PRISMATIC DELIGHT -Photography by Stephanie Daich

 PRISMATIC DELIGHT

DEAR GOD, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE -Poetry

  

Stay with me this early morn. I know not what awaits.

The hurts of yesterday have played. Help me release their weights.

Throughout my day, please never leave. To you, I want to cleave.

Dear God, I need your strength. Please, oh please, don’t leave.

 

Stay with me this afternoon. I’ve already lost my way.

I’ve hurt, I’ve lied, I’ve even sworn. I fear what I might say.

With you by my side, the more I do achieve. Please help my heart, to you receive.

Dear God, I need your strength. Please, oh please, don’t leave.

 

Stay with me; the night is late. Come be my only light.

Today I’ve risen, and I failed, as I gave love and spite.

Into my soul, I need you now. Please heal me as I grieve.

Dear God, I need your strength. Please, oh please, don’t leave.

__________________________________________________________________

Dear God, Please Don't Leave

by Stephanie Daich

ERASING MY CHILD _ Flash Speculative Fiction

 ERASING MY CHILD

 

How do you extinguish your most significant pain without abolishing your sweetest joy?

“A bite of food? A rupee?” I beg. Damyanti, my four-year-old daughter, crawls over my lap and lies beside my thigh.

I run my hands through her long black hair when I hear, “Beautiful daughter.” I steal a glance of the stranger without lifting my head. A black tunic shrines the man. His thick dreadlocks fall into his frizzy beard, which looks home to the same vermin that feast in my hair and body. A dark cloud and the smell of garam masala come from the Tantrik.

“Food,” I barely whisper. His ominous presence locks my muscles. I don’t trust a deliverer of Indian black magic, yet Damyanti is starving.

“I have better than food for you.”

What could be better? A home? A job?

I lift my eyes slightly, and when our eyes meet, I feel his power shake me. I quickly look away and squeeze Damyanti tightly.

The Tantrik brings his rich brown hands out and seizes Damyanti from me. What can I do?

“You were in your first year of university, were you not?” He says as he strokes Damyanti’s hair. My hands spasm, anxious to hold my daughter again.

I nod.

“When your professor stole your virtue, you lost everything, didn’t you?”

Tears spill down my cheeks, carving a pathway in my filth.

I had a great life until the professor had called me in for instruction.

They cast me to the street when my belly swelled. My whole future terminated. My life ended.

I had never known misery as I did on the street.

Abandoned.

Abused.

Starvation.

 Humiliation.

 -An untouchable.

To add to it, I watched my daughter suffer as no child should.

The Tantrik puts a ripped piece of a tapestry in my hand.

“Read the mantra twenty times, and all will change,” he says. “Out loud and in this position.”

He sits in front of me, with Damyanti still in his lap. She reaches for me and cries as she attempts to wiggle from his control.

“What happens if I do?” I ask, anxious to get my daughter back.

“Then,” he slowly says in a low tone. “Then, you find yourself back at university. Professor Kapoor will not have been born. You will graduate and have respect. All restored as should be.”

If I say the mantra, I will have lived the life I should have—my heart dances in my chest. I see the eyes of Damyanti.

“But, what of Damyanti?”

“No Professor Kapoor. No violation. No Damyanti.”

If I erase the life of a nasty man, I will get mine back.

Damyanti’s rich brown eyes look at me. She expects me to keep her safe. Hers has been a hard life. What tragedies of an untouchable child wait in her future?

I can make all better if I purge it all.

 But can I erase Damyanti, the child of my loins?

 

 

Mountain Wild -Photography by Stephanie Daich

 

FREEING THE SHRIMP SLAVES -Speculative Short Fiction

  

FREEING THE SHRIMP SLAVES

 

I planned to escape Burma for the last time. The civil war racked my home with death and poverty longer than any other civil war in the world. I knew it would break mom's heart to have me leave, especially since dad and my two brothers had already died. But mom couldn't support me, and if I stayed, I only brought a burden to her.

I met Asnee in Bago. 

"I can get you better life," he had promised. 

At fourteen, I naively believed him. Asnee’s baby face seemed warm and honest. I had no reason not to trust him, as I followed Asnee through Yangon, Dawei, and into Thailand.

"We will sneak through Huay Nam Khao," he had instructed.

"You'll have so much Baht; you send home to your mom."

