hard. “It’s not too late for you,” she said. “For Mira. But the others…”
He turned to watch the procession, the torches glowing like fireflies against the approaching dawn. “Many won’t listen. Even if I speak out now.”
“You have to try.”
Tillman clenched his jaw. “And if I do, they’ll turn against me. Maybe against you too.”
Lyra looked toward the migrating settlers. Among them were children laughing, running ahead, excited to see the golden lands their ancestors had once called home. Parents soothed infants swaddled against their chests, whispering reassurances that the light meant safety. She felt a hollow ache in her chest.
“They’ll die, Tillman.”
The elder exhaled sharply. “Not all of them. Not if we act now.”
Lyra turned to him, and for the first time, she saw something beyond regret in his expression. Resolve.
***
They moved quickly. Under the cover of twilight, Tillman sent quiet messages to those who would listen, trusted families, and those who had already begun to question the prophecy but were too afraid to speak. It started with a few whispers, a handful of people slowing their steps, looking back toward the bioluminescent forests they had called home. Then others stopped, hesitated, torn between the teachings of the elders and the truth they could no longer ignore.
But as the divide formed, so did the resistance.
“What are you doing?” Wren’s voice rang through the crowd. He stood at the center of the migration path, his dark eyes flashing in the ember light. “You would turn back now? After everything we’ve been given?”
Tillman stepped forward. “Wren, listen to me…”
“No. Enough of this.” Wren’s voice rose. “The Ember Star has called us home. We are fulfilling our ancestors’ journey. You would have us return to the darkness? To stagnation?”
Tillman straightened his spine. “I would have us live.”
Silence rippled through the settlers. The tension was a coiled wire, ready to snap. Lyra could see it, the hesitation, and the fear. Some were beginning to understand. Others, like Wren, would never accept it.
“This is her doing,” Wren said, eyes locking on Lyra. “The scientists. She poisons your minds with fear.”
Lyra met his gaze steadily. “Fear isn’t the enemy, Wren. Death is.”
The murmurs grew. Some settlers stepped back, retreating toward the bioluminescent fields. Others pushed forward, determined to press on toward the golden light. The divide was complete.
Tillman turned to Lyra. “We leave now. Those who follow, follow.”
And so the split began.
***
As Lyra led her group back into the safe embrace of the twilight, she couldn’t shake the dread pooling in her stomach. She looked back one last time at those continuing forward, friends, cousins, and children she had once played with. They had made their choice.
She only prayed it wasn’t a fatal one.
I’ve heard horror stories about the Canadian healthcare system. As an American, I’d like to clear this up, are you helped immediately if you have a stroke, heart attack, or any form of cancer, even at a public hospital?
Let me put it this way. I called 911 at 10:30 one Saturday morning last year because I though I was having a heart attack. By 11:30, I was in the back of an ambulance, where the EMTs confirmed, “Yes, yes I was having a heart attack. By 1 pm, I was in an operating room, where doctors were installing a stent in my coronary artery.
Or, another example. One Friday morning I was having a routine eye exam because, at my age, you need to get a new prescription every couple of years. The optometrist, an immigrant who have been an opthamologist in her Eastern European country of origin, found a problem with my retinas. She referred me to Emerg, who referred me to a nearby Eye Clinic, because that’s where the equipment was, and by at 5 pm on a Friday afternoon when most people just want to clock out and go home, a very nice lady doctor from Tehran who was doing her residency in Toronto, was shooting laser beams directly into my eyeballs to stitch my retinas back on.
Saved my life once. Saved my vision once. I didn’t pay a penny directly. That’s what out taxes are for.
They Took Men’s Jobs – Now They Shame Them for Struggling!
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Talking Moon: A Tale of Cosmic Conversations, Boring Monologues, and Feline Wisdom
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of lunar loquaciousness, celestial soliloquies, and one very determined cat who proved that not everything is as glamorous as it seems. Today’s story is one of wishes gone awry, cosmic comedy, and a moon who just wouldn’t stop talking about itself. So, grab your telescope (or perhaps a pair of binoculars) and a sense of humor, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Talking Moon: A Tale of Cosmic Conversations, Boring Monologues, and Feline Wisdom.
