tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83688512738076865142024-03-12T19:40:23.847-07:00Chez Cerisewriting, teaching, travelingCathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.comBlogger238125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-83974647686187287992020-10-04T11:06:00.004-07:002020-10-04T11:06:44.911-07:00The Circle Trail<p><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Arden and I finished the Prescott Circle Trail this morning.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The last segment isn’t particularly stunning by any measure, but it does have some great vistas of the city and the surrounding mountains.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;">When we’d originally set out to do this, it was a clear goal to distract us during the pandemic when we felt cooped up and bored.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria;">It definitely has been a bonding experience for us and one that I will reflect upon with gratitude throughout her senior year.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">As we hiked today, she was in a bit of a hurry due to other plans later today, and so I was alone with my thoughts for much of the morning. I hiked as fast as I could to keep up with her pace, mindful of my steps on the rocky trail. When we first began, back in July, I thought we’d finish long before October arrived. But with school starting in early August and the energy and effort that required of me to begin my classes and convert them to a digital format, there was little left for hiking. Now our school has gone to a modified hybrid schedule with the vast majority of our students attending school in person part time and from home the remaining days.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I thought of so many things as we wound up and down over the hills leading back to our neighborhood. Covid, of course, was an intrusive thought, as it has been this past half year or so, thinking of friends who have lost a loved one or been sick and have not recovered fully still. I thought of the election and the uncertainty and chaos that surround it, and of the important educational issues on the ballot in Arizona (Please vote YES on 208!). I thought about George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many others, and their families and wondered how they are doing this morning. I thought about Dan and I becoming empty nesters next year and how we will adjust to that. I thought about our ongoing drought and the haze from the smoke of the wildfires all over the West, and how climate change is already impacting our lives in ways we might not have expected. I thought of all the trips we’ve taken as a family and the opportunities we’ve had together in beautiful spaces outdoors, and I am so grateful. I wondered how long it might be until the pandemic ends and our lives become adjusted to whatever that new normal might be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Completing the Circle Trail has been on my actual bucket list – yes – for about seven or eight years now. I wondered, as I hiked, how it would feel to complete an item on my list. And it felt good. I feel accomplished, and simultaneously energized and tired. I’m grateful for this time with Arden and the fact that we could do this task together. On one of our breaks this morning, I asked which segment was her favorite, and hers was the same as mine – the portion from Copper Basin to White Spar. This portion is beautiful and contains the literal high point of the trail at 6660 feet – ponderosas stretching tall into the sky and where we happened upon a garter snake with its mouth impossibly clamped upon a horned toad. And now, with this circle complete, I wonder what’s next.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-60545203881189624692020-04-11T14:34:00.000-07:002020-04-11T14:34:07.798-07:00The Great Pause<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I suppose it’s been about a month now since we’ve been making the effort to stay home because of Covid-19, including four weeks of school closure. It’s tough to know without referring to the calendar, because most days morph into the next with little distinction. Really, though, for me it seems longer because I made a conscious decision – not related to Covid-19 – to hibernate over my spring break. This has been a tough school year for me, teaching four different classes, with one of them totally new to me and beyond my area of expertise (AP Psychology). So I’ve spent the past twenty-seven weeks of school trying to stay one step ahead of my students. It’s not been easy because even though psychology is considered by many to be a social science, it’s pretty darn science-y, requiring knowledge of brain anatomy, how each of our senses relay information to the brain, and the processes of intricate mechanisms like how neurons work, among other things. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So by the time Spring Break came along, I was pretty damn tired. <o:p></o:p></div>
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These weeks since, with worrisome headlines about deaths, grocery shortages, and continuous announcements of closures, have been pretty anxiety-inducing. I have tried to carry on with my Spring Break activities, which fill me up. My daily activities have included hiking, yoga, gardening, and reading. And I’ve been sleeping a lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like many of you, I’ve been using this time to reflect.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m grateful that I am still working, even if from afar, and still receiving a paycheck. What I like about online education: I can set my own hours. What I miss about the old way of teaching: interacting with my students. Sure, we can email and have virtual meetings, but it’s not the same as seeing their faces in person and knowing that they understand or need more assistance. Some of them are facing really tough times at home, with parents losing jobs, or working way more hours than usual, and in the past week, a couple of them have gotten reminders that other diseases, like cancer, do not take holidays during a pandemic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m grateful for these extra hours with my daughters, especially. They’re both at ages where they would likely be spending far more hours away from home than they currently are. Having all four of us in the house is not always easy, especially with the added stress of quarantine life, but it’s a gift of time together that we will likely never have again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m grateful for enough time in my days to prepare dinners. I’m a pretty lazy cook, always looking for shortcuts and meals that might leave enough leftovers for a second night. But during these days, I’ve made meals requiring more effort than normal. And while we’ve certainly done our fair share of take-out, trying to keep our favorite sandwich shop and Mexican hole-in-the-wall solvent, it’s been almost meditative, spending time in the kitchen preparing food for those I love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m grateful that, for once, I’m spending enough time in the garden in these early spring days to actually have some things planted. Typically, the fourth quarter of school is also one of the busiest, and so all my gardening aspirations continually got pushed back, and pushed back, until suddenly, it was the end of May by the time I had time to plant. Robust wildflower seedlings are appearing, and I’m enjoying watching the incremental bloom occurring on my redbud and crabapple. The pear tree is already leafed out after its most spectacular bloom in memory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m grateful that I’m getting around to tackling small jobs around the house that have been pushed aside for more time than I’d willingly admit. I made a list of tasks and cut the paper into strips. On days when I feel as if I have enough energy to draw one from the bowl, I do. And sometimes I let that task sit a few days until I feel like doing it. I’m being productive, but not to a fault. I have been giving myself permission to choose not to do whatever task it is, and sometimes, I’ll draw one and put it back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In spite of all this gratitude, though, there have been days when I’ve felt so bluesy. There is so much grief. I easily get teary-eyed and don’t have as much patience as I would like. I am so sad for this year’s senior class, including my niece, who will be foregoing traditional rituals that they’ve anticipated their entire school career. Madeleine’s graduation from Yavapai College was cancelled. Arden had applied for a summer exchange program that was cancelled. My nephew’s wedding celebration was called off. All of these things pale in comparison to those losing loved ones to Covid-19, certainly. But grief is grief, and it is hard work to work through it, harder still when you can't physically be comforted by friends and extended family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet, what a time to be alive. Thanks to technology, I can FaceTime my octogenarian parents and see and hear them and know they are well. I can find materials to share with my students that have authentic French-speakers, or ready made test-prep materials for my AP Psychology students – who are still scheduled to take a high-stakes test in a month’s time. I can travel the world in the social media photos of friends living all over this planet. I can reminisce about last summer in Perú, scrolling through my photos and words on this blog. And I know that I am not alone in this strange time, knowing that this Great Pause, as I saw it referred to today, is happening to all of us earthlings. When else have we suffered together across borders and it wasn't caused by ideology or greed? I am not sure I have ever felt so connected to my fellow humans, in spite of our physical distance from one another. </div>
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What will we learn from this? What will we shed? And what will we cultivate, having been thrust into this Great Pause, those of us who have been given the time to hop off of our hamster wheels? What nuggets of wisdom and truth are you planting in your gardens?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-64685238580549578512020-03-19T08:26:00.001-07:002020-03-19T08:28:07.935-07:00How's it Going to End?<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Yesterday I drove through the fog and rain to Phoenix to see my breast cancer surgeon. Due to a series of mildly unfortunate events, I couldn’t play music or even listen to the radio, which left me alone in my thoughts. As I drove, I thought of other doctor appointments I’d had. A couple years before my cancer diagnosis, I’d had a weird mammogram, which led to a biopsy. The results of that test were delivered to me by phone. Good news often is. And so when I was told to come see the doctor whose office had ordered a second biopsy, a couple years later, I already knew that the results were not good. Even so, when that doctor delivered my results to me, his face buried in my file, without a greeting or even eye contact, I felt like I was drowning. I found another doctor, the one I was on my way to see now. I remember how, at my first appointment, she hugged me and Dan, such a contrast to the previous doctor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For this current appointment, though, there were no hugs, due to the Covid-19 pandemic. She stood at a distance and “air hugged” me. After my examination, she asked if I was comfortable with this being my last appointment with her. With no further evidence of cancer these past seven years, she felt that my primary care physician was more than capable; that her specialized skills weren’t required. I agreed. We chatted a bit more, mostly about Covid-19 and how it’s affecting her patients. We both wondered aloud about when it would end and how it would end. And then we “air hugged” one last time and I left her office.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving her office for the last time, I felt a strong sense of gratitude, like I’ve felt over the last several years. Usually, I’ve treated myself to a lunch with my sister or my cousin afterwards, or a long hike in the desert mountains. But this time was different. I drove home in the silence, thinking about my own experiences with illness and wellness, and about the lives affected by this pandemic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of the patients of my doctor, who have surgeries scheduled for today, but who probably won’t be admitted to the hospital because their last chemo date was less than four weeks ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of my students, who are in various stages of coping, trying to make sense of this new normal we’ve been thrust into.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wondered about how I will be able to deliver content to my students online without them having too much screen time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of exchange students who were in my classes who are being sent home, without being able to say goodbye to the friends they’ve made.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of all the people around the world whose incomes are suddenly zero because their jobs are on hold. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of friends and family who are medical professionals and the stress and challenges that they will meet in the coming days and weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Madeleine asked me the other day if 9/11 had a similar sense of palpable fear. It’s been interesting to think about these two events, but they are so different from one another. Yes, there was so much fear with 9/11 – and remember the anthrax mailings – but there was also a strong sense of unity as a nation. This time, there is no one to direct our anger at, regardless of how much the president tries. This time, there is less sense of community because some of us are not doing the right things, like hoarding toilet paper. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But there is also such beauty and kindness and generosity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of videos I’ve seen of Spanish and Italian communities sharing music – which might be humankind’s most beautiful creation – on their balconies during this time of lockdown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been the very grateful recipient of countless other teachers’ generous sharing of lesson plans, platforms, and ideas on ways to connect with our students.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought of people sharing recipes, games, and silly activities to do while we are stuck at home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought about all the humor that is being shared and all the appreciation for medical professionals, teachers, first responders.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I keep thinking of <i>The Truman Show</i>, and the question on everyone’s minds:<o:p></o:p></div>
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How’s it going to end?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-22783666209981581112019-07-16T10:33:00.001-07:002019-07-16T10:33:23.176-07:00Fulbright TGC: SolpaykiAt breakfast this morning I was alone because Dan left last night. My flights were arranged by the Fulbright program, and because I have an absurd history of sometimes being confused by dates while traveling, I am not on the same flight, so I am still in Lima while he's finished the first leg of his journey home. So I brought with me to breakfast a copy of <i>the Little Prince</i> in español with the goal of hopefully finishing the book before my return. I've read it many times and it's my favorite book, written by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Frenchman and WWII pilot. It's a strange story of a man stranded in the Sahara where meets the title character. Over a short period of time and despite communication barriers, the man finds himself inexplicably drawn to and responsible for the little prince. The story is an allegory, so the literal telling is layered with symbols and situations that represent much more than is apparent. Without spoiling it for those who haven't read it, the recurring motif is that the most precious things are hidden and it's difficult work to truly appreciate the value of friendship and connections with others. <br />
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As I was reading this morning at my table, a young waiter approached to refill my <i>café con leche </i>and he commented on my book, asking me in French if I were French. I told him that I am from the United States (having learned that there is some resentment in Central and South America that those of us from the US call ourselves <i>Americans</i> even though everyone from North, Central, and South America are technically also Americans). <br />
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"That's my favorite book," he told me in English, and I agreed it is mine, too. He continued that he'd read it in France while visiting his sister. We ended up talking for a while about the book in a curious mixture of French, Spanish, and English. And after he left, I found myself feeling pretty emotional (again) about this experience in Peru ending. <br />
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I can't wait to get home. I miss my daughters. I miss the lovely home we've created. I miss Mexican food, my own bed, my own shower. This experience has challenged me in ways I did not expect and has left me feeling humbled and grateful for many things that are difficult to communicate.<br />
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I came to Peru with three guiding questions to help me narrow the focus my attention:<br />
<i>What opportunities exist for bilingual education?</i><br />
<i>What languages are taught?</i><br />
<i>Are indigenous languages taught elsewhere in Peru?</i><br />
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After my school visits in Tarma, I felt that while there are mandates from the national curriculum that English be taught in every school, there are often no real opportunities for students to truly acquire English in regular public schools. These students often have only about 90 minutes of English a week. If they are lucky, they have a teacher like Clever who is quite proficient in English, having spent time in a Fulbright program in Montana as well as having had an educational opportunity in England. (Students at COAR schools in Peru, which many of my Fulbright colleagues visited, have English class daily. These schools are public but students are admitted by application only - high test scores and a satisfactory psychological test are required to attend these boarding schools.) However, many of the English teachers we met and worked with in the Tarma area struggled with their own English skills. They lacked confidence about their ability to speak and teach it, but they were definitely committed to doing their best, coming to workshops my co-teacher and I hosted for them. I did not find the answers to my other two guiding questions in Tarma, but answers would reveal themselves later in this journey - just as in <i>the Little Prince</i>, they were not easily visible.<br />
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Dan met up with me at the end of my Fulbright program and we flew to Cuzco for a guided trek and visits to Inca ruins. I still had yet to hear anyone speaking Quechua, the indigenous language of many people living in the Highlands, but I'd found in Lima a copy of <i>the Little Prince</i> in Quechua. I bought it because I apparently have started to collect this book (with this copy I now have it in four languages) and also because we had been learning from workshops that resources in Quechua are limited. I wanted to support the translation efforts. The lack of resources printed in Quechua reminded me of similar issues on the reservations in Arizona, where Native Americans don't have resources printed in their indigenous languages, like Navajo. <br />
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It wasn't until we were in the van driving to the trailhead for our Choquequirao trek, with my Quechua copy of <i>the Little Prince</i> stowed in my luggage left in storage at the hotel, that I finally heard Quechua. In the backseat of the van were three men who were accompanying us on our trek as cooks and an assistant guide, and they were speaking to one another in Quechua. It appeared that Milton, the assistant guide, was telling stories and the two other men would laugh and comment - this went on during the entire drive, a long story punctuated by laughter and a short commentary, and then Milton would begin a new one. Quechua sounds like no other language I have ever heard. I was finally hearing the language of the Incas.<br />
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Over the next few days, I learned that in Cuzco and some other areas, many schools do teach Quechua, alongside English and Spanish. Our guide's daughters, who have Quechua names, were learning Quechua in school. William, our guide, learned Quechua from the assistant guide, cooks, and horsemen, as they worked together on the Inca Trail and other treks. It was also heartening to see street names, restaurants, and more with Quechua names in Cuzco. Spanish is definitely the predominant language, but it was good to see that the indigenous language has such a presence in the city. In Plaza de Armas, the main square, there is a statue of Pachacuti, the Inca who united the empire. I was expecting Francisco Pizarro, the leader of the Conquest of Peru, much like you'll find statues of Confederate leaders in the Southern US. It was a pleasant surprise not to see the Spanish Conquistadors, whose greed was so brutal and so violent, held up as heroes.<br />