Warmness filled my bosom as I imagined making mom's life better.

I should have panicked when Asnee shoved me into the truck, cramming me in with other Burmese so tightly I could hardly breathe. Anyone who tried to move got pelted with a stick.

"It's okay," I assured myself. "It will be worth all the Baht I can send mom."

I passed through several Thai boss hands until I ended up at Gig Peeling Factory. "You are number 47." I didn't know that number replaced Dedan, my name. The Thai boss dragged me into a dingy shed, already occupied by 100 people. 

The smell of rotting fish and human feces hit so strongly that my body rebelled, and I puked on the cement floor. The Thai boss yelled at me and shoved my head into the puke. My nose slammed against the cement, and bright lights flashed. Stinging acid pushed into my eyes, nose, and mouth as he continued to swirl my face in the puke. He kicked me in the side and yanked me up. I wished Asnee was still with me. He had treated me kindly.

As the Thai boss dragged me through the shed, I noticed young children plunging their hands in ice-cold vats of water. The pregnant women worked as hard as the men. All the workers had large black bags under their eyes. The gauntness in their face looked worse than the people in my village.

"What have I gotten myself into?"

The Thai bosses immediately put me to work, forcing me to emerge my hands into the frozen water and sort shrimp. My fingers burned from the cold, and they beat me when I tried to warm my hands. 

I was now a slave.

Every morning, they woke us at 2 am. We worked for 18 hours a day. Large, weeping rashes developed up and down my arms. Soon infection developed on my rashes, and no one gave me medical.

For several years, I slaved away at the Gig Peeling Factory. A few people had tried to run away, but they all were dragged back in by their hair. Their bodies had massive bruises from the punishment of escaping. I fantasized about running away, but since no one ever succeeded, it didn't seem worth the penalty if they caught me, which they inevitably would.

One day as I sorted the shrimp, a shiny object caught my attention. I fished out an emerald stone. I quickly shoved the rock under my tongue, having nowhere else to hide it. That night, as everyone slept, I rolled the emerald between my fingers.

What would I do with such an exquisite treasure? Keeping it put me in danger of a severe beating. Maybe if I escaped, it could purchase my passage to a safer country, perhaps even America.

The following day as I readied for work, I noticed my hands. They had returned to a soft tan. All my callouses and cuts had healed. 

I worked the day sorting shrimp as the sharp emerald irritated my tongue. I wanted a better hiding place for the stone, but I couldn't risk losing it. It represented the only thing I owned. As the perturbance in my mouth cut into me, I had a thought.

"Had rolling the stone in my fingers healed them?"

I decided to experiment. As I lay to bed that night, I rubbed the emerald along my arms. In the morning, my rashes had healed. 

"This stone is magical."

I would die protecting my stone.

As I worked next to number 72, I had an idea. The older man often hunched over from pain. We never spoke to each other, but I felt like he was my friend. As I worked, any time I noticed a Thai boss distracted, I rubbed the emerald up and down on number 72's body. His quizzical expression made me nervous but talking was prohibited. He kept working, trying to ignore me, but I could see the curiosity on his face. For two days, I rubbed my emerald on 72 when I could, and I rubbed it on me at night. 

72's skin healed, and he stood straighter. He even looked younger. Each day, I would work next to someone new and rubbed the emerald on them when I could. They all had the initial reaction as 72, but no one dared to respond verbally. After I had healed 14 people, I decided to help number 12. My heart hurt the most for her.

Number 12 had been huge with child when one day she lay on the cement screaming. Blood came out of her, but those bastard Thai bosses still forced her to work. She could hardly function as the pain racked her body, yet she still had to. This went on for three days when she eventually gave birth to a dead baby. Number 12 welled in grief, yet they didn't allow her time to mourn. They kicked the dead baby out the door and forced number 12 to keep working. No one ever cleaned up the bloody mess. If anyone there needed healing, it was number 12.

I stood next to her, and when the Thai boss seemed occupied, I rubbed the emerald along number 12's arm.

"ช่วยฉันด้วย," she screamed. "ช่วยฉันด้วย". 

I didn't know what she was saying.

"Shh, please, I am only trying to help you."

"ช่วยฉันด้วย," she screamed louder.

The Thai bosses ran to her side. She pointed to me and shrilled some narrative to them.