The Wish to Talk to the Moon
It all began on a quiet evening when Jazzpurr the Beatnik Cat, the farm’s resident poet and philosopher, decided he needed inspiration for his next masterpiece. “Man,” Jazzpurr said, stroking his black beret, “I need to connect with the cosmos. I need to talk to the moon. Only then will I find the true meaning of life.”
The other animals, who were used to Jazzpurr’s eccentricities, rolled their eyes. “The moon?” Doris the Hen clucked. “What’s so special about the moon? It’s just a big rock in the sky.”
Jazzpurr shook his head. “You don’t understand, man. The moon is a symbol of mystery, beauty, and cosmic vibes. I need to talk to it.”
Unbeknownst to Jazzpurr, Zephyr the Genie, the farm’s resident cosmic hippie, was floating nearby in his vintage lava lamp. Hearing Jazzpurr’s lament, he emerged in a swirl of psychedelic smoke. “Whoa, heavy vibes, cat,” Zephyr said, adjusting his round tinted glasses. “You seek to commune with the moon? I can make that happen. But beware, man—the moon can be a real chatterbox.”
Jazzpurr, too excited to listen to warnings, said, “Do it, man! Grant my wish!”
With a dramatic flourish, Zephyr waved his hand, and the moon began to speak. “Greetings, Earthlings,” it said in a deep, resonant voice. “I am the moon, your celestial companion. What would you like to discuss?”
Jazzpurr’s eyes lit up. “This is it, man! The cosmic connection I’ve been searching for!”
Sir Whiskerton, who had been observing the scene from his favorite sunbeam, flicked his tail. “This can’t possibly end well,” he muttered to Ditto, his ever-eager apprentice.
Ditto tilted his head. “But what if the moon is really interesting? What if it tells us secrets of the universe?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “The moon is a rock. But I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
The Moon’s Monologues
At first, the animals were fascinated by the talking moon. They gathered in the barnyard, staring up at the sky as the moon began to speak. “Did you know,” the moon said, “that I am approximately 238,855 miles from Earth? And that I have no atmosphere? And that my surface is covered in craters?”
The animals nodded, intrigued. “This is amazing!” Jazzpurr said. “The moon is sharing its wisdom!”
But as the night wore on, the moon’s monologues became increasingly tedious. It talked about its phases, its orbit, and its favorite craters. It even started describing the rocks on its surface in excruciating detail.
“This one rock,” the moon said, “is particularly fascinating. It’s gray, it’s round, and it’s been here for billions of years. Isn’t that incredible?”
The animals, who had been listening intently at first, began to lose interest. Doris the Hen clucked, “This is highly irregular. Moons are not supposed to talk.”
Rufus the Dog yawned. “This is worse than the time the farmer read us his tax forms.”
Even the crickets, who usually chirped all night, fell asleep.
The Boredom Epidemic
As the moon continued to talk, the farm fell into a state of boredom-induced chaos. The cows stopped giving milk, the chickens stopped laying eggs, and the pigs stopped rolling in the mud. Everyone was too tired to do anything but listen to the moon’s endless monologues.
“This is a disaster,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail. “We need to do something before the entire farm falls asleep.”
Jazzpurr, who had been taking notes for his poem, looked up. “But man, the moon is sharing its wisdom! This is cosmic!”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Jazzpurr, the moon is boring. It’s been talking for hours, and it hasn’t said anything interesting. We need to shut it up.”
The Plan
Sir Whiskerton gathered the animals in the barn to come up with a plan. “We need to find a way to stop the moon from talking,” he said. “Any ideas?”
Porkchop the Pig snorted, “What if we throw something at it? Like a rock?”
Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow. “The moon is 238,855 miles away. I don’t think a rock will reach it.”
Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow mooed, “What if we ask Zephyr to undo the wish?”
Sir Whiskerton nodded. “That’s a better idea. But first, we need to find Zephyr.”
The Resolution
The animals searched the farm for Zephyr, finally finding him floating in his lava lamp near the pond. “Zephyr,” Sir Whiskerton said, “we need you to undo the wish. The moon won’t stop talking, and the farm is falling apart.”
Zephyr adjusted his glasses. “Whoa, bummer, man. I told Jazzpurr the moon could be a chatterbox. But hey, cosmic vibes, right?”
With a wave of his hand, Zephyr reversed the wish. The moon fell silent, and the farm returned to its usual rhythm. The animals cheered as the crickets began to chirp again.
The Moral of the Story
As the moon set over the farm, Sir Whiskerton gathered the animals for a final word. “Today, we learned an important lesson. Not everything is as glamorous as it seems. The moon may be beautiful, but it’s also… well, boring.”
Jazzpurr nodded. “I see that now. I was so focused on the moon’s beauty that I didn’t realize how dull it could be. From now on, I’ll appreciate the simpler things in life.”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “Well said, Jazzpurr. And remember, the farm is full of wonders—you don’t need to talk to the moon to find inspiration.”
A Happy Ending
With the moon silent once more, the animals returned to their routines. Jazzpurr found inspiration in the farm’s everyday beauty, writing a poem about the sunrise. The cows gave milk, the chickens laid eggs, and the pigs rolled in the mud.
As for Sir Whiskerton and Ditto, they returned to their favorite spot on the barn roof, where they napped contentedly, knowing they had once again saved the day.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new lessons, and new opportunities to embrace the beauty of the everyday. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline wisdom.
The End.
I Never Should Have Come Back To America
EMILY DRAKAIGNE
Submitted into Contest #287 in response to: Set your story in a café, garden, or restaurant.… view prompt
HAAKON RAGNSKJOLD
It was now late September. I hadn’t been to the Rose for a few days. So I was mildly surprised to see the line spilling out into the alley. It was a quarter to Ten and they still weren’t open? Must have been thirty to forty people just milling around or sitting on the benches. A few had their computers out, or were checking their iPhones, blind to the life unfolding all around them.
I rested my back up against that elm tree, now fully covered in a wealth of leaves. They had built a circular bench around it. I started catching snippets of neighboring conversations. Seems there had been some problem in the cafe they’d been working all night to fix—it had just taken them longer to fix than expected, but it seems they were almost done. Good. I wanted one of those cinnamon sweet cakes I considered to be one of their specialties—make that two—no, three.
I read body language pretty well so I’ve got a pretty good sense of where people are coming from. It doesn’t hurt that I also pay close attention to tones of voice, to the kinds of stresses and inflections people give their words. You’d be amazed how much you people broadcast your intentions to the world at large, all the while thinking you’re exercising the height of discretion. You might as well shout it from the rooftops with a bullhorn!
Three folks caught my attention. The first two were a man and woman sitting on a bench on the right side of the door. They were probably the first two to show up. What got me was that they appeared to be going out of their way to give the impression that they didn’t know each other. They were good at it. I doubt anyone would have picked up on it but me. But to my eyes, they were trying just a little too hard to be nonchalant. Just a little too hard.
Nothing stood out about the guy. Completely nondescript. The girl, however… There was definitely something about her. Not her appearance, though. She had a pleasant face, wreathed with long black, ringleted hair. Something told me that she was a very thoughtful young woman. Whatever she was doing, she would put a lot of thought into. I wondered if I’d seen her somewhere before.
My eyes slid over to a table where the third person was sitting. Slightly scruffy looking; shabby coat. His back, ramrod straight. I could understand why no one was sitting by him, though there was room. It wasn’t his appearance. Something just didn’t ring right about the guy. What it was, I had no clear idea. What I did know, was that I was going to keep an eye on him.