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In a roundabout way, I found the answers to my guiding questions and learned a most important word in Quechua: <i>solpayki</i> (thank you). On our trek, which was more challenging than anticipated, I woke up on the third day with a fever and sore throat. My second visit to the ruins of Choquequirao was out of the question as I shivered in my sleeping bag trying to warm my aching bones. When I felt a little better, I set off with Milton to hike down to that night's camp, while Dan and William returned up the mountain to Choquequirao. Milton was obviously concerned about me, and while I felt better, I was still feeling weak as we hiked. He and I had bonded earlier, after realizing that we are both fifty years old. We spoke in Spanish about basic topics, like family and the weather, to pass the kilometers, and I thought about the narrator and the little prince and their communication difficulties, being a traveler in another land, and the challenges faced by the people in the communities were passed through. These were agricultural people, living on small plots and farming corn, potatoes, and quinoa; raising pigs, sheep, and chickens. They plowed their fields with a horse or a mule and used hand tools. Their homes are small adobe dwellings of one or maybe two rooms, and they rent campsites to people like us for extra income. It was a bit like time travel, but some places had electricity from solar panels and some even advertised wifi. Dan and William caught up with us at our lunch break and I felt somewhat better that evening.<br />
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Before I came to Peru, I did not have an idea of how diverse this country is in terms of geography, climates, people, languages, and experiences. Lima is so different from the rest of the country, and yet Lima itself is not easily quantifiable either. I did not understand what poverty truly looks like, and how lack of infrastructure impacts daily life. I did not comprehend the effects of corruption and how that plays out in the lives of regular people. I could not fathom the depth of patriotic pride that nearly all Peruvians demonstrate, wearing ribbons and pins of the national colors or the jerseys of the national soccer team. I am astounded at the busy activity everywhere in Peru. There are people everywhere, at all hours, buying, selling, cleaning, building, walking. Even in Tarma, which I imagined as a sleepy mountain town, there is a bustling energy even on Sunday evenings. I have been so surprised at the warm welcome I have received wherever I go: handshakes, kisses on the cheek, <i>buenos días</i> from person after person every morning and <i>buenas noches </i>every night. I have wondered at the reception a Peruvian might receive in the US. I intend to continue working remotely with the English teachers in the Tarma area, and to share with my students how similar they are to Peruvian students: a love of pizza, deep pride in identity, a polarizing view of K-Pop (are you a lover or a hater?), an insatiable need to take selfies, and a desire to learn more about the world.<br />
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I hope that I have been a gracious guest and I am anxious to take the lessons I am still learning home with me. I do not know if I will ever return to Peru, but I am so grateful for all of my experiences here, especially the ones that were challenging and difficult. Perhaps Anthony Bourdain said it best: <br />
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“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”</h1>
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On the last night of our Choquequirao trek, we stayed in a rustic cabin in Capuliyoc, the literal end of a very narrow and bumpy road. Looming across the valley was the glaciated peak of Padriyoc - perhaps 19,000 feet at its summit. After dark, William pointed out constellations in the Inca system, like Yacana - a mother llama with her suckling baby - as well as the Southern Cross. The Southern Cross has been used by navigators for centuries, and I was again reminded of our insignificance on this tiny planet in a vast and expanding universe, yet I did not feel unsettled by it. Rather, I was comforted by this distant symbol and its importance across the ages to people traveling and thinking of home.<br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-71408297804198284402019-07-04T13:31:00.000-07:002019-07-04T13:31:03.213-07:00Fulbright TGC: End of IFEMy Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms International Field Experience officially ended yesterday. I have met with a network of Peruvian teachers and administrators, worked with students, and been debriefed. Some of the teachers in our group have already begun planning subsequent projects and collaborative activities, however, I have been letting this experience slowly percolate through me and absorb into my being. <br />
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The past few days have been pretty low key and fun. Several of us visited the Museo Larco and learned about pre-Incan cultures. The gardens there were breathtaking. <br />
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I took a couple of yoga classes - all in Spanish - which was pretty challenging physically and mentally. I went for a walk along the coastal cliffs. Our last official day we had a tour of the Mercado 1 in the Surquillo neighborhood. This is the most highly regarded food market in the city. There we tasted fruits, learned about the wide varieties of corn and potatoes that are native to Peru, and held crabs that were caught so recently they still moved. Later we had a culinary lesson where we made our own pisco sours and ceviche. </div>
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Cocoa bean. We tasted the fruit that encases the seeds (the seeds are what chocolate is made from).<br />
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Fruit stand. </div>
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David, our guide showing us potatoes (look at all the types on the shelves behind him).</div>
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Dry goods and spices. Check out the size of the cinnamon sticks!</div>
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Assembling the ingredients for pisco sour (3 parts pisco, 1 part lime juice, 1 part simple syrup, 1 egg white, ice - shake well. Pour into glass being sure to rinse the foam from the walls of the shaker into the glass. Top with 2-3 drops Angostura bitters.)</div>
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Ceviche ingredients - missing only the fish.</div>
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The chef who taught us the ceviche process.</div>
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Adding lime juice to the fish.</div>
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The finished product with sweet potato, Peruvian giant corn, and seaweed garnish.</div>
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Mixing my own pisco sour.</div>
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The night and the IFE ended with a delicious dinner on the water. </div>
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Now that I have met, listened to, and worked with Peruvian educators, I have a better understanding of many of the issues and challenges facing education in this country. I am deeply moved and humbled by the dedication and motivation these educators have, especially in spite of language barriers, wildly diverse geographic zones, and an influx of very welcome immigrants. In many ways, I feel that my own education is just beginning. </div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-66822794432626867502019-06-28T20:48:00.000-07:002019-06-29T05:47:18.715-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 10-11: Last days in the classroomThe past week has been a whirlwind, and while overwhelming at times, such a meaningful and powerful experience. Over the past two days we continued to teach. Much of each lesson was centered around postcards that my students had written to the students here in Tarma. The reaction from each class at learning that these postcards had messages for them was so sweet and adorable. Today and yesterday many Tarma students wrote back to my students. It will be fun to share these with my students and bring this activity full circle.<br />
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When we first communicated with our host teacher, Clever, he asked us create some "science experiments" for his students. I definitely have no experience in developing science experiments, however, this entire Fulbright experience has been about stepping outside of my comfort zone, so I was happy to come up with something. My activity isn't really science based, but is more of a problem-solving, team-building activity. It involved Peruvian Cheerios (called Mel), string, and a few other items. The goal was to get the Cheerios onto the string without touching them with your hands (other items were ok) without speaking. The string would be held vertically when time was up and each team would get one point for each Cheerio that remained on the string. It was interesting to see how the students approached the problem. I did this activity at two different schools. The first group had very young students (equivalent of US first graders) all the way up to 11 year olds. The second group was older kids. The older kids enjoyed it so much they wanted to do it again, but the second time each team member could only use one hand. We had to up the ante since they'd already worked through it once. The older girls ended up picking up a piece of the cereal with their mouth while their partner put the string through the hole. The underlying message here is that by working together and using creativity to overcome obstacles, we can solve problems we face.</div>
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After all these activities with the students, some parents arrived with the principal to thank us for our time and efforts this week. It was a very nice and casual ceremony with an exchange of some gifts of appreciation. My partner and I were each asked to speak a few words and I found myself feeling surprisingly verklempt. </div>
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In the evening, about ten teachers arrived from within Tarma and neighboring towns for one final teacher workshop... On a Friday evening... After they had been teaching all week. Some even traveled more than 40 minutes one way. The dedication of these teachers is inspiring and touching. They want so badly to improve their own English skills and to help their students. English is a required subject in the nationalized curriculum, however, there are so few teachers who truly are proficient in English, that many times a teacher is assigned to be the English teacher even if he or she speaks little English. Such commitment and resolution are not unusual in this profession, but I have to say that I was so impressed that they were willing to give up their Friday evening. And not only for the teacher workshop, but they took us out for Chinese food afterward. The intention is to collaborate on future Internet-based projects to help improve English skills of both the teachers and the students. We had a great time at dinner, sharing dumb jokes and tongue twisters in both English and Spanish. But my favorite phrase of the evening, and you can relate if you've ever been in a big group that can't quite seem to get moving forward: <i>calabasa, calabasa, todos a su casa! </i>(Pumpkin, pumpkin, everyone home! - but way better in Spanish because it rhymes!)</div>
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Our final day in Tarma was full and valuable and reminded me of the many reasons why I love being part of this profession. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-75757325054720772542019-06-27T03:45:00.001-07:002019-06-27T03:45:02.406-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 9: Walking home from schoolToday was essentially a repeat of yesterday, teaching three classes in the morning and then working with students on Brian's solar system activity this afternoon. There's not much new to say, so I thought I would record on video my walk home from school. It takes me about 15-20 minutes. Sometimes we take a mototaxi home but we usually walk in the mornings to wake up. This video is about 15 minutes long and begins around the corner from the school. <br />
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How many dogs appear in this video? <br />
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How many mototaxis? <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-78193183206060966272019-06-25T20:44:00.002-07:002019-06-25T20:44:51.441-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 7-8: TarmaThe past two days have been a blur - very busy and filled with many new experiences. We have been working in three different schools, are being treated like celebrities, and definitely feel that we are ambassadors of US culture and education. Add in the brain energy of speaking a lot of Spanish, trying to figure out what people are saying to us, navigating the streets of an unfamiliar and very busy small city without a map, eating unfamiliar foods, and living at above 10,000 feet, and you can imagine that I am very tired. This is an intense experience to put it mildly.<br />
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Yesterday and today we taught students in Clever's English classes on two different campuses. The way the schedule is set up, we will be teaching every day this week, but not see the same students twice. Unfortunately, they only have English class once a week, so their acquisition of the language is difficult and slow. What they lack in English skills, though, they make up for in enthusiasm. After we teach our two activities, the students ask us questions, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. Some of our answers get really wild reactions, students ooooooing and aaaaaaahing like Americans watching fireworks on Independence Day. They practically squeal with delight when they learn that we have tried ceviche and like it. Some of our answers leave them very puzzled, like the fact that Brian doesn't have children in spite of being married. <br />
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The students are so excited to see us. It is very different being in an all-girls school. There is a different dynamic and different level of energy. Students are very engaged for the most part and the biggest classroom management issue is their overexcitement and noise - but they are on task and want to learn and know about us. I think they feel very honored to have us at their schools. And it truly is an honor to have this experience and to have such an inside view into the lives of Tarmeños. These students are so proud to be from Tarma and to share their culture with us. <br />
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Yesterday afternoon we also attended a presentation on the exchange of our cultures. Students had prepared a beautiful slideshow about Tarma, and Brian and I presented our slideshow about Louisiana and Arizona. After that we taught a workshop to English teachers in the area. We did two activities with them that we had planned and also presented them with gifts we had brought. These teachers are very committed to their students and are very interested in learning themselves. It was a lot of fun and it was satisfying to contribute to the educational system here in Tarma.<br />
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This afternoon the three of us piled into a small taxi with six other people to travel to Picoy, a small town about 20 minutes from Tarma. There we were treated to lunch prepared by the teachers and facilitated an activity with students in the courtyard. This was the activity that Brian prepared, involving a cord and beads to express relative distance between objects in the solar system. He ended it with a short talk about how incredibly huge the universe is, with not only our solar system, but uncountable systems within each galaxy, and uncountable galaxies within the universe. And yet, in spite of this universe being so gigantic, we all live on the same tiny blue planet called Earth, and we are really not as far apart or as different from one another as we often think we are. <br />
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There have definitely been moments today when I felt overwhelmed and a bit unmoored. I believe the term for this is culture shock, although to me, the 'shock' part of it is a bit of a misnomer. For me, it feels more like I am slowly realizing the extent of my privilege. It is a sense of beginning to understand the security and ease of living in a country as developed as the US. I am struggling a bit with how to convey this awakening in terms that are comfortable to me and that protect the people here. There is also a bit of internal confusion about how to reconcile my sense of injustice with the current state of educational funding in Arizona with what I am seeing here in Peru. It is a lot to process and come to terms with, and I feel that this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I will need some time to fully understand the meaning of my stay here and the lessons I am learning.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-14967356474953768952019-06-23T20:19:00.002-07:002019-06-24T12:34:54.903-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 6: TarmatamboEvery day in Peru yields surprises, new adventures, and new foods to try. After a great night of many consecutive hours of sleep, we set off for Tarmatambo. This is the old city of Tarma which was settled by people prior to the Inca. The Inca arrived, and according to our guide, peacefully assimilated these people into the Inca Empire, from whom they learned new technologies and agriculture. We walked on the Camino Inca, a paved Inca pathway, through the ruins. These are mostly food storage buildings high above the rest of the settlement. Below are Inca irrigation systems, still in use by the farmers of today who are growing corn, potatoes, wheat, and many other crops. I am amazed at the vegetation here. It is very high in Tarma, at 10,000 feet, but Tarmatambo is even higher, maybe 12,000 feet, and yet cactus, palm trees, succulents, and bougainvillea all grow here. There is a very unique climate zone here that allows this which I do not understand.<br />
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Agave and San Pedro cactus, which is related to peyote and has the similar hallucinogenic properties.<br />
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Inca ruins, mostly just walls.</div>
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Irrigation system moving spring water to farm fields.</div>
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Today's new food was this fruit. It grows in a leafy shell like a tomatillo but has a tart and refreshing flavor. I can't remember the name, but it's something like picupi.</div>
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The reason we went to Tarmatambo today was to witness the Inti Raymi ceremony, a re-enactment of Inca traditions. The Inca deities were mainly the sun, moon, mountains, and lakes. On a large field, the first characters who entered were dressed as an Incan religious leader and the Inca's wife. (Inca can mean both the people and their leader.) He called forth the various groups of young people who were dressed in different colors representing the four areas of the Inca Empire. They arrived and took position, carrying objects and offerings. One of these was knotted yarns called <i>quipu. </i>Eventually the Inca himself arrived with his entourage and the leaders of the separate groups were called forth to report to him. The quipu yarns are essentially a record of information, and in this particular case, detailed financial reports from the different parts of the empire. The Inca had no written language prior to the Conquest, but these quipu served as an alternative record keeping. The ceremony continued but it was time for lunch, so we departed. We did not witness the vicuña sacrifice that was to take place. The Inca had only three laws, which address pretty much everything: <i>Do not be lazy. Do not steal. Do not lie. </i> Crime was rare and punishment was harsh. The rainbow flag represents the Inca and is the city flag of Cuzco. It makes a lot of sense that a people who worshipped the sun would choose a rainbow as representative of their culture.<br />
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Clever and former students of his before the ceremony posing with me and Brian.</div>
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Getting organized.</div>
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Each group wore different colors and had different symbols, like these girls whose capes have moons.</div>
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We sat under this canopy which represents the Inca.</div>
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Most of the groups assembled on the field with Tarmatambo in the distance.</div>
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Another view of the ceremony.</div>
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The pobrecita vicuña, smaller than an alpaca.</div>
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We had lunch in another area near Tarma called Muruhuay, where an image of Jesus appeared on a stone wall, first to a Spaniard and later to a shepherd boy. It is now a place of pilgrimage and considered very holy. We visited the church there and saw the image which is now painted and gilded. There are springs behind the church and the water from them is considered holy.<br />
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After returning to the hotel for a bit, Brian and I ventured out into the city on our own to see if we could find our way to the school we will be at in the morning. Like last night, people were everywhere including children skating in the park and young people dancing. There was a procession of the religious carrying a relic and singing, with people from the residences on second floors throwing flower petals down as they approached. The farmer's market was still open but winding down. The dogs were eating from the garbage piled in the streets and shops were open on every street. Even for a Sunday evening, the town was still very animated and lively.<br />