The main Thai boss shoved me to the filthy cement floor. They took turns kicking me in the head and side. I covered both hands over my face when something miraculous happened.

A sphere of green light enclosed my body. The emerald had created a force field around me. As much as those slave drivers tried to hurt me, they couldn't touch me.

I couldn't stay in my ball forever. I stood, and the force field disappeared. As one Thai boss rushed at me, I swung at him with the emerald in my fist. 

Zillup. A strange boom exploded as my knuckles met his face. A shower of green light burst from my hand. The Thai boss flew across the shed. Other bosses came at me, and I met them with the same surging power. When all the bosses squirmed on the floor in pure agony, I yelled, "Run!"

The slaves stared at me. They no longer knew how to think for themselves.

"Escape," I yelled again.

Number 72 and 58 busted the door open, and the slaves pushed their way out. I stayed behind to make sure everyone safely escaped. The Thai bosses still withered on the ground, their bodies jerking around as if having a seizure. When all the slaves had gotten free, I ran as well.

I ran and ran until thick mangroves protected me.

I stayed hidden for a week as I contemplated my future. I could try to reach mom or find a refugee camp. But then I knew what I must do.

How could I return to freedom when there were millions of Asians enslaved in the shrimping empire? No one was rescuing them. No one cared. I could not live in freedom while they beat and killed my brethren daily.

I went to the street and found a broker who promised me the world. All I had to do was trust him.

And so, I allowed this thief to sell me to another shrimp farm. I would spend my life freeing slaves.

 

SOILED LIKE ME -Flash Fiction

SOILED LIKE ME

 

 

She said I was one step above a murderer. Really? Me, who serves at St. Francis' soup kitchen? Me, the president of the youth's Sunday school committee? And my heinous crime, what is it?

I am transgender.

I sit below the massive sequoia tree as it reaches the heavens. This tree is endangered, and so am I.

I grab a handful of dark soil, its heat warming my hand while little clods of dirt drop to the forest floor. I smear the rich brown against my white shirt.

"Soiled, like me."

The brilliant white shirt will no longer shine. It is soiled. -Like me.

"Mom, if only you were here to guide me. Strengthen me against the pious Christians of the world."

I still believe in God, and I have met some fabulous Christians. Christians willing to love me because they love God. But not all Christians, or non-Christians accept me.

I rub the deep brown dirt along my arm.

"Mom, what would you tell me to do? Are you in heaven waiting for me, or am I too soiled to enter the pearly gates?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Above me, a woodpecker pecks into the Sequoia.

"How old are you, mighty tree? What have you withstood? What have you seen?" Sequoias are said to be thousands of years old.

The heartless woodpecker continues to deface the gorgeous specimen.

"Here you are. Thousands of years later, still standing. You have had birds leave their scars. Surely, bugs have burrowed through your bark. Fires have raged by, and yet, here you stand."

I move my fingers along the rough bark. 

"Your armor."

I rub the dirt along my arms, making it my armor. My armor against what?

My God has taught me I have value. I have worth. But others try to take that from me.

"You are one step above a murderer."

Why? Because I don't conform to the social norms of what my gender should be. Mom loved me for who I was. She knew my intimate thoughts and goals. She was proud of me. Am I really soiled?

I look around at nature's temple. All you have to do is look in nature if you want diversity. God created flowers of a million varieties. Fabulous birds that are all unique.

God created me.

He created me to feel the way I do.

"I am not soiled!" I yell.

Vigor swells in my chest, confirming I have worth. I have value.

"I will not let you take my joy!" I yell to the lady who had so painfully wounded me. 

The Sequoia carries its scars for thousands of years, yet they are no less beautiful, no less exquisite.

I am exceptional, just like this tree. I will carry my scars, but they will not break me.

I take another handful of dirt and paint it on every inch of bare skin.

"I am not soiled. I am ME!”

 

 

THE NORWEGIAN TROLL -Short Fiction

  

THE NORWEGIAN TROLL

 

I thought a rat had destroyed my treehouse. I was wrong.

"When is dad returning?" I asked mom for the tenth billion time that day.

Mom passed the towel in circles over the dirty window. Sigh. She pulled the loose hair from her eyes then went back to cleaning. "Trevor, please stop asking. Dad will be home tomorrow."

"I don't understand why he had to go to Norway." I searched through the Legos until I found the last tire for my Lego car. I snapped it into place. -The best car I had ever built.