The doors opened and Cecile came out and apologized for the delays but everything had been taken care of now they were once again open for business. She’s one of the regular servers. And as I passed her on my way in, I got the strange feeling that something was up. Weird. Once again it was nothing I could put my finger on.
Once inside I drank in the ambiance of the place. It looked like you’d walked into some Nineteenth Century boiler room, gauges, valves and gears everywhere. Coats of arms and suits of armor in between the steam engines. Jack Rackham’s skull and crossed cutlasses banner hung from the rafters, along with Bart Roberts and Eddie Teach’s—all the classics!
I took a deep breath and smiled. I looked around. The first guy and girl had positioned themselves near the back wall. I was in time to see the first guy sit down. His table was right up against the wall. For some reason he reached around behind his back, almost as if he was fiddling with something.
The girl sat down at a table that was pretty close to him, separated from his by only a few feet. They looked a bit cramped. That seemed a bit odd to me, ’cause usually there’s plenty of room. She took out her computer and after a few minutes seemed to hit her stride and was typing away merrily, if a little too focused. She had a very tall drink of some kind which she’d only taken a tiny sip of, before setting it about an inch or so away from her laptop.
Against the other wall, the weird guy sat down on a couch under some book shelves loaded to the gills with books. The air about him was palpably tangible. Something was definitely not right about this fellow. “Stone faced,”—that’s the word I would have used to describe him. He had that same kind of bearing that cops and security are trained to recognize in someone planning to rob a bank—or do something worse.
But he wasn’t doing anything to anybody. He hadn’t even said a word to any of the servers, just pointed at what he wanted, paid his money and went to the couch. But the feeling was growing really strong that I should keep a sharp eye on him.
I had my usual Blue Fairy and two of the cinnamon rolls. My lips smiled in satisfaction—but my eyes took in everything around me—but they gravitated toward the weird guy.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a large book. He didn’t even touch his drink. He just squinted at what was written in his book and moved his lips as if he was reading aloud to himself. More explanation of why no one was sitting near him.
Or…it might have been the fact that that big book of his was a Bible. “A Christer,” I said to myself, shaking my head. Why is it that that Book seems to bring out the worst in some people?—not all of them of course, just enough to damn the good ones by association. It’s like that upbeat, catchy song, The Happy Serial Killer:
“Just want you to know it’s nothing personal—but Jesus told me to kill you.”
I made sure that where I sat down was only about fifteen feet away from Laughing Boy, with a clear, unobstructed path in case I had to act to take any kind of action—you know what I’m talking about.
For some reason, near the back of the cafe, the place looked smaller. That wasn’t just a trick of the light. The tables the guy and the girl were sitting at really were a bit closer together. Wasn’t my imagination, though I couldn’t think of a reason why it should be that way. Did it have something to do with the problem they’d been working on through the night. No idea. Weird.
And that’s when it got decidedly weirder—big time!
The guy by the wall got up and tried to navigate his way between the two tables, inadvertently bumping into the girl. Her coffee, which she’d been about to pick up, went flying.
“Oh, my God!” I think everyone at Bleue Rose heard her.
The guy was apologetic. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” I could see a mounting fury in the woman.
“You just ruined all my stuff!”
“Just get some napkins. It’ll be fine.” A little bit too lackadaisical for my taste. He’d done that to me and brushed it off with that tone of voice, I would have broken his face. It looked like she wasn’t having any of that either.
“Fine? There’s coffee inside of my computer.” I was liking this girl’s fire. But I honestly wasn’t expecting what happened next—nor was anyone else.
“You know what—just get away from me!” She jumped up suddenly, thrust out her right arm, pointed right at the guy—and he went sliding up the wall about ten feet and stayed there. Some unseen force was holding him in place!
There were random cries and even a few screams. Sudden panic. You could feel the collective heartbeat of the room, but nobody moved. They were paralyzed, maybe even petrified with fear. Just ordinary people who’d just seen something they’d been told all their lives was impossible—people who’d just realized that all their lives they’d been lied to.