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One of the many dogs of Tarma. All of these dogs do not really interact with humans. It's very different from American dogs who seem to think they are part of the human pack. We have not seen a single cat since arriving.<br />
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Adorable mototaxis are everywhere.<br />
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The religious procession.<br />
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The view of Tarma from Tarmatambo:<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-3136394655912004832019-06-23T06:12:00.001-07:002019-06-23T15:29:15.574-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 4-5: Lima to TarmaOur last day in Lima consisted first of a lecture by Anthropology professor Juan Carlos Callirgos regarding culture and its effects on education and vice versa. Some his main points asked us to be aware that the educational system, and this is true of anywhere, not just Peru, does provide opportunities yet it can also perpetuate inequalities and eliminate diversity. These were good distinctions to hear, because I think we educators often think, "Diversity, yay!" but don't consider that equal educational access to all can also be a homogenizing system that does not necessarily adapt to the populations it serves. Rather, it demands that those populations adapt to the system, and this is probably especially true in countries like Peru which have a nationalized curriculum that is required to be taught in every school.<br />
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After lunch, we braved the Lima traffic again to visit the US Embassy. Part of our visit was to understand what embassies do and the various branches that exist within them. I do not think I could have imaged it as such a colossal building. It is massive. Security was intense as well. The second half of our visit brought a dozen or so principals and directors of Peruvian schools to our conference table. Their schools are all in the Lima area and they are all experiencing a huge influx of Venezuelan refugees. To make a very long story short, due to the instability and difficulties (to put it mildly) in Venezuela, many are leaving the country. Peru has a history of similar difficult times and recognized that Venezuela welcomed its citizens during periods of instability, and was ready to open its borders to Venezuelans. The exact words used in the introduction is that Peruvians felt it was "their turn" and they are proud that their country is in a position to help. However, massive, rapid immigration causes many issues and challenges.<br />
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The principals were hoping to discuss with us the challenges their schools are facing and to hear our advice and suggestions, as teachers from a nation of immigrants. Many schools have so many students that they had to add a second shift of classes that go from afternoon to evening. This was done with little government support or compensation. Without a nationwide food program, like the free and reduced lunch program in the US, they don't have a way to feed these children, many of whom left nearly everything behind. Many of these refugee students do not have adequate clothing for the cold climate of Peru. There are not enough supplies, the homes they live in do not have sanitation, etc. These principals asked us, what do we do?<br />
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Our answers made me realize the incredible privilege it is to have government programs and philanthropic organizations, adequate infrastructure, and parent organizations that all support schools, teachers, and students. There are immense barriers between every suggestion we made and the reality of this situation. It was incredibly humbling and eye-opening, and I found myself holding back tears. When US schools face a high immigrant influx, the major challenge we see is that those students do not speak English in nearly all cases, and our first major goal for those students is the language. However, even sharing a common language with these Venezuelan students still left so many huge challenges. These principals were all united in their intense desire to provide the best education possible for these students, but their hands were tied in such ways as to make them feel that they could not do enough. Their frustration and anxiety were palpable, and yet not one blamed the children or their families for this incredibly difficult situation. This to me seemed one of the most tangible differences between the Peruvian directors' view of the situation and what a similar one would look like in the current atmosphere of the US. And I truly believe that the recent experiences of Peruvians living through their own challenges is a huge part of that. They understand the difficult choice of living under internal strife so absolutely untenable that the only option is to leave. In the US, almost all of us cannot even imagine the options being tipped in such an unbalanced way. It was difficult to leave this meeting with so little to contribute.<br />
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In the middle of the night, we departed our Lima hotel for the airport and our very short flight to Jauja. My first impressions of the highlands were "Sun! Blue sky!" It was very refreshing to see the sky and feel the warmth of the sun after consecutive days without seeing either. It is cold here and I am grateful for my layers of clothing. Lima was hazy, foggy, and damp. I could never quite get my bearings because I had no sun's trajectory to follow. Our host teacher, Clever, met Brian and me at the airport and we rode in a taxi to Tarma. This required passing through several small farming communities, over a pass, and into the valley where Tarma is. On the way we saw small plots of land where people were harvesting potatoes, corn, and other crops (remember, winter just began here). There was even a small herd of vicuña near the top of the pass. It is a dry, grassy place, with few trees - those that are here were planted. <br />
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After checking into the hotel and napping, Clever arrived and we walked to his house. He pointed out the two campuses of his school. As Brian put it, the word for Tarma is <i>bustling</i>. There was an incredible amount of activity in the streets. Small cars and mototaxis speed through the narrow streets. Dogs are everywhere. Stores, restaurants and vendors are all open for business. There is so much to pay attention to, including the obstacles of uneven sidewalks, narrow walkways, and pot holes. I promise I will have photos, but there just wasn't time and space to do the city justice. Tarma is definitely more of a city than I imagined. I thought it might be a sleepy town like my own, but it is a hub of commerce with the farmers bringing in their potatoes and produce to sell and the other merchants selling just about everything you can think of. <br />
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Lunch was huge, prepared by Clever's wife. We were served pachamanca, a traditional dish from this area which for our meal consisted of several kinds of potatoes, corn, chicken, beef, yuca, and a bean similar to a lima bean. And we drank the traditional beverage chicha morada, made from boiled purple corn. As is often the case with travel, even things that are similar (potatoes, corn) are not quite the same. It was a generous meal with huge portions. Their four-year-old daughter Sofie was also there and we spent hours talking and discussing so many different things in a mix of Spanish and English. Clever walked us home after dark and the city streets were no less busy than earlier. While we had lunch, Peru lost to Brazil 5-0, but it appears that outcome was not unexpected.<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-8882331113599574982019-06-21T06:57:00.002-07:002019-06-23T15:35:02.723-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 3: Lima <span style="background-color: #999999; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lima is a huge city and today we began to appreciate the distance between various districts. By <i>appreciate</i>, I do not mean "to cherish," but rather "to understand the full scale of" because there is little to cherish about the difficult situation of traffic in Lima. Everyone drives a car, takes a bus, or a taxi, or a combi (kind of like a van/bus combo), or rides a motorcycle. Streets are incredibly congested and the driving rules that I am used to do not apply. The distance between vehicles is sometimes far too close for my comfort. Luckily, I am not in the driver's seat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">We traveled to two schools in the Comas District which is far to the north, about fifteen miles from our hotel in Miraflores. The first school is named for Túpac Amaru, the last Sapa Inca who resisted the Spanish Conquistadores but was ultimately executed by them in 1572 in Cuzco. His is a rather dramatic story, especially of his capture and public execution, which was witnessed by crowds estimated at 10-15,000 people. </span><span style="background-color: #999999;"><span style="background-color: #999999;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f6b26b;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">"A </span><span style="background-color: #999999; color: #222222;">multitude of Indians, who completely filled the square, saw that lamentable spectacle [and knew] that their lord and Inca was to die, they deafened the skies, making them reverberate with their cries and wailing,"according to </span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: #999999; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34);"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Murúa, and the legality of the Spanish executing someone that they had previously reco</span><span style="background-color: #999999;">gnized as a sovereign king set off a debate which eventually became the foundations of international law. John Heming's </span><i style="background-color: #999999;">The Conquest of the Inca</i><span style="background-color: #999999;"> tells the history of this event and those leading up to it in great detail.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">At Túpac Amaru we were greeted first by teachers and administrators with warm hugs and cheek kisses. Two former students lead us on tours of the campus, speaking fluent English and answering our questions. Students in classrooms were practically falling over themselves trying to say hello to us - when we approached a classroom we could hear their excitement rising. They were eager to practice their English and for many of them, we were the first Americans they'd met. After the quick tour, we had a round table activity where we sat with small groups of students and talked. These same activities were repeated at the next school.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some observations on the schools:</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Although these schools were in a relatively poor area, many of the students had cellphones. I did not expect this. They were using Google Translate to look up things they did not know how to say in English. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">I got to speak a lot of Spanish with them which was super fun. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #999999; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">These students were so proud of their school. They wear uniforms, which for most were cool track suits. I was coveting their jackets.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Kids never once complained about their school or their teachers or the (lack of) resources. I would have liked to talk with the teachers more to understand their perspective.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Kids are kids are kids. The things the kids wanted to talk about, the things that made them laugh, the issues they see in the world are the same as my students. Again, I am reminded that we are more similar than different, in spite of what the news media would have you believe. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">When asked what Peruvian foods we had tried and liked, they were so proud of their cuisine, especially ceviche and were so excited that we enjoyed it.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Working in a school district that is underfunded by American standards, it was very interesting to visit a school that obviously receives less funding. Regardless, the students were proud and loved their school and loved learning. They definitely value education.</span></span></li>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">Some things that would be cool to implement at my school:</span></span></div>
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<li><span style="background-color: #999999; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Student leaders wore braided cords which designated them as holding various positions. One that I found most interesting was a designation for students who were to assist in an emergency, such as an earthquake. In the US, we have many drills to practice for a fire, a shooting, etc., but the responsibility is all on the teachers to ensure the safety of the students. What if there were students who shared that responsibility?</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #999999;">There was a 15 minute recess period when all students were outside together. These students were playing soccer and being active, talking with friends and walking. Because the students stay in the classroom and the teacher moves from room to room here, this break was necessary. But what a great idea for the students to get some fresh air and have time to talk with one another. At my school students rush during their 6 minute passing period and some do not even have time to use a restroom because our campus is so spread out.</span></span></li>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-16597541874753110402019-06-19T20:46:00.000-07:002019-06-19T20:46:16.501-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 2: LimaIt is amazing what a difference consecutive hours of sleep can do. After a big breakfast, Violeta presented information to us regarding the Peruvian school system, which is a centralized system with a national curriculum taught in nearly every public school. In Washington DC this winter, we learned some of the basic information about education in Peru and we were asked to develop guiding questions that are tailored to our individual interests and assignments here in Peru. Mine are all related to language learning:<br />
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<li>What languages are taught?</li>
<li>Are indigenous languages taught elsewhere in Peru?</li>
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It was interesting for me to learn some partial answers to these questions today. For the most part, English is a required subject, but it is not always taught by qualified teachers. Not every English teacher actually speaks English, unfortunately. There is a small movement to teach indigenous languages like Quechua (the language of the Incas) in those communities, but resources are scarce and qualified teachers are even more scarce. </div>
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Language barriers remain a huge issue of equal access to education throughout the country, and just as in many places in the world, Arizona included, rural communities lack resources, expertise, and access that some schools in more urban areas have. There are striking similarities between indigenous communities in Peru as well as places like the Navajo Nation. There are few books published in Quechua or, say, Navajo, few libraries outside of a school in these communities, and few teachers who are fully trained and also have the culturally relevant backgrounds and understandings to help students in these communities reach their potential. How do you recruit Native students to become educated and trained to return to these communities as teachers with the resources to meet the needs of these students?</div>
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We took a short walk to the Parque del Amor on the cliff overlooking the coast. Surfers were braving the cold water on this foggy day. The park is decorated with lovely mosaics depicting lines of poetry from Latin American poets and the names of famous couples like Florentino y Fermina from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's <i>Love in the Time of Cholera</i>. My favorite appealed to the Scorpio in me:</div>
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<i>This will be my revenge - that one day a book will arrive in your hands from a famous poet and you will read these lines that the author wrote for you and you will not know it. -</i>Ernesto Cardenal</div>
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Another section of the mosaics with the Pacific Ocean in the background.</div>
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After lunch we were taken to the Fulbright Foundation where we had some photo opportunities.</div>
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Our full group with Violeta.</div>
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Our next presentation was a detailed history of the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) Movement, which was a Marxist terrorist cult who committed extremely savage attacks in their attempt to lead a revolution in Peru. This began in 1980 throughout 1992 when its leader, Abimael Guzman was captured, and until 1996 when it was finally defeated. The people most affected by this group were Quechua-speaking young people living in the poorest regions; because of the remoteness and distance from Lima, the centralized government failed to intervene, and then later did so with equally violent effect. The ramifications are still being felt today. I think this tragic history is something that few Americans are even aware of in spite of the fact that it was not in the distant past. Learning about this has made me realize how insulated and insular our sense of the world often is in the US.</div>
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We had a lovely dinner on our own this evening and I enjoyed a lovely Sopa de Criolla (rich broth with noodles, beef, and a poached egg). </div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-88954956052709285812019-06-18T20:47:00.001-07:002019-06-19T04:58:16.072-07:00Fulbright TGC Day 1: LimaThis evening as I sit to write this post I am amazed that I have been in Lima for just over twelve hours. Most of my group arrived via Miami this morning after an overnight flight. It's been an exhausting day but also so wonderful to see our fantastic Peru Crew once again after meeting in Washington DC this winter. Our hotel is in Miraflores which is an upscale neighborhood right on the coast. From my room I have a great view to the west of the ocean, however, due to the hazy, foggy quality of the air, it's not easy to determine where the sky ends and the ocean begins. <br />
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And that's definitely not a complaint, just an observation I have coming from a dry climate where we enjoy blue skies most days of the year. I spent the morning relaxing and organizing and getting my bearings as I know that the next several weeks will be at a very intense pace.</div>
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Our first event today was a delicious lunch at our hotel followed by an interesting presentation and Q&A with Violetta, a Peruvian Fulbright based in Lima. She gave us a brief overview of history and culture of Peru and was very willing to answer our questions and discuss similarities and differences between US and Peruvian customs, social issues, and education.</div>
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The afternoon and evening was spent driving through various neighborhoods in Lima and a walking tour of the historic district. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAy_hIhXw7jd9QaE0NW3QyTGlzWgIKdRg0D_UHU_iIm5uWv4rdSE4DmGTZGd8ppeiwUMBwbXIF0j8iSD6lKSepX2Mu2hhCCAXZ2PJ33PRgOoo7Snd3QHL862G7SEofAKEcrifr836Dk0lR/s1600/IMG_4409+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAy_hIhXw7jd9QaE0NW3QyTGlzWgIKdRg0D_UHU_iIm5uWv4rdSE4DmGTZGd8ppeiwUMBwbXIF0j8iSD6lKSepX2Mu2hhCCAXZ2PJ33PRgOoo7Snd3QHL862G7SEofAKEcrifr836Dk0lR/s320/IMG_4409+6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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One of my favorite signs in the neighborhood. Lots of honking of car horns in Lima.</div>
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There is a wide variety of architectural styles in Lima, including this art deco residence.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeP0ABXPS5FbDOSTtk9hghlCNgFhMghz8xmLdcDjPrzOmyjOPvN3Clkr44gIAcKdRUw7yjnOFsvFMWI70S4iH-KSDsvaWHq-LzvQaVU_uXkbqbkradCIw0JhlXXruIl4x37_Pie0Ym72i/s1600/IMG_4417+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeP0ABXPS5FbDOSTtk9hghlCNgFhMghz8xmLdcDjPrzOmyjOPvN3Clkr44gIAcKdRUw7yjnOFsvFMWI70S4iH-KSDsvaWHq-LzvQaVU_uXkbqbkradCIw0JhlXXruIl4x37_Pie0Ym72i/s320/IMG_4417+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Crossing an overpass. This expressway is surprisingly empty of cars compared to other streets we drove on today.</div>
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Another example of architectural style from closer to the historic district. The blue structure with white lettering is a phone booth! I will try to get a photo of one tomorrow as I know of some younguns who have never seen one.<br />
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Peru played Bolivia today in soccer and at many venues there were crowds of people watching the game. We were in the Plaza de Armas when Peru scored a goal and on all sides of the plaza cheers erupted. Peru won 3-1.<br />