"Look at my car!"

Mom didn't look my way. "Trevor, please go play outside."

Huge dust clouds puffed into the air as I sat on my beanbag, smelling like dirt and mildew. I picked up a comic as I glanced around the treehouse. I missed Dad even more. He had spent the last year helping me build my castle in the sky. I never had a better year than that one. Dad's layoff from work meant he had oodles of time to spend with me. It took him over a year to find another job. Although Mom and Dad carried tons of stress during that time, I loved it.

After Dad got his new job, I never saw him. The new job took him away for weeks and months at a time. To make things worse, most of his travel took him out of the country. I would spend hours looking at the globe in the treehouse, feeling almost if Dad had died. Such long distances.

Would tomorrow ever come?

Wet lips and onion breath woke me. I jumped out of bed and wrapped my arms around Dad's neck.

"You are home!"

"Hey, Champ. I missed you."

I squeezed Dad's neck so tight that I could feel the steady beating of his heart. I would never let him go.

"I got you a gift."

I let go.

"What did you get me?"

"Chocolates and a sweater."

Dad slipped a heavy sweater over my chest. The itchy wool scratched my arms—what a dumb gift.

"Where are the chocolates?"

Dad let out a hefty laugh as he reached into his bag and placed two chocolate bars in my hand. I had them almost eaten before he could present Mom with her gift.

Mom wrinkled her forehead as she watched me consume my chocolate. "Great, now Trevor will have to brush his teeth again."

Dad ignored Mom's criticism. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

Mom's face softened as she shut her eyes. A smile took over the frown.

Dad dropped a pile of rocks in her hand. Mom opened her eyes, and the frown returned.

"Rocks?"

I stuffed the last piece of chocolate into my mouth. Rich cocoa smoothly moved across my tongue. The chocolate tasted better than any I had ever eaten before.

"Please tell me you got me more than rocks."

Dad looked away.

"Darold, really? I would have liked chocolates and a Norwegian Sweater." Mom let the rocks slip onto my bedspread.

An angry rash appeared on my arms from the sweater's cruel irritation. I couldn't stop scratching at my skin. Funny. I would rather have the rocks. I enviously looked at them.

I reached for the rocks, but Dad scooped them up.

He displayed them in the palms of his hands like they were diamonds.

"These aren't just rocks. These are trolls."

Now I know I want those rocks.

"Seriously, Darold. I don't feel like you care about me at all. Like, you forgot to buy me a gift, so you pulled over on your way home and took these out of the gutter."

I couldn't see why Mom seemed so disappointed. Hers was the best of the presents.

"Helen, really. Now, look at the moss on each rock. That is genuine moss from Norway. I didn't just scoop these out of the gutter. I had gone on an expedition to Trollstigen with Bjame. He pointed…"

"Bjame?"

"The President of intel at the company in Norway."

Mom poked at the rocks as if they were slugs.

"Anyway, everywhere we went, we saw piles of rocks. Actually, they called them stone piles. Bjame said they were trolls. We went to this wall called Trollveggen, which means The Trolls Wall. Oh Helen, the Fjords there were so beautiful." Dad placed the rocks in Mom's hands again.

"Were you supposed to remove these rocks?"

Dad's face turned salmon color. The coloring on his face constantly changed to reflect his mood. Mom always said he wouldn't be good at poker, whatever that meant. "No. But I wanted to bring you something nice back. Anyways, that road we went on is nothing to take lightly."

Mom dropped the rocks on my bed and popped up as if her bottom had flames under it.

"Trevor, go brush your teeth again and go back to sleep. You can catch up with your dad in the morning." She turned to Dad. "While you were out on grand adventures, I was holding down the home. Just because you returned doesn't mean I will let you upset the rhythm in the home. Trevor needs his sleep." Mom stomped out of the room.

What is her problem?

I went to grab the rocks, but Dad had already collected them. Although I enjoyed the chocolate, I had eaten it and now had nothing but a stupid sweater. Mom had gotten the real prize. Why was she acting like a three-year-old?

"Trevor!" Mom's shrill voice woke me.

What have I done now? I hid under my blankets. My arms burned from the wooly sweater. I had forgotten to take it off before I fell asleep. Mom ripped the covers from my face.

"You go clean that mess this instant!"