It looked like the same was true for the girl. I think she was just as surprised as anyone else. Her hand struck down as if it was an ax she was wielding. The guy fell to the floor and remained there, looking catatonic.
She slowly turned around, staring at her hands. Had she really just done that? Defied the laws of nature like that? I could relate to her confusion.
Her fingers flexed. She turned her palms up and down and up again. And then as if suddenly making a decision, and to see if she could really do this, she pointed them at the tables around her and six of them went sliding across the floor! It was as if she had surrounded herself by a bubble of force that had moved everything out of her way.
And then she screamed. Her hands were thrust behind her neck, under her hair. The entire place went out of control. Paintings fell off their hooks. The book shelves suddenly vomited out their books.
I’d been so taken with watching the girl and what she could do that I’d completely forgotten about the weirdo. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him jump up. A wicked looking butcher knife, that must have been at least ten inches was clenched in his fist. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” he cried out and leapt for the girl.
I was quicker. I threw myself at him and he crashed to the ground. Before he could recover himself I fastened my palm over his face—I gave my fire free reign and burned out his neural circuits. Then it was time to deal with the girl.
“You stupid idiot! Why’d you let it out what you can do? Everybody in this damn place saw you using your powers! They’ll kill someone like you. You can’t fight the whole damn city. What the hell were you thinking?” I was mad. Letting the world know what we’re really capable of endangers every one of our kind—and there are precious few of us as it is. I’d spent years wandering from city to city trying to find even one more—and I wasn’t going to let a novice like her get killed by a goddamn Christer fanatic!
She looked really confused. She didn’t know. This was the first time she’d actually used her powers. She didn’t knew she had ’em. I didn’t like being hard on her like that, but she had to realize the stakes that were being played here.
“Now I’ve got to clean up the mess you made.” I turned around and looked at everybody else in The Bleue Rose.
The doors slammed shut. No one was going to go in or out.
The curtains and blinds smashed down. No one was going to see what went on in here.
I stretched out my arms and a wave of psychic fire poured out of me. There was no time for anybody to even scream. Their eyes went blank and they crashed to the floor. Some of the servers were almost friends. I hated doing this, but this was a matter of self-preservation.
The girl was aghast with horror. “You…killed them.”
“Lobotomized. Wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t revealed your powers…”
She looked at me as if I was insane. “I don’t have any powers. You don’t understand. This whole thing. It was a prank.”
“A…prank?”
“Yes. For that movie about that telekinetic girl. It was all fake. I can’t do anything like that. Bob, over there—he had a harness attached to him. We pulled him up by weights on the other side of the false wall.”
That’s why the room had looked smaller. That’s what he was fiddling with behind his back.
“The tables were on rollers, radio controlled—and the pictures and books? We had a wire jerking them out of the way.”
“And was the guy with the knife part of your prank.”
“N-no.”
“Caught you by surprise, didn’t he. He would have killed you if I hadn’t been there. I thought you were one of my kind. But you’re just like the rest of them. And you know what that means…”
I thrust up my hand. Too bad. I had hopes. But now she was just one more victim. I let out the fire.
She hid her face behind her hand but the other was thrust out, as if to ward off a blow. Psychic fire ripped out of me, tore at her fragile mind.
And nothing happened.
Realization slowly dawned. She had been here, but until that moment when I put her mind and soul in danger—she had not been ready.
“You do have powers.”
She looked at her hands. “No—that’s not possible. I’ve never been able to do anything like that. That was just fake.”
“It was all latent with you. You didn’t know. Like everyone else you’ve been trained to think it’s impossible—but playing that role made you believe—at least subconsciously—that it was possible. And when your life, your sanity, was in danger you woke up. We have to get out of here. You’ll need training, but I can supply that.”
“I can’t go with you—not after what you did to all those people. You would have killed me, if I hadn’t—I don’t even know what it was I did.”