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The cathedral of Lima. Note the different architectural styles due to rebuilding after major earthquake damage. This church faces one side of the square, the presidential palace another, and the city hall a third. The fourth side is lined with commercial businesses in a colonial building. There was a heavy police presence here with riot shields and helmets, which our guide says is typical. There are no demonstrations permitted within the square.<br />
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Details from the church of San Francisco. Can you spy the adventurous gato?<br />
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Here is the gato, strolling along the cornice waaaaay up high, on the church of San Francisco. Inside the grounds of this church are a working monastery with a beautiful and peaceful cloister, artwork from as early as the 1700s, and the catacombs of Lima, where thousands of (rich and connected) people were buried over the past few centuries. Unfortunately no photos were permitted inside, but here is a <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/convento-de-san-francisco-ossuary" target="_blank">peek</a>.<br />
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The incredible Peru Crew in the square of San Francisco, hailing from Pennsylvania, Ohio, Louisiana, Maryland, New Jersey, Texas, and Arizona!<br />
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We ended our evening with an amazing meal on the grounds of <a href="http://huacapucllanamiraflores.pe/" target="_blank">Huaca Pucllana</a>, the site of a pre-Incan archaeological importance in the middle of the Miraflores district. This site was built between 200 and 700 CE of adobe brick. The brick is so well-preserved because it rarely rains hard in Lima and so erosion has not damaged it as much as might be an issue elsewhere.<br />
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First impressions of Lima:<br />
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<li>It is a huge and sometimes chaotic city with a diverse style that I imagine reflects the diversity of the people.</li>
<li>The impact of the Spanish colonization is everywhere. This city was the Spaniards' city in Peru and remains the seat of power today.</li>
<li>There is amazing public art and graffiti everywhere.</li>
<li>Peruvian people are very welcoming, engaging, and friendly. We have been welcomed with an abundance of generosity.</li>
<li>The food is probably the best kept secret on the planet. If what we ate today is any indication, we will all gain weight on this adventure - lomo saltado, causa, and ceviche were all excellent.</li>
<li>Did I mention the amazing coffee? And pisco sour (similar to a margarita but sweeter)?</li>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-72074218910822632632019-04-15T21:06:00.002-07:002019-04-16T06:43:37.648-07:00Notre Dame is Burning<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Notre Dame is burning. The full extent of the damage is yet to be known, but my gut tells me it is devastated to such a degree that it will not be fully restored during my lifetime. Like many, I hold Notre Dame in a very special place in my heart. One memory in particular kept floating to the surface today as I learned the news, first from a friend’s text. My phone proceeded to blow up with texts from others, and many people came by my classroom today to share the developments and their grief. </div>
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When I was twenty, I lived in Paris for a summer with an American roommate, Sandi, and a kind and welcoming French family. What Hemingway said is true – that if you live in Paris when you were young, it will stay with you, for Paris is a “moveable feast.” I’m not sure that this is unique to Paris, or if we are able to romanticize any beautiful place we’ve lived in that was integral to our coming of age. Regardless, Paris is a magical and beautiful city – redesigned in the early 1800s by Haussmann at Napoleon’s request, it is a city intent upon making an impression. After a while though, it also reveals its warts, which are mostly the same as any large city: too many people in too small a space, pollution, trash, and the filthy sidewalks due to the Parisiens’ apathy about cleaning up after their dogs. </div>
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Ask any city dweller where to go for respite, though, and they might reveal their secret. New Yorkers might have a special location within Central Park; or the Bay Area residents’ affinity for their trails along the coast. And while Paris boasts a surprising number of lovely parks, Notre Dame was my refuge:</div>
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It is Sunday afternoon in June 1989, and my roommate Sandi and I take the Métro north to Saint-Michel and walk across the bridge toward Notre Dame for the free weekly organ concert. We’ve been to the cathedral before, our course instructor gave us his personalized tour a week or two before. It’s a hot and humid day, the kind that makes our host, Béatrice, stand by the open window, fanning herself and saying, “<i>Quelle chaleur</i>!” (What a heatwave!) The sun is bright and the smog and noise of the traffic add to a growing oppressiveness.</div>
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As we enter the cathedral, our senses are overwhelmed. First: the darkness of this vast cathedral, whose stained glass windows are high above and don’t permit much sunlight. The coolness of the walls holding in the chill of eight hundred winters envelopes us and we soon are on the verge of shivering. Next, the smoky scent of incense, lingering from the recent Mass, permeates our nostrils. And finally, the hush of the audience as everyone takes a seat. Already, I feel somewhat overcome by a sense of peace and calm. The quick tempo of our language and history courses every morning, followed by afternoon excursions at the fast pace of our instructor, on top of the struggle of immersing ourselves in another language, culture, and family – all of it is too much. In later years, I will come to realize that this experience has imbued me with a deep sense of empathy for immigrants and refugees and all displaced persons. But for now, it seems like this is the first time I have just sat quietly since I dragged my jet-lagged self off the plane. I’m not trying to figure how to say what’s on my mind, I’m not being rushed to the next sight, I’m just sitting quietly.</div>
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And then, the organist begins to play. The massive pipes of this organ seem to snake up the entire wall at the back of the nave. The music, filling the air, vibrates throughout the huge enclosed space. It’s loud, very loud, and on top of the sensory overload I’m already experiencing, my face is wet. Tears stream from my eyes and at some point I realize that audible sobs are emanating from me. The music swells and builds, each beat filled with the infinite trills and ornamentation that define French Baroque organ music.</div>
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By the end of the concert, I pull myself together, but I am utterly spent. I remember Sandi leading me from the darkness of the cathedral into the afternoon sun. My journal tells me that we ate at an Italian place around the corner, but I don’t recall the rest of the day.</div>
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And now Notre Dame lies in shambles – the only solace is that it appears that no one has been killed in the fire. The efforts of the brave firefighters surely have saved the cathedral from utter ruin – and hopefully the injured first responder will recover completely. Notre Dame will be rebuilt – Macron has already pledged an international fundraising effort to fund it. It is truly the heart of Paris, indeed of France, with Kilomètre Zéro in its square. To me, it will remain a place where I, a young and weary traveler, far from home, found an overwhelming sense of peace on a Sunday afternoon. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-81098531298747296142019-04-02T17:42:00.000-07:002019-04-02T17:42:02.157-07:00A New FocusThis blog has been radio silent for several months now. I am revising and rechanneling this website and repurposing it so that it can serve as a Global Education Guide for my Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms Fellowship, in addition to continuing as a mode of self-expression. I learned in August that I was awarded this prestigious fellowship. Throughout the fall I was committed to an intense and rigorous course to learan all things related to Global Education and this revised website will serve as my capstone project. This June I will travel with a small cohort of teachers to Peru to explore and learn about the school system there.<br />
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Ultimately this website will serve as a resource to anyone who is interested in learning about Global Education and implementing it into their lives, classrooms, schools, communities, etc. Wanting to share the world with others was and remains a huge reason for my becoming a teacher. Being part of this program has opened my eyes to the huge potential of what that can truly look like.<br />
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I spent three whirlwind days in Washington DC in February, completely missing the Blizzard of '19, which envelopped my community. I met my amazing Peru Crew cohort - a total of ten fantastic teachers with whom I will travel and work with this summer. We experienced several incredible workshops to prepare us for our international field experience and to help us implement global education into our classrooms, schools, and communities.<br />
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While I still intend to write regularly and share those pieces here, much of my energy and focus will be on creating a platform to share the resources and experiences regarding my global education journey and to invite you along with me. <div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-73991546898160672452018-11-07T04:53:00.000-08:002018-11-07T04:53:27.176-08:00Before and After<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Nora popped the leftovers into the microwave, entered the time, and pushed start. Her mom was working late and she’d have the apartment to herself tonight. Without the commotion usually caused by her mom and Joseph, the new boyfriend, who was decidedly wrong, Nora would be free to do as she pleased, which in tonight’s case, would be to dye her hair. She couldn’t wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She’d spent three afternoons casing the drug store, learning where the cameras were and how to avoid them. In her room she’d practiced again and again dropping a hair dye box into her overcoat pocket. She’d found the box and bottle in her mother’s wastepaper basket, had reassembled everything, filling the bottle with water so that it would match the real thing’s weight. She practiced until she could drop it into her pocket perfectly while pretending to scan the shelves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She’d grown her thumb nail long to peel off the anti-theft device attached to the bottom of the box. The heist, as she liked to call it, had gone off without a hitch. And tonight, finally, she would dye her mousy brown hair “Midnight Blue.” Oh, how she hoped it would truly have some blue in it. Her mother would be floored – seeing her reaction in the morning might be the best part of it all, honestly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The microwave beeped, signaling a job done. Nora brought the food to the table and took a too-hot bite of a tuna casserole. Inhaling to cool it off, she ceremoniously opened the box of Midnight Blue. Extracting each item from the box, she laid them carefully on the table, took a swig of milk, and then flattened the instructions next to her plate. She read them through three times while eating, making certain she understood the steps and times. She did not want to mess this up, like Cindy Armstrong had done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cindy’s hair was fine blonde hair to begin with, but after a botched dye job, it had turned a strange shade of orange, became brittle and broke off. Cindy looked like a prisoner whose crew cut was growing out awkwardly. There were even strange blistered bald spots where the dye had burned her skin. Obviously, Cindy hadn’t followed the instructions well, and her mother had been so livid that she refused to allow Cindy to wear a hat or wig, telling her she’d have to live with it. That seemed a little cruel, but it was also kind of funny because Cindy never followed directions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nora intended to avoid those pitfalls. Again, she read through the instructions, this time, highlighting the times for each step. Nora popped the last bite in her mouth, chugged the remaining milk, and stood up. She took one last selfie with her hair the way it would never be again, not if she could help it. She would do a before-and-after post.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stepping to the sink, she arranged all the items she’d need around her, including the instructions. She pulled the rubber gloves onto her hands and began. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-59194885156351612392018-10-03T05:50:00.000-07:002018-10-03T05:51:01.888-07:00Job Hunting<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Prompt: The Robbery | Word Count: 1493 | Genre: Fiction<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin pulled up to the curb at Donnie’s and honked twice. It was almost dark. He fiddled with the knobs on the AM radio, then pushed the cigarette lighter in wondering if Donnie would emerge before the lighter popped out, red hot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was supposed to be a solo job, breaking into the back office of the Duffy Butcher Shop, where everyone knew Easy Joe O’Halleran received the weekly pay offs. Rumor was they were left overnight in the deep freeze, wrapped and bundled in ten piles, a thousand smackers each.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin had been riding along on jobs for a while now, sometimes helping to smash a lock or even kneecaps, more often standing guard or driving the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A solo hit on Duffy’s would definitely move him up in the ranks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And with Christiana knocked up, he needed money. A lot more money if she decided to keep it this time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pop! The lighter clicked out and still no Donnie. Dustin thought about honking again, but felt too antsy to sit any longer. Exiting the Chevelle, he noticed the bad Bondo job again. Maybe with his cut, he could also afford to fix it up and paint it. This Chevelle could be a thing of beauty. All it took was money. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin rang the bell, and then knocked. Donnie was supposed to have a gun for him. A small pistol, numbers filed off and untraceable. Just in case. He could ditch it if he had to, but if he needed it, it was easy to conceal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No answer. It wasn’t like Donnie to leave him hanging. Maybe he was over at Yvette’s? Easy enough to check. And if Donnie wasn’t there, Yvette would probably know where he was. She kept him on a short leash.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back in the car and on the way to Yvette’s, Dustin went through the steps of the break-in. At each one, he paused, considering all the possibilities or obstacles potentially created. At each, he broke down the subsequent choices and the ramifications of each. He’d never had to do this on his own, but he’d sat with Donnie playing out scenarios like this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Visualization,” Donnie had said, a dreamy look in his eyes. “The difference between the champion and all those losers.” At the word “losers” he’d elbowed Dustin in the sternum, almost knocking him over. Dustin wasn’t a loser. Duffy’s would prove it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Almost to Yvette’s, a police cruiser going the opposite way on Spruce Avenue flipped a U-turn and switched on the lights and siren.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Crap,” Dustin shouted. Perhaps too abruptly he pulled into a gas station. He realized how grateful he was that he didn’t have Donnie’s gun on him and tried to calm his breathing. Dustin could see the officer emerging from the vehicle to approach him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do you know why I’ve pulled you over this evening?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No sir, uh, why, sir?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The officer leaned in close, beefy forearms folded on the bottom of the window opening. He sniffed, then stuck his head inside sniffing more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin kept his eyes facing forward, trying to hold his breath to keep from smelling the officer’s rancid exhales.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Turn your damn lights on, son!” And with that, the officer slapped Dustin’s shoulder and laughed, walking back to his vehicle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin watched in the rearview as the fat policeman pulled up his pants, still laughing. He could feel himself quaking, a thousand thoughts racing through his head. First of all, he couldn’t afford a single mistake, like not having his lights on. Dustin knew he needed the gun, second. It wasn’t like Donnie not to be home at a scheduled time. Getting pulled over was bad luck, definitely. Dustin hated superstition, didn’t believe in it, finding it a lame and ridiculous excuse for poor planning. But he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t feeling uneasy because of these two events, Donnie not being home, and the cop pulling him over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hands sweaty and shaky, he restarted the Chevelle, pulled the knob to turn on the lights and put the car in gear. At Yvette’s he didn’t even bother to stop. All the lights were out and no cars in the driveway. He continued on his way. Without the gun, what were his chances? How likely was it that he’d need it? Again he played out the scenarios, but this time without the pistol.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twenty minutes later, he was parked a block from Duffy’s. He’d driven down the alley – a calculated risk, he knew, but he wanted to check if lights were on inside the building, and they were. It was less of a risk than walking down the alley and having someone able to identify his face. The Chevelle was ugly enough to be unnoticed. Not so ugly that it would stand out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin drummed the steering wheel, wondering what he was doing and knowing there was no way he could pull this off. He sat with this weight in his belly, the lights on the street glowing against the overcast night sky. What did it mean to not do a job? How would he be viewed? Could he explain that he’d let his level-headedness rule? That his thoughtful calculations of the situation might lead him toward a different kind of role in the organization?<o:p></o:p></div>
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The decision made not to hit Duffy’s, Dustin felt the adrenaline leaving his body. He was exhausted and worried. Rolling down the window, he gulped the cool night air. Instantly he felt better. He opened the door and stepped out into the evening. Walking up the block, he turned the corner and broke into a slow jog. After a few blocks he stopped in front of an ice cream shop. There were no customers. One girl worked inside. She looked bored, sitting behind the counter, her head propped on her hand, a dark hair braid cascading over her shoulder. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He pushed the door open. It buzzed and the girl snapped to attention. Silently, she stood and waited for his order. He scanned the choices of ice cream. The display freezers were empty except for vanilla and chocolate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Pretty slim pickings,” he joked. She didn’t react. “Chocolate milkshake, please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She made the milkshake without comment, adding the ingredients and blending them in an old machine that whined and then sighed as it was turned off. She was pretty but not much on customer service, he thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She handed it to him and turned away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How much?” Dustin asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She scanned him. “Oh. You’re not with…” her voice trailed off. Then she cleared her throat. “Three fifty.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He gave her a ten and couldn’t help but ask, “Who did you think I was?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nevermind, I was wrong.” She blushed and handed him his change, which he dropped in the empty tip bucket. She was suddenly busy, sweeping the floor and turning away from him, her braid swinging across her back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is it the O’Halleran’s? Do you think I work for them?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She turned. “Do you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He shook his head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are you a cop?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Again he shook his head. “What makes you think that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She looked around, nervous. “We don’t actually get many customers here,” she whispered. She gestured at the shop. “This isn’t really an ice cream shop anymore. I hate it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now Dustin turned on the charm. He pulled a stool over to the counter and leaned in. “Are you talking, like real gangsters?” he whispered, taking a pull on the straw. He made his eyes big, as if in surprise. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’ve worked here for a year. It used to be fun. But they’ve chased away all the customers. My boss never comes in anymore because she’s afraid of them. She pays <i>them</i>and <i>they</i>use <i>her</i>office. It’s so unfair.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Wow.” Dustin didn’t know what to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She went back to her sweeping. Dustin sat quietly, thinking over his milkshake, hatching a new plan. The O’Hallerans must have become nervous about Duffy’s getting hit – somehow they must have heard rumors – and moved their operations here. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You really thought I was a cop?” Dustin asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Not really. But I hoped so.” She kept sweeping, not looking at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why don’t you call the cops?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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She shrugged. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin smiled. He wasn’t sure he could trust this girl. “You want to bust the O’Hallerans? On a school night?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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How she took that joke would tell him what he needed to know. She stopped sweeping.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s not funny.” She turned and he could see the color rising in her cheeks. She was furious, not with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dustin raised his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She leaned on the broom and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re not a cop and you’re not with the O’Hallerans, then what are you doing in this neighborhood?” She leaned on the broom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He raised the milkshake as if making a toast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Fair question. What if I told you I was looking for a job around here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-23108877970840818492018-09-04T20:33:00.000-07:002018-09-04T20:33:35.089-07:00Like They Never Existed <div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Prompt: Delete | Word Count: 1244 | Genre: Fiction<o:p></o:p></div>