Had I left a mess?

I gasped when I saw the kitchen. All the doors on the cupboards were open, even the fridge door. Half of the food boxes had small slashes on them. Food and powders covered everything.

My heart raced. "I didn't do this!"

"Don't lie to me."

"Maybe it was Dad."

Mom shoved the broom and dustpan into my hands.

"Don't lie to me."

"Why would I do this?"

"I have that same question."

I picked up scattered boxes from the floor. "Mom, it looks like something torn into these, like a rat. See the small tares."

"You want me to believe a giant rat came into the kitchen while we were sleeping, opened all the cupboard doors, and did this?"

I shrugged.

"And I guess it would have opened the fridge as well."

Milk and orange juice dripped down the fridge's shelves and puddled onto the floor.

"You will miss school today to clean this. And, I will have a list of jobs for you to pay off all the food you wasted."

"Mom, it's the fourth-grade field trip today."

"Tough."

As I cleaned, I noticed what appeared to be four separate trails leading out the dog door. Rover, our dog, had died two years ago, but we still had the door. I followed the trails of food into the backyard forest. They all seemed to lead to a giant mound and then disappeared. I hadn't noticed that mound before. Maybe the rat lived there, or perhaps it had buried the food beneath the dirt. I ripped apart the mound. A gloom ballooned inside when I didn't find the rat. I would never be able to prove my innocence.

The following day, I awoke to a cup of ice water splashing my face.

"What has gotten into you, Trevor?"

"What did you do that for?" The shock of the water jiggled my brain—such a cruel way to be woken up.

"I know you are angry for missing your fourth-grade field trip, but what you did was unpardonable."

"I didn't mess up your kitchen. I know it was a rat. I followed its trail to a mound where the rat lived."

"I am not talking about the kitchen." Mom paused then Hell's furry took over her face. She held up a porcelain figurine of a ballet dancer, except its head was broken off, and its arms were gone.

Mom's voice mixed with tears and hysteria. "Why Trevor? Why did you destroy my curio cabinet? What has gotten into you? Just because you are angry with your dad for going on business trips doesn't give you the right to destroy my home. This is my home!"

I shivered as I sat soaking wet in my bed. "I don't like Dad being gone, but I didn't break anything."

"I can't let you clean up the mess because I hope to salvage some of my figurines, plus I don't want you to get cut by the glass. But you owe me big for this. BIG!"

Tears ran down my face when I saw Mom's curio cabinet. Everything on it lay shattered on the floor.

"Why would I do this? I loved those figurines." I often stood in front of the curio and played make-believe in my mind about all her cool figurines. I never dared touch them in my life. "I wouldn't do this."

"We are taking you to a therapist," Mom said through her tears. "You obviously have some real anger issues that you are not dealing with."

As Mom cleaned the glass, I noticed a shards of glass trail. It went through the front room, down the hall, and out the dog door. I followed it to another mound. I took a stick and dug up the mound, not finding the rat. I wish I had because I had my stick ready. That vermin was ruining my life.

Thankfully, I did not wake to Mom freaking out the following day. I timidly entered the kitchen and then the front room to see if there was any more havoc from the rat. My tension eased as everything appeared in order.

When I got home from school, I went to my treehouse. 

Rage burned inside.

MY TREEHOUSE!

Something had torn the steps off the trunk. My globe lay smashed at the tree’s base. I had to grab a ladder to get to the top. I almost toppled off the ladder when I looked into my beloved treehouse. Everything inside had been destroyed. My bean bag was scattered in shreds as little balls of Styrofoam clung to the floor and walls. My comic books looked like an angry bear had chewed them up then spit them out, and panels of wood had been torn off. This treehouse was my world. That rat was going to die!

"Trevor," Mom called from the house.

I ran to her. "Mom, that rat destroyed my…"

"Oh Trevor, you look a mess. Go clean up. We have that guy Bjame coming for dinner. Hurry, you are a mess."

"But Mom, that rat…"

Mom put her hands on her hips. "Now!"

After I cleaned up, I headed to the kitchen, where Dad said, "Put that Norwegian sweater on."

"I wish I had a sweater to put on," Mom said.

Ding

"He's early," Mom moaned to Bjame’s arrival. I put my stupid sweater on and joined everyone at the table. I couldn't stop scratching at my arms.