“You defended yourself. Your powers awoke. Once they wake up, they don’t go back to sleep. They grow. If you don’t learn how to hide and to control them they’ll make you a target. Five months from now, tops—they’ll hunt you down.
“You did it as a prank—to advertise a movie. But people were scared. They thought it was real. One of them thought it was so real he tried to kill you. You wouldn’t have been able to save yourself in time.
“What do you think the human race will do when they find out what you’re really capable of?”
“Do…do experiments on me. Find out what makes me tick.”
“No. It’ll be safer to just kill you. I found that out the hard way. We’re too dangerous to live.
“Like I said, you’ll need training and I can supply that. But you have to understand—you are not of the human species anymore. The Cro-Magnon cannot go back to being a Neanderthal. We are a new species—and this is a fight for our survival. A fight to the Death.
“Believe me—there’s no other choice. There’s no other choice.”
It was finally hitting her. There was no other choice. She nodded her head.
“I’ll go get my coat. I’m Emily, by the way—Emily Drakaigne.”
“Wulfgar Hrafngaerd.”
“What’s our next move?”
“We find others of our kind. They’re out there. And I’ve got a feeling it won’t take another thirty years to find them, like it did you.”
Why is India not as popular as Thailand, Vietnam, Indonesia, Philippines, etc for tourism in Southeast Asia?
I’m staying in Vietnam since 3 years. So I think I’m qualified to answer this.
- Safety of you, your loved ones and your belongings. Never have an ever lost anything in Vietnam. In fact the taxi drivers are so honest that they call you back and return your items even before you noticing anything. It is never the case in India. Honesty in India becomes big news which is the norm in this part of the world.
- Everyone is time conscious and punctual. Even if something is not on time, the information is shared well in advance.
- Tourists and expats are treated as royalty. Here people know that a positive impression on one foreigner is a chain reaction to get a thousand more.
- Tourists are not cheated and exploited. In fact, sometime you get additional benefits for being a foreigner. It is never the case in India. Athithi Devo Bhava is followed in actual terms in this part of the world.
- Everything is so clean and tidily maintained. People take pride in showcasing a clean Vietnam. 🇻🇳
- People are humble and hardworking. They expect the payment for what they offer. Not a dime more.
- My eight year old travels alone in bike taxis without any worries. Kids are taken very good care of.
- The maids are gold. They get paid on hour basis. In this time they support every house help. No complaints whatsoever. They do the work with full sincerity. If their work gets over earlier they find some work like ironing clothes, washing the shoes and so on. But never sit idle and take the money.
- A small minority of Indian tourists behave like crap looking at the beautiful Vietnamese women, don’t follow basic rules, run around and shout like crazy. Because of people like them the entire Indian community gets a bad name.
These are just some observations from me. My wife is a huge fan of Vietnam. The country and its people are so amazing.
This part of the world is much much better than the western world.
Picture of the iconic train street in Hanoi.
Edit : The comment section has started filling up with a lot of hatred to India. This is really not my intention of writing this answer. Please don’t generalise anything and everything about India. We have good people in India as well. I’ve just answered from my observation.
Shorpy
Cajun Tortellini Alfredo
Ingredients
- 1 teaspoon vegetable oil
- 1 small onion, diced
- 1 (12 ounce) package beef smoked sausage, cut into bite-size pieces
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
- 1 cup heavy cream
- 1 cup Parmesan cheese, + more for serving
- 1 (20 ounce) package cheese tortellini, cooked according to package instructions
- 2 green onions, diced
Instructions
- In a large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion and cooked until softened.
- Add smoked sausage and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned on all sides.
- Add garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds.
- Add Cajun seasoning; stir to combine.
- Stir in heavy cream and bring to a bubble. Lower to a simmer and stir in Parmesan cheese until melted.
- Add tortellini and toss until everything is combined.
- Top with green onions and more Parmesan cheese before serving.
Chrysta Bell performs ‘Sycamore Trees’ from David Lynch’s ‘Twin Peaks’
Uh…. WOW!