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What if she hit the ‘delete’ key? She knew those files were dangerous. This idea came to her from out of the blue, almost as if this ‘delete’ key had suddenly, miraculously appeared. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez leaned back in her swivel chair and rocked gently. The trees outside the window were barren. It would be another month at least before the green leaves emerged, filling in the negative space now occupied with grey sky. The sky wasn’t grey in Barbados, that was for sure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her boss, Mr. Carmichael, didn’t know about the files on her hard drive. She knew he’d already deleted the same ones from his hard drive and the cloud server. Jimmy from IT had been involved in that, describing to Inez last Wednesday how he’d scrubbed out the shadows left behind. Mr. LeGros didn’t seem involved in this business, or at least, not yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Not a trace,” Jimmy had said. “Like they never existed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She’d been so worried that he might suspect she had copies of those documents. But Jimmy liked her, she’d realized, and suspected her of nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was clear that the investigation into Mr. Carmichael was deepening. Inez, at least, would be interviewed. But lately she was wondering, noticing more details that made her suspect Mr. Carmichael’s claims of innocence were false. She loved the job – it was fast paced and the tasks and projects she was given as administrative assistant to two senior vice presidents illustrated their trust in her. But she had misgivings about the ethical side of things. Maybe it was insider trading, like she’d read about in <i>the Weekly</i>. Regardless of whether these types of crimes were “victimless,” as Jimmy insisted, there was something about the whole scenario that didn’t sit well with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The pay was great, though, and her holiday bonus had included company stock options. She owned stock! Pretty good for an immigrant girl from Guanajuato. And Mr. LeGros had invited her to Barbados next month. He was divorced, she knew, and lonely. She was lonely, too, although she had yet to give him an answer. But she couldn’t help wonder how her life might change if she went. Plus, the whole investigation was a bit exciting, she had to admit, like in the movies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The phone rang, disrupting her thoughts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Offices of Mr. Carmichael and Mr. LeGros.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is Agent Mulvaney from the Securities and Exchange Commission. Is Inez Guerrero available?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez swallowed. “Yes?” Her voice was too high.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ms. Guerrero, your phone is tapped. This conversation is being recorded.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her mind raced, wondering what she’d said to Mr. LeGros, recalling his invitation to Barbados over the phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ms. Guerrero, we’ve noted some irregularities in your visa paperwork. Immigration and Customs Enforcement has been double checking some things for us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What?” She struggled to grasp the meaning. “What seems to be the problem?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Some minor issues. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Can you meet my partner and me for lunch? At Guapo’s? 12:30?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Forty minutes later, Inez entered the restaurant. It was one she went to regularly, although usually not dressed for work as she was today. Paco waved, lifting a tray as she walked by the hostess. Mulvaney and his partner were easy to spot – the only two suits in the dive Mexican restaurant frequented by day laborers who likely didn’t have the papers for legal jobs. Both men stood as she approached. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m Mulvaney,” the taller one said, extending his hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez didn’t shake it. “I have nothing to hide,” she bluffed quietly. “I’m certain my paperwork is in order. What is this really about?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gesturing with his extended hand, Mulvaney indicated his partner. “This is Wilkins. Please sit, Ms. Guerrero.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez stood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please.” This time it was Wilkins who spoke, gesturing toward the bench seat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez looked at her watch, then sat. “You have fifteen minutes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re correct. Your paperwork is fine.” Mulvaney spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez felt something cold and hard in her stomach melt at this confirmation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s your boss. We’re investigating Carmichael. He’s dug himself a deep hole. He’s likely betting on your assistance to help him out of it. You and James Robinson from IT. James has been busy lately, deleting files like mad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inez couldn’t help but gasp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“In addition to the phones, we’re watching the entire network. But what’s brought us here, to you, today?” Here Mulvaney paused. “You’ve got an interesting folder on your computer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Both men were staring now, seeming to watch her every inhalation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But if that folder were copied, say, onto this drive,” he continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here, another pause, and Wilkins slid a small manila envelope across the table. “Your visa irregularities would go away.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But you just said that everything was in order.” Inez hated how her accent became stronger with her frustration.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sometimes problems come up. We’d hate to hand you over to ICE. In fact, we’d hate for ICE to have to raid this entire establishment.” Mulvaney looked over his shoulders. “These people seem like hard-working folk. It would be a shame.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Struggling to keep her thoughts in order, Inez wasn’t going to be bullied. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re threatening me. You’re threatening everyone here. I don’t even know what folder you’re talking about. How am I supposed to know what’s going on here? If my boss is doing something wrong, then arrest him. Why do I have to be involved?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mulvaney smiled as if she were a child. “Inside the envelope are instructions. Do as they say. It’s all there, what files, how to copy them. What to do once they’re on the drive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The three stood to leave just as Paco, the waiter, arrived.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hola Inez,” he smiled. “You are leaving?” Paco looked concerned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We already ate.” Wilkins laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back at the office, Inez felt shaky. What if something was amiss with her visa? What if this demand for information was only the beginning? The envelope was in her satchel. It was light, but the burden of it weighed on her as she clocked back in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey girl,” Jimmy smiled, leaning on her desk. “Listen, I need to run some updates and check for some stuff on your computer. You mind?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He was already coming around to her side of the desk. She noticed he had that same small piece of motherboard he’d had when she’d let him into Mr. Carmichael’s office for what he’d called the “cleaning.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Can you give me a moment?” She coughed. “I’m in the middle of a merge. Maybe an hour?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sure thing,” he walked down the hall. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mr. Carmichael had taken the rest of the afternoon off, and Mr. LeGros was in a meeting with the bank, promising photos of the Barbados condo later. This was probably the longest stretch of time she’d have without either of them interrupting. She searched in her bag for the envelope, then slit it carefully with the letter file in her drawer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inside the padded envelope was a tiny flash drive. She’d never seen one so small. Unfolding the paper inside, her hands were shaking so much she nearly dropped the flash drive. She read the instructions, which were simple and clear. Truly, she had no choice, even if all was well with her visa. Or did she? What if she went to Barbados and never came back? What if Jimmy deleted it before she could copy it? Trembling, she held the drive in both hands, like a prayer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-13881402082309949902018-08-08T05:52:00.002-07:002018-08-08T05:52:42.383-07:00Honey<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<b>Prompt</b>: I never knew | <b>Word Count: </b>1770 words | <b>Genre</b>: Fiction<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never knew her real name. I only knew her as Honey, which probably fit her better than any legal name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The first time I saw Honey, I almost laughed aloud. I’m embarrassed to say that today. But if you’d seen her that day, well, you’d get it. Honey was riding a bike, and she was wearing a crown of flowers. The flowers were plastic and faded: orange and yellow and used-to-be-red. Some had petals missing, and the leaves weren’t so green anymore on account of the sun. I saw her coming and she waved at me and grinned that smile with most of the teeth missing. And I snickered and giggled a bit because I could tell she was higher than the clouds, but I waved back, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She rolled to a stop right in front of my camp acting like she knowed me. I even wondered if I did know her because I used to drink too much back then. It was a way of passing those long nights on the edge of the park and quieting those demons inside of me. But that was before my first moment of clarity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey, Soldier,” she cooed. “You remember Honey, now, don’t you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, to be honest, I didn’t know her at all, but sometimes on the street it helps to play along. And she knew my name, Soldier, which is what all the street folk called me on account of my Army jacket. I am not book smart, but I keep learning even if school is in my past.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She rummaged in the basket on the handlebars and handed me a dirty rag wrapped around something small and heavy for its size. “I probably missed your birthday.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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She pedaled away, those flowers bobbing with her graceful movement. I unwrapped the object. It was a busted watch face, no band, with spidery cracks crossing the face which said 4:13. I don’t know why I remember that. I looked up again, and Honey had just turned a corner and was gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The second time I saw her, she remembered the watch. I’d been sleeping one off and she woke me up, shaking my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey, do you like the watch?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Think I lost it,” I shrugged, in that weird state between drunk and hung over. I thought she’d be mad. Usually these women street folk bend to vengeance if you cross them, but not Honey. In fact, she sidled up next to me, minding my stench less than I did, threw her blanket over us and fell asleep. In spite of my tiredness, I found it difficult to drift off, so unused to physical company was I. And her dreadlocked head smelled like yellow grass. Eventually slumber did come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By morning, she was gone, but her blanket remained. Soft dreams of Honey had filled my sleep, but I doubted darkly any future. The street is no place for romance, and the prospect of more than mere survival is dangerous. Honey sharing space with me meant nothing. I told myself that all morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She didn’t return to claim her blanket for three days, and she was in a bad way when she did show up. It tore me near in half to see her strung that way, worse even than the bruises on her face and around her long neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She wouldn’t talk to me, but we walked to the soup kitchen. She nibbled at what she could eat with the few teeth left in her mouth. She’d lost that crown of flowers, too. Now, you might be thinking that she was homely. She wasn’t. Despite her bruises and lack of teeth, when she wasn’t sick, she glowed. Her cinnamon skin looked lit up from within. On days like that, she’d dance in the dappled shade of the cottonwoods, moving to music that no one else heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Street folk like us are a pretty loose organization. Someone new is always arriving, others move on. A few are constant fixtures, like me. I arrived in ’72 with my wife Janine. We weren’t street folk then. We had a little trailer we lived in that we pulled with our car. Car broke down and I found a job bagging groceries. Janine found work as a crossing guard. But then she got sick. I lost my job on account of the time I had to miss to care for her. We had to sell the trailer when she went into the hospital, and I lived in the car for a while, until she was gone. I drank myself to oblivion for a long span. I was probably trying to kill myself, but I was doing it the slow way. I can see that now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jimbo and Simpson arrived shortly after me. And Annette has been here a couple years but we avoid her. She’s crazy like a loon, voices in her head and such, and she lashes out violently if they tell her to. She gets locked up pretty regular, but always comes right back to the park. Most of us here have issues, but Annette is truly crazy. We keep to ourselves, mostly, understanding that we’re out here because we don’t fit in with regular society. We need more space than regular folk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But Honey shook me up. I wasn’t in love with her, I swear. She was nothing like my Janine. She was maybe twenty, too young for a geezer like me. We never talked much. There was some quality about her, though, that made the light seem different. You know, like after a summer thunderstorm that ends just before sunset, and everything is clean and golden for a spell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The last day I saw Honey - that’s where this story was going. It was getting near fall, the mornings crisp and bright and I was stiff and achy from the night’s chill. I’d been drinking since I don’t know when with Jimbo. Honey was walking toward us, quite some distance away. Even from a hundred yards, I could tell that she was strung again, and limping, too. She held her head high on that long graceful neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sitting up, I waved her over. She approached and I could see then that her ankle was bruised and swollen. She had a fat lip and a black eye forming. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey Soldier,” she whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sit down, Honey.” I was trying to stand up to help her, but I wasn’t much help in my drunk state.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She eased herself down, mostly falling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m so tired,” she whispered, a fresh drop of blood glistened in the split of her lower lip. She was asleep almost immediately. I sat with her, wondering if her john was looking for her and if he was the one who’d beaten her this time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I covered her with my blankets, but later she was feverish and kicked them off. I’d never seen her this bad, but by nightfall she was vomiting, nothing but bile coming up. Her lip had cracked open again and her eye was swollen shut. I was starting to think her ankle was broken, it was swelled up like a ball and she cried out if anything touched it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“She don’t look so good.” Jimbo said, passing the bottle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I swigged, feeling the relief of alcohol entering my bloodstream. “Never seen her this bad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jimbo knelt down and starting rocking forward and back, “Please Jesus, help Honey.” He closed his eyes and murmured, mixing up prayers he’d learned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Jimbo, go get dinner. Bring some back for Honey.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He finished his prayer, nodded, and ran off in his lopsided way across the park. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Honey was shivering, probably her teeth would chatter if she’d enough of them. I was getting scared. I couldn’t keep the blankets on her, so I laid down next to her and threw my arm and leg over. It felt like she was going to bust apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then I heard Annette coming, fire and brimstone flying from her mouth. I knew she’d see us, that Honey and I would be attacked by that crazy woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Harlot!” She cried and I sat up. A rock hit me, square in the jaw, knocking a couple teeth out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Scrambling up as best I could, I picked up the rock and faced Annette. Her eyes were wild, spittle covered her chin and her face and arms were covered in scratches.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Honey moaned. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Annette threw another rock, but this time I ducked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Annette, I don’t want to hurt you. You need to leave.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I could hear sirens and hoped someone else had called the authorities about Annette.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I. Am. Not. Annette.” She screamed each word separately and reached into her pocket. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was afraid she had another rock, or worse, and so I threw the one in my hand. It hit her square in the shoulder, knocking her down, but she scrambled right up. I scanned the ground for another rock, or anything I could use to protect myself and Honey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From behind me, I heard a voice over a bullhorn. “This is the police. Put your hands up! Now!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was relieved but also afraid. The police always were rough with us, even those of us like me who committed no crimes. I knew they’d take Annette away and they’d get Honey to the hospital, but I’d probably end up in County.