"Trevor?" Bjame said, smiling at me. He had skin as pale as milk. His blue eyes looked like the Caribbean Ocean. "That sweater looks smart on you." I wanted a cool accent like his.

"Would you like some steak?" Dad passed the platter of steaming meat to Bjame.

"Thank you," he said, forking a piece onto his plate.

"I wish Darold would have gotten me a sweater," Mom said.

Bjame looked at Dad and winked. "I told you to get her one."

Dad slumped in his chair as Mom shot him a look of anger.

"I will pick you out one in a couple of days when I return with Bjame."

"And some chocolate?"

"Yes, and some chocolate."

"You aren't leaving again, already?" I whined.

"Sorry, Champ."

"This steak is excellent," Bjame said with a mouth full of meat. "By the way, what did Darold bring you back?"

"Oh, the stupidest thing in the world. A pile of rocks."

Bjame’s face squinted, "Rocks?"

"He called it a troll."

Dad's face went purple.

"Oh, Darold, you didn't," Bjame said.

Mom looked pleased to have Bjame on her side. "Stupid, right."

"Where did you get the troll from?"

Dad wouldn't look at Bjame as he replied, "Trollstigen."

"Oh, I pity your home. You know those rocks are more than just a legend. Those are real trolls, and they won't be happy being brought to America."

"How silly," Mom said, picking up the pitcher of lemonade. "Can I get you more lemonade?"

"Thank you." Bjame held up his cup. "Darold, you don't want to mess with trolls. Why don't you get those rocks and take them back with you?"

Mom jumped up, happy at the idea. "I will go get them for you right now." I could tell she didn't believe Bjame, but I think it pleased her to get rid of her disappointing gift.

Mom came back into the kitchen. "They are gone. Did you take them, Trevor?"

"Why does everyone keep blaming everything on me?"

Mom slapped the table. "Don't talk back to us in front of the company."

Bjame studied my face, then turned to Mom. "I doubt Trevor took them. Most likely, the troll went out into the forest. Have you noticed anything unusual around here?"

Mom shook her head.

"What do you mean, Mom? Of course, we have."

"Trevor, I am warning you," Mom's voice dripped in authority.

I ignored her. "Yes, Mr. Norway, sir. Two days ago, something ransacked our kitchen. Yesterday, Mom's curio was destroyed. Today, I found my treehouse demolished."

"Trevor!" Mom's icy voice warned.

"Oh yes, yes indeed. That one hundred percent sounds like the workings of the troll. He is angry to be here. You need to find him and return him to Trollstigen.”

"Rubbish," Mom said. "Trevor just wants to shift the blame from what he has done."

"What do you mean your treehouse is demolished?" Dad asked.

After dinner, we searched the forest but couldn't find the rocks.

"I suggest you set a trap for the troll. Trust me. You want to get him back home. He will never stop the destruction if you don't."

"I think Bjame is full of it," Mom said after he left."

"I believe him."

"Why?"

"Because I can't believe Trevor destroyed our home."

"I think Trevor is acting out in anger over you constantly being gone."

"Trevor would never destroy the treehouse we made."

"Exactly!" Having Dad on my side brought me a sense of peace.

The next morning, I took a bite of my cereal when I heard Dad yell from the garage. "My car!"

Mom and I ran into the garage and saw giant scrapes across his and Mom's car. It looked like a cat had run its claws across the paint. Inside both vehicles, the upholstery had been clawed apart.

"You must return those rocks," Mom bawled.

"We better find them soon, because I leave tomorrow."

“How about a trap,” I said.

"How will we trap the troll?"

"Bjame had said to set a trap with cheese."

"Do you still have those old traps my dad gave you?" Mom asked.

"I do."

That night, we filled the trap with four different types of cheese. I crossed my fingers when I went to bed. I awoke early the following day and ran to the trap on the back patio. I could see that something had tripped it. I looked inside, half excepting to see a rat or cat stuck inside. If lucky, I would find the troll.

The pile of Norwegian rocks was in the trap.

Dad put the rocks in a travel-safe and locked it.

"I will see you guys in two weeks," he said, climbing into the taxi.

"Can I go to Norway with you?"

"Sorry, Champ."

"Don't forget my sweater and the chocolates," Mom said. "And please, no more rocks."

___________________________________________________________

The Norwegian Troll

by Stephanie Daich