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I fell to my knees, raising up my hands. Annette, seeing my vulnerable position, charged me, knocking me down. She was trying to bite my hands, my face. The police were there soon enough, hauling her off and cuffing her; they rolled me over and cuffed me, face down in the dirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please,” I said. “Help my friend. Under the blankets.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The two officers peeled back the blankets and Honey rolled over, facing me. She was smiling weakly. One officer used his radio to call for help, the other knelt and checked the pulse on her neck. She was turning blue, like she’d stopped breathing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cried out, desperate to help her. I struggled to my feet. Everything went black.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I woke later in jail; I must’ve blacked out. I don’t remember what happened after Honey had smiled at me. They dried me out in the drunk tank and eventually I went back to the park. I wish I could say I quit drinking that day, but every day I fight that demon. I still look for Honey. It’s been seven months now. I hope one of these days she’ll ride up on that bike, a new flower crown on her head, smiling that toothless grin, bearing gifts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-15884338631533155882018-07-20T12:39:00.000-07:002018-07-20T12:39:22.619-07:00Josie and the Pussycats<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in 0in 19.5pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Josie latched the kennel door. “See you later, Muffin.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">She stepped to the next one, reading the card on the door. “Hello, Schmoopie. Can I pet you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Schmoopie retreated as far back as she could, folding her ears down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">“How about if we just talk instead?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Josie whispered words of encouragement through the grated door. A moment later, she lifted the latch. Perhaps Schmoopie would be more comfortable now. Gently, she eased open the door, keeping her voice low and steady. Schmoopie’s ears stayed alert, but folded Josie reached inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">“Ok. If you don’t want any petting, this is not a problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Josie thought about the six months since she began volunteering at Benny’s Animal Shelter. Her life was in disarray: in January, her dad had died. Her son had totaled his pickup due to black ice. He was fine but couldn’t afford to replace it, even with the insurance. And Louis had left her in March. His bass boat was still in the carport but everything else was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">But these moments with the cats at the shelter: when she didn’t need to interact with anyone or try to make small talk. The cats needed her. Not her specifically, but someone. And she needed them, both the ones that purred easily and were adopted before she returned, and the tough ones like Schmoopie, going through a rough patch. Mirroring her own self, she thought. They asked nothing from her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Angie, her best friend since seventh grade, had warned her against volunteering. “It’ll be depressing – all those caged cats!” But it was not depressing. It was very centering, allowing Josie to focus only on that moment and that purpose. She looked forward to it, even, especially with cats like Shmoopie, who would be there a while, and who needed time to build up trust.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-4216666738962151062018-06-13T09:54:00.000-07:002018-06-14T06:15:54.982-07:00Home Before Dark<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Prompt: Forbidden Places | Word Count: 1800 | Genre: Fantasy<o:p></o:p></div>
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The creature remained, curled into itself, wound tight as a spring, waiting. Sometimes it lost hope, having waited for a millennium already, here in the darkness. But it waited.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Now, Ari, don’t you go too far. I expect you both home before dark.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stuffing her backpack with snacks Ari nodded. “You bet, Pop. By dark. Gotcha.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ready?” Phae asked, her own backpack bulging.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Phae, did you hear me? By dark,” their father repeated, wheeling his chair into the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, bye!” and they were off, the door slamming behind them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yesterday they’d happened to pass the entrance to the tunnel, the bars that usually blocked it had been pulled aside as if by a great force. They’d explored briefly, knowing they’d need some supplies and food before proceding farther. Maybe this was the tunnel of legend, the one where the Treasure of Blue Plaines was supposedly hidden. All their lives they’d heard of it, the treasure buried some centuries before by early settlers: gold, definitely; jewels, perhaps. As they approached the entrance now, each girl donned her headlamp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You first,” Phae said, making a step for her younger sister with her entwined fingers. Ari easily climbed inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae then grabbed the culvert edge and pulled herself up. An earthen tunnel veered to the right and they took it. Switching on their headlamps after a dozen or so yards, Phae noted the hairy roots snaking along the walls of the tunnel. Phae followed Ari, stepping carefully along the uneven floor. Looking back, the entrance was no longer visible, but the light captured the voyage of the motes of dust in the air. Phae resumed her path, Ari’s silhouetted figure some distance ahead. This was as far as they’d gotten yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Another fork,” Ari called back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Wait, let’s get the string now.” Phae rummaged in her backpack, finding what she needed: a ball of string the size of a cantaloupe. She tied the end to a long nail, which she easily pushed into the dirt where the wall of the tunnel gradually became the floor. She let out some slack and then dropped the ball into her pack, letting the line feed itself as they walked on, taking the right fork.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The walls grew damper. In places, muddy puddles sucked at their shoes. After a while, the tunnel sloped down steeply. Makeshift steps were slick, worn by the rivulets that streamed down. Except for their footsteps, the girls were silent, grabbing roots when their footing slipped. The air grew colder as the tunnel floor became more level. After some time, the tunnel forked again. The girls went right, the drier path more appealing than the other. They continued. Soon the tunnel widened. The girls could no longer touch both sides. Continuing down the center, they soon found themselves within a small room, but ahead in the glow of their headlamps, an opening loomed darker compared to the glistening walls on either side of where they stood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ari grabbed Phae’s hand and they continued, side by side. Through this opening they went, until the path came to a T, the tunnel continuing at a right angle on both sides.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Left.” Phae was adamant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ok. Turn, though. Let me check the string.” Ari unzipped the pack, pulling out a small handful of string. Then she opened her own and found a skein of considerable size. Knotting the ends of the string and the full skein, she tied them together. The girls set off on the left of the T.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The wall curved to the right and Phae and Ari stepped into an immense cavern. The feeble light from their headlamps couldn’t illuminate the far reaches, but the walls near the girls were no longer earthen. Instead, slick grey granite shone. The walls glistened with moisture and from all around came the trickle and gurgle of streams of flowing water.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Holding hands, Phae and Ari ventured into the chamber. Ahead a shadowy shape loomed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Squeezing her grip on Phae’s hand, Ari whispered, “That’s a rock, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae didn’t answer, but raised their joined hands to point, nodding slightly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still unsure, though, the girls approached cautiously, curious but wary. They circled around the stone. The air here was cold, puffs of vapor emerged with each exhale. On the far side of the large stone Phae relaxed her grip. Maybe this underground landmark would indicate a likely spot for the treasure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yep. A boulder.” Ari’s voice echoed in the cavern.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae exhaled, the plume of her breath rising. For a moment, all was silent. All was still.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, a shudder radiated across the floor. Phae and Ari clammered to hold one another as the large stone before them shook and rippled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Definitely not a stone!” Ari shrieked, pulled Phae with her away from the not-a-stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The stone continued to shimmer, growing smaller, then larger, then spinning into a whirr of light and motion. Then, the motion changed, becoming a twisting back and forth, not unlike a wet dog shaking itself dry. The creature flung sparkled in all directions as it shook. Each of these sparkles behaved like an insect, a bee perhaps, bumbling in unpredictable flights that vanished after a few moments. The back and forth twirling slowed and fewer and fewer sparkles were emitted until a low groan sounded, coming from the slowed motion. The groan increased in volume, and the girls covered their ears as a creature grew and unwound, reaching the ceiling with what appeared to be its head and outstretched arms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cowering, the girls had made themselves smaller as the creature grew and groaned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Your light,” Ari whispered, quickly pressing the off button on her own lamp with shaking hands. Phae switched her light off, yet the creature glowed in the darkness, allowing the girls to see.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Abruptly, the creature shrank until it was only slightly larger than the girls. It spun itself and as it slowly stopped, it took on a more human appearance in its form, although it still seemed made of the same smooth granite as the walls of the cavern. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Welcome,” it called, facing the girls and extending its arms, which stretched and reached to with inches of Phae and Ari.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terrified, the girls clung to one another. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do not be afraid.” The hand-like appendages waved and gestured, appearing to invite the girls nearer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hesitant, they looked at one another and then stepped forward together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please.” The creature gestured again. “Yes. Further now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae and Ari inched closer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The arms encircled them and then all three were spinning, twisting into a blur. The girls’ voices no longer worked as the force of the spin forced them closer and closer to the creature until with a pop! they merged. The three became one being.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae felt their motion slowing, could feel her heart racing. She thought, “Ari, where are you? Are you ok? I think I am ok.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I am here,” came Ari’s soundless answer. “I am not hurt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then the voice of the creature again, “Welcome.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The motion had slowed considerably. Each girl now emerged, separate from the creature and each other. The motion stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Blinking, reaching toward one another for balance, Phae and Ari shook off their dizziness. They were no longer in the cavern. Instead, a stark desert, treeless and expansive stretched in all directions. The creature’s hands rested on their shoulders. As the girls looked up at it, its granite-like skin changed, matching the scenery, including the cloudless sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae caught Ari’s eye. “What is this place?” she sputtered, her voice returned. “What… Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“All in time. All in time.” The creature steered them and they began to walk through the desert. It was not hot, but dusty and dry. There was light, but no sun. In the distance a building shimmered, appearing and disappearing like a mirage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s that?” Ari pointed, stopping. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Our destination, where you will learn the reason you are here and what you must accomplish before you return to your world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But we didn’t come here to do a job for you.” Ari said. “We came here to fi----”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We came here for our own reasons,” Phae interrupted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The creature said nothing and they continued toward the building, but Phae looked back, wondering how to return.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some time later, the doors of the building opened widely as the group of three approached. Inside, the tiles emitted a refreshing darkness that was cool after the brightness of the desert. The creature led them to an area that was raised and lit from above by a circular skylight. It stepped into the shaft of light, and again changed its skin to match the surrounding environment. The girls watched, mouths agape in wonder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae whispered to Ari, “We’ve got to get out of here. This isn’t why we came.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ari nodded. “But how?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m just going to tell it to take us back.” Phae cleared her throat. “Uh, excuse me, but we need to go. We have to get home, you see.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The creature grew taller and turned its gaze toward them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So, um, yeah. We’re leaving. Sorry we can’t help. Uh, bye.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Together the girls turned and walked toward the entrance, looking back repeatedly at the impassive creature, which became more difficult to see the farther they moved. They broke into a run, hoping the doors would open automatically as they had when they’d entered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Open…. sesame!” Ari commanded as they approached.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please, open,” Phae yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But nothing happened. The doors remained closed, and the girls forced themselves to stop, nearly crashing into the doors. Phae pounded on the door while Ari tried prying the other apart. Ari glanced back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s still there,” she whispered, grunting. “It hasn’t moved.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae stopped pounding and looked. “It looks frozen. I wonder if we…” She grabbed Ari’s hands and began to spin, as if they were dancing together. “I wonder if we can spin ourselves back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let’s try,” Ari said, leaning back so they could spin faster. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Around and around they went, turning faster until dizzy and tired from the effort, one of them tripped and fell, bringing the other down too. Phae was laughing and trying to catch her breath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s gone. The creature’s gone.” Ari was breathless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Maybe it’s just blending in.” Phae got to her knees, swaying a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The girls looked around, searching for the creature that had brought them here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know if I want to find it,” Phae said. “Maybe it’s better this way. I think it wants to keep us here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let’s make a run for it, Phae.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phae tried to stand and found that most of her dizziness had left. Ari pulled herself up with Phae’s help. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look!” Phae pointed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The end of a string was visible, leading down a hall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-30173688956514828002018-05-16T05:54:00.000-07:002018-05-16T05:54:22.457-07:00The Fire Pit<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Prompt: Distinctive Markings | Word Count: 1199 | Genre: Fiction<o:p></o:p></div>
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Janie adjusted the bangs on her wig, pulling small segments between her thumbs and forefingers. Frowning at her image, she tousled the bangs. She had not had bangs before the accident. She turned a bit, to view herself from a slightly different angle, and adjusted the collar of her blouse. Nothing helped. The scars still showed. Again, she began to work on the wig, attempting to better cover what she didn’t want seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ok, sis, ready?” Tim appeared reflected in the mirror. He tossed and caught his keys, grinning. “First day of high school. My baby sis, so grown up. If you hurry, we’ll stop at the Donut Shoppe. My treat.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Again Janie frowned. Her eyes darted to the basket of makeup on the vanity. Even when all her friends in junior high had experimented with so much makeup, Janie had only ever used mascara. She didn’t like how makeup felt. And yet now, it seemed as necessary as armor for battle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nope, no time. Gotta go.” Tim sighed. “No amount of makeup will help. We gotta be realistic.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Jerk,” she whispered, pummeling him gently with her fists. She was smiling a little bit. The fact that he was teasing her was a reminder of how far she’d come; that he didn’t feel like he needed to be so gentle anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tim grabbed her hands. “We’ve been through this. Everyone knows about the accident. You don’t need to hide it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Janie turned back toward the mirror. She knew her brother was right. Centerville Heights was a small town. Everyone knew about everything, including her accident at the fire pit. Shoot, lots of kids from school had witnessed it. She and Mary Catherine weren’t even supposed to be at the fire pit. It was really only for high school kids, but they’d begged Tim until he relented. She’d told Dad that she was spending the night at Mary Catherine’s; Mary Catherine had told her parents she was staying at Janie’s. But she could recall nothing of the incident itself. She remembered it had been a really cold February evening. That one basketball player had been there, the really handsome one. She remembered seeing him across the fire pit. She remembered saying to Mary Catherine that she wouldn’t have minded being one with the fire, a bit of hyperbole, a vocabulary word they’d learned that week in English. Janie’s next memory was waking up in Holy Family. Somehow, by then, it was the end of April.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her lower face was unaffected. It was the hair, forehead, and her left ear that had been damaged the most, but the burns extended down along her neck to her left shoulder and upper arm. And then there were the scars from where the doctors had grafted her own skin. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What she missed most was her hair. She’d had beautiful wavy hair before, her father calling her his auburn beauty, claiming Janie’s hair even more lovely than her late mother’s. She knew no one else who had hair that color. All that was left was a tiny patch at her nape, which had been buzz cut short. The wig she hated, but it was necessary. She hadn’t worn it much, and not once outside of the house yet. Her dad had cried and left the hospital room when the doctor said that Janie’s hair growing back was impossible. And now Dad worked so much, trying to pay the bills. She couldn’t help but wonder if he couldn’t face seeing her, if that was why he was working so many shifts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Janie felt her eyes welling with tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nope, nope. No.” Tim’s voice was firm. “Girls never cry in Tim’s truck. You’re gonna have to find another hitch if that dam spills over.” He was holding her gently in his arms now, rocking her a bit. Somehow he knew where the nerves were tender, where it was distressing to have pressure, and he avoided those areas. Even the nurses in the hospital sometimes bumped against areas that were too tender for touch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t think I’m ready.” Janie whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tim exhaled. “But if you go today, you’ll get it over with. What you’re dreading.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I can’t believe Dad isn’t here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You know he needed to take that shift. You know he’s thinking of you.” A pause. “Did you eat?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Janie shook her head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ok, then, we’d better go. I need donuts.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She felt a little better than she expected once she got in the truck, but she insisted the windows all be rolled up. She didn’t want to risk even one hair moving out of place. Once they turned from the neighborhood onto the main street, though, Janie was hit by a barrage of memories. She hadn’t left the house over summer except for doctor’s appointments and therapy. But now, heading the away from the hospital, she saw places she used to go before, she recalled memories of before, and thought of people she hadn’t seen since before. A flood from before washed over her. She’d spent so much time just concentrating on each present moment, trying to get through the pain and trying to manage the difficulties of her involuntary transformation. She’d had no time, had no energy to focus much on the past, much less on the future.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mary Catherine had been away at summer camp, her first year working as a counselor. Janie had a vague recollection of Mary Catherine visiting at the hospital. But they hadn’t really seen each other since the accident. Realizing this made her realize how absent Mary Catherine had been. They’d been friends forever, all through junior high without much drama. Did they have an unbreakable bond or not?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tim pulled into the Donut Shoppe. “You coming in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She shook her head, and as his door closed, she checked her wig in the rearview. She could feel herself turning into one of those women who checks her compact multiple times an hour and she did not want to be like that. But she couldn’t bear not checking, not knowing how badly her scars were showing, what people would see when they looked at her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She couldn’t help it, though, and checked the mirror again, compulsively adjusting the wig, pulling and pushing strands of hair this way and that. As she sat back, she noticed high school students were surrounding the truck. Some she recognized from her grade and others were friends of her brother. At the front of the truck, each of them holding a box of donuts, stood Tim and Mary Catherine. Everyone was smiling and waving to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She rolled the window down but couldn’t speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We’re here to welcome you back,” a familiar voice said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And Mary Catherine was there, at the door, opening it. “Tim and I didn’t want you to walk in to school without us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Janie stepped from the car and found herself enveloped in a warm gathering of friends, each of them calling out to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We missed you, Janie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So good to see you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tears fell as Tim and Mary Catherine stood on either side of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Now you know why I told you not to wear make-up,” he whispered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-36728582460778033092018-04-18T05:47:00.000-07:002018-04-18T05:47:09.403-07:00Not for Sale<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Prompt: Buy or sell | Word count: 755 words | Genre: Fiction</div>
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“Senator! A word?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator turned toward the sound of the voice in the shadowy parking garage. He peered at the source, trying to identify whoever had called to him. A young man stepped out from the dusk, his face vaguely unfamiliar, the dark suit generic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” the Senator turned and continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Perfect,” said the young man. “Me too. I’ll walk with you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Keep up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What would it take to secure your lack of support for the bill they’re reading tomorrow morning?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now the Senator stopped and turned, really exploring the face of the young man in the suit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What would it take?” the young man asked again, his face earnest and bright.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are hoping to bribe me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh gosh,” the man in the suit actually blushed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator turned and began walking again, this time at a faster clip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But sir! Senator!” The man in the suit leapt ahead to engage with the Senator again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Who do you represent?” the Senator asked, leaning into the man’s face. “I’m not that kind of Senator.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh, I’m not so sure you’re not.” He gripped the Senator’s arm just above the elbow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wincing, the Senator rotated his arm to release. The man’s hold was like an iron band. “Leave me alone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Backing away, the man smiled. “See you later.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator stumbled a bit as he resumed his walk, rubbing his arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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*** <o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re trailing me. This guy in the parking garage! On Wednesday, I was followed here!” The Senator picked up the highball glass his aide had just set down. He exhaled and then brought the glass to his lips, finishing the contents in one fluid motion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sir, we can make sure it won’t happen again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator held up his hand. “Can you get – oh what’s his name? Jimmy? Can he be here by the end of the meeting? To get me home and back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m on it.” The aide’s phone was to his ear before he’d even exited the office.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator crossed his arms and sat brooding over the lights of the city beyond the window. A sharp knock, then the door opened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sir,” Marla entered, pencil tapping on the clipboard in her hands. “Jimmy will be here to escort you home, no later than 8:45. Your 7:30 is here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Thank you, Marla.” The Senator did not turn from the window as Marla left.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The man entering adjusted his tie and smiled. “Senator. We meet again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator stood, his chair rolling into the credenza behind it. “You? From the parking garage?” The Senator’s hand shot out to buzz security on his intercom, but the man in the suit intercepted his wrist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let’s talk. The two of us. No need to involve anyone else.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator twisted his arm to release the man’s grip. The man raised both arms as if to surrender. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“May I?” The man gestured to the upholstered chair behind him. He sat, looking quite comfortable, while the Senator remained upright.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well?” The Senator prompted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The man smiled, his gaze down. As he looked up, “Are we ready then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator said nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t need to tell you who I work for. But I do want to say that we can develop a mutually beneficial relationship.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Get to the point.” The Senator spoke through his teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t let the bill come to the floor. You have the power to stop it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I need to know-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No.” The man stood now. “No, you don’t. But if you stop that bill, you will be rewarded. If not…” He shook his head. “Well, you don’t want to know, do you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator shook his head in fury. “You don’t understand who I –“<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s you who lacks understanding. The bill will not come to the floor. It will not.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The man walked around the desk and held out a hand to shake. He took both of the Senator’s hands in his. Smiling broadly, he said, “This bill. Will not. Come to the floor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator was twisting and crumpling. The man released the Senator’s hands and walked toward the door. The Senator cradled his hands as best he could. The man turned as he placed his hand on the knob. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are we clear?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator emitted a small yelp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Wonderful.” The man opened the door. “I’ll be in touch.” He exited. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Senator struggled to find his way across his office, his hands swelling and becoming purple even as he did so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Help,” he cried. “Help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-63699171257478562252018-03-21T05:28:00.000-07:002018-03-21T05:29:39.797-07:00Happy Birthday to Me<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Prompt:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Celebration<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>|<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Word count:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2501 words<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>|<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Genre:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fiction</div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Julie dropped the invitations in the blue postal box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was gratifying to hear the low groan of metal as she released the handle of the little door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty invitations would find their way to the homes of people she used to work with, used to live with, or once knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Briefly, she wondered if they’d remember her, and then she felt a moment of panic:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>what if no one showed up at the requested time and date?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she shoved those doubts aside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the time for action, not mulling.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">In exactly twenty-eight days her party would take place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, today, she had an appointment with the caterer, she needed to return the DJ’s call, and she needed to decide on decorations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did people still use twisted crepe paper ribbons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d bought a few strands of battery-powered lights and some vases to make centerpieces like she’d seen on Pinterest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would definitely be her greatest triumph, if she could pull it off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">A couple of days later, Rob unlocked and opened his door, picking up the small pile of mail that had been dropped through the slot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple fliers, a water bill, and a small handwritten envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tossing the others aside on the kitchen counter, he loosened his collar and tore open the invitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie’s fortieth?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He scanned the envelope for a return address and last name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie… Wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The intern?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one he’d dated briefly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two or three months, tops, it had lasted. But jeez, that had to have been twenty years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty at least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why was she resurfacing in his life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Rob let a pleasant memory surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must have been their second or third date, before he’d realized how bat shit crazy she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d cooked dinner together, a complicated Italian dish that another, previous intern had taught him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment, he let himself be distracted by that other intern, Maria-Theresa, who had the slightest accent from growing up in a Rome suburb, luscious, wavy hair, and the repressed fury of a devout Catholic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, how fun it had been to seduce her!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had taken months and months, but the challenge had made him feel like a man, a real, virile man.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">But Julie, not Maria-Theresa, had sent this invitation, requesting his presence at her birthday party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been more than a decade and a half since he’d last had contact with her, a job recommendation of some sort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strange to receive this invitation now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He surmised that she’d Googled his current address.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Julie continued making plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The caterer was a dream to work with, ready to listen to every idea and then somehow upgrade it so that it was a notch above Julie’s expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, it was going to be expensive, but she was worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had taken her decades to realize that:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That she had inherent value, even.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The meal, though, would be exquisite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three courses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first, figs stuffed with brie and wrapped in prosciutto, then the purest, lightest consommé with a dollop of crème fraîche and butternut squash tortellini.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then dessert:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a lemon bar drizzled with lavender-infused honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All accompanied by some special wines from Paso Robles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everything tiny and nearly bite-sized, but so lovely on the plates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made her mouth water just thinking of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Still, though, a sense of unease lingered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was the point?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How was she going to pull this off?</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Elisa, even though she was running a bit late, re-opened the envelope, her curiosity again unable to stop positing theories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Her husband, Jack, hearing the paper slide out of the envelope, folded the newspaper down and looked at her over his new reading glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Really, Elisa?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked so annoyed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“I just don’t get it,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her brow wrinkling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She was my roommate seventeen years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got along great at first, but then when I got promoted and then got the corner office, well… She gave me the cold shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were barely speaking when I moved out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I even let her keep the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The couch that I bought!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She shook her head.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“So don’t go,” Jack said, disappearing again behind the newspaper.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“But it’s all so curious.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elisa slid the invitation back inside the envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can hardly stand the mystery of it all.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Jack rustled the newspaper as if in response.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“I’m going,” Elisa said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You don’t have to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I guess, technically, you aren’t even invited.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Julie’s last task before the party was to figure out what she was going to wear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t really like to shop; she never had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was always a challenge and nothing ever fit right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she armed herself with confidence and drove to the department store.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">A dress, she thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps even a little black dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d never bought one before but it seemed the perfect attire for a fortieth birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the store there were more options than she’d thought would be available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, how she hated shopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How much easier this might be if she had a friend to offer advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe one of the shop clerks could fill that role today.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Yet, as she scanned the racks, it seemed they were all busy behind the cash register.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one seemed to care if she took even a dozen dresses to try on to the fitting room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Under the hum of the fluorescent lights, Julie undressed and began trying on the dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she expected, some issue claimed each one and the pile of discards grew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One was too tight in the hips, another gaped at the bust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A third had confusing cut-outs near the armholes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just where did her appendages go?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strapless one was just too strange and slinky, more like lingerie than a dress.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">And then, with only two to go, one fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It flattered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It emphasized all her assets without drawing attention to her deficits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked pretty, or perhaps even classy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was perfect.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Shoes, evening bag, a bracelet that was probably too expensive, given the total of everything else she was spending on the party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was all going according to plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was falling into place.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The invitation perplexed Celia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tenderly, she rubbed the barely visible scar on her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hadn’t spoken with Julie since the dog bite incident, and shortly after that her family had moved back to New Jersey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She couldn’t recall all the details because it had all happened so long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How old had they been, eleven?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They supposed themselves friends, but as Celia looked back at that time, she recognized that they’d had little in common but their age, gender, and the street they’d lived on. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">On the afternoon in question, Celia had been at Julie’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d been teasing the dog all afternoon, holding their snacks up high and encouraging Bruce to jump for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How he’d jump and land so awkwardly!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d laugh and Celia remembered how her cat Annabelle seemed the exact opposite of Bruce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie and Celia didn’t tire of this activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one they did regularly because Bruce was just an old, dumb dog, and never seemed to learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was always hilarious.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">This part, though, Celia recalled with a clarity that eluded most other childhood memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie tossed Celia a cube of cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia caught it and held it up, not as high as usual, just near her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was certain that Bruce wouldn’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was too old and growing tired of this game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then suddenly, Bruce’s hot, smelly breath was in her face, his jaws clamping not only her hand with the cheese, but also her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Impaled by a jagged canine, probably one that had chipped last week when they’d thrown rocks for dumb Bruce to catch and fetch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Celia pushed Bruce away, the tooth pulled, ripping a ragged gap just below her cheekbone that would later require plastic surgery to hide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia and Julie had both been so shocked by the amount of blood that neither could explain to the adults what had happened.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Later, in the emergency room, Celia’s parents forbid her from ever associating with Julie again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the phone in the hospital, Celia overheard her father calling Animal Control and insisting that Bruce be put down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a contact at the mayor’s office, damn it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After her face had been stitched, her cheeks and mouth numb, the nurse insisted on cleaning the superficial wounds on her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia opened her palm, and there was the cheese, soft and grimy. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">But now, she looked at the invitation and knew she would attend Julie’s party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything had ended so abruptly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia owed it to her old friend to help celebrate this milestone.</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The day of the event arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie made phone calls, finalizing the details and confirming the particulars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she arrived at the venue a few hours early, the caterer’s team was finishing the table decorations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all so beautiful that she gasped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She went from table to table, noting the layout, the flowers, the lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all seemed such a waste.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">In a small alcove off the main room, a table was ready to be wheeled into the party on Julie’s command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atop it, in matching gift-wrapped boxes, were identical party favors, each addressed to a guest and meant to be opened upon their return home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie touched each box, her fingers tracing the names that had brought her such grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon, she told herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had anticipated for so long the release that would come with each of her guests learning the many ways in which they’d each disappointed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t so much that she wanted revenge; it was more like justice.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">She left to have her hair and nails done, confident that it would all be ready for her entrance after the guests arrived.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">***</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">After the spa treatments, Julie considered stopping by once more, just to check that all was in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was silly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no need; everything had been going so well and she would just appear neurotic if she stopped by again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this new decade, this new leaf she was turning – she was saying goodbye to that neurotic Julie and hello to the self-confidence she’d always sought.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Although she’d planned for it, she was still surprised that she had so much time to kill before her grand entrance at the party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She needed to get dressed, but everything else was ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, here she had more than an hour to kill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so she did drive back to the venue, popping in to double, triple check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one suspected anything; no one noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Finally, back at home, it was time to get dressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did so slowly, with intention, reveling in the look she’d managed to capture on this important day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sliding her feet into the beautiful shoes she’d found, she was ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Driving to the party, she had to pull over twice to let fire engines to fly past her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her heart leapt to see those same fire trucks blocking the entrance and smoke billowing from the roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There wasn’t even anyone directing traffic yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The events were still unfolding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carefully, slowly, she drove around the block, searching for a parking space while keeping her eyes on the black smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ash began raining down as she slid into a space and parked the car.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">She exited the vehicle, unaware that flakes of ash were settling on her hair and shoulders, disarming the sense of put-together style she’d worked so hard to achieve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her teetering manner, she wandered to the front of the building where she cut between the manicured and pruned elements of the landscaping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A police officer was now directing traffic, his car blocking two lanes of traffic to keep the onlookers further away from the scene.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Julie walked near the entrance, where at least a half-dozen firefighters stood, some having recently emerged from the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all gazed at the flaming roof, some leaning toward one another to communicate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Extracting a handkerchief from her matching clutch, Julie unfurled it, holding it over her mouth to help filter the smoke from her lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The firefighters hadn’t noticed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her ability to fade into the background, she finally realized, was an asset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An ambulance whizzed behind her, leaving the premises, its lights flashing silently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She watched it reach the road and the police officer held the traffic with his arms outstretched in both directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only when the ambulance had zipped by him did the siren begin to wail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Aside from the crackle of the firefighter radios and the fire, there was no other sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julie held her breath as a firefighter emerged from the building, leading the caterer who had been so kind and creative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another firefighter appeared, helping the woman to the ground and administering oxygen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another uniformed person appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke words that Julie could not hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The caterer shook her head several times, then the man led the caterer away.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The firefighters began to move closer to the building, spreading out along the perimeter, and now Julie noticed that another group of firefighters was pulling a large hose from behind a fire truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man at the front adjusted something and a powerful spray of water shot out while those behind him struggled to maintain control of the hose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, the roof collapsed, the firefighters pulled back, and still Julie watched, unable to turn away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smoke was thick, now mixed with dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A layer of ash coated everything, then the brusk wind would shift, lifting it and laying it down elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gradually, imperceptibly, the urgency of the situation, too, lifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those working the fire did so with less speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sirens moaned into the distance and quieted.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">By now she’d forgotten her party, forgotten the cost of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her make up was melting and the ash in her hair gave her the air of a woman twice her age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her fancy shoes were drenched with the grey water sheeting across the cement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">A firefighter appeared, holding a two-way radio up to his overly large helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lowering it, he approached where Julie stood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Excuse me,” she asked, her voice higher than she intended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Was anyone hurt?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">He shook his head, leaning in and removing the helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Was anyone hurt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the fire?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“No, not badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few were taken to the hospital as precaution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone was evacuated – some kind of party,” he sized her up a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You a reporter?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“No, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just,” she stuttered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s my birthday.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Well, then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy birthday!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He strode off and Julie was left alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">She surveyed the ruined building before her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d done it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the next one would be even better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, she thought, smiling broadly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy birthday to me.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368851273807686514.post-66613290182081131442018-02-21T15:16:00.000-08:002018-02-21T15:16:16.987-08:00The Test<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Price kept one test from the stack
passed to him and sent the rest on to the students to his right in the
auditorium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His stomach turned a bit
sour as he read the first question on the midterm test on the US Civil
War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could he keep all those battles
straight, how many were killed and how many wounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He flipped through the pages – Oh Jesus, a
map.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Price exhaled an audible
groan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students glanced his way and then
returned to their tests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Price looked at
the instructor and the graduate assistants, all of whom were glaring at him,
including one walking up the aisle closest to his seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quickly he looked again at the test, his eyes
searching for words with meaning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
This was a survey class, American
History, 100-level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was supposed to
be easy, and yet, his stomach churned with sour bile, sweat beaded just about
everywhere, his mouth was dry, his hands had gone clammy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The syllabus stated this test was 30% of the
course grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
These professors!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always nitpicking the smallest details!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The war was the North against the South. It
was simple!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Price understood the
importance of learning the names of the major battles, the generals, even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But why so many details?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why the exact locations of each
battlefield?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He set his pencil down on the tiny,
hinged piece of Formica that served as a desk, and wiped his hands on his
jeans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Focus!” he whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Sshhh!” hissed the response of the
graduate student monitoring the end of his row.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Price rolled his eyes and reached
for his pencil, which careened off the Formica and onto the slightly sloped
floor of the auditorium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rolled
toward the stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Price stood, and the graduate
student glared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sit!” he hissed, a
bubble of spittle flying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“I need my pencil,” Price stood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From all around came more “sssshhh”
requests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite them, Price clambered
over knees extending into the narrow row.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He needed that pencil.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
graduate student handed him one, which he might have appreciated if it had an
eraser and fewer teeth marks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless,
the clock was ticking, and Price had not marked a single response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sat, his thoughts swirling like the bile
in his stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them had nothing
to do with American history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to
focus, closing his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tapped the
pencil against his temple, tap… tap… tap…. Slowly, his mind began to quiet
itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He became conscious of a steady
scratching noise, at regular intervals, from his left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He opened his eyes and looked for
the sound’s source:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the steady scratching
of a #2 pencil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The student to his left
was prepared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was blonde and chubby,
in a way that he liked because it meant a larger cup size of bra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was fairly attractive and answered
question after question, barely hesitating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although he couldn’t see her face, she seemed familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What he could see, though, was her scantron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a lefty and didn’t block his view of
her answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Squinting a bit, he tried to see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t cheating exactly, not like some of
his frat brothers did – crib sheets or memorizing tests from the boxes in the
attic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a glance, an opportunity –
like when girls bent forward and you could see their glorious cleavage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, he decided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t cheating exactly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was simply taking advantage of an opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The pesky graduate student who had
given him the pencil was focused on students elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was now or never.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Price noted the first five answers with light
ticks on his scantron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could go back
later and bubble them in, but he needed to get all the responses he could
before this blonde finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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He squinted again at her test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would it kill her to move her arm a bit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, a few more answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swiftly he marked those and looked up for
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blonde flipped through the
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scantron.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No!” Price was positive he hadn’t
said it aloud, but the proctor had heard it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sssshhh!” he spat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The blonde raised her hand, then
stood, handing the test to the proctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Price felt himself deflating as student after student followed her lead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Five minutes!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the proctor announced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Price bubbled in the answers he’d
ticked, making them dark and complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had 43 more to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
referencing the test booklet, he began bubbling a random pattern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans, then
continued bubbling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had to work,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the answers were bound to
be correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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A student jostled him, trying to
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thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lifted his elbow to mop his
brow and became conscious of a strong odor from his armpit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d shower as soon as he got home, but hadn’t
he put on deodorant that morning?<o:p></o:p></div>
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“One minute!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the proctor announced, staring at Price.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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There were only two other students
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previous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hand it over.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a different graduate student.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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“But I’m not done.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Price continued bubbling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Time’s up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let me fin----“<o:p></o:p></div>
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But the graduate student had hold
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“But----“ Price called out as the
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head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without waiting for the reaction, Price
vaulted over row after row of seating, until he reached the aisle and could run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winded, he made it to the door, his breath
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><SCRIPT type='text/javascript' src='http://www.kiva.org/banners/bannerTower.php'></SCRIPT></div>Cathleen Cherryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04419722276746803568noreply@blogger.com1