By Martin Sercombe
In the sleepy Devon village of Holcombe Rogus, there is an annual cake baking celebration. All the cooks in the village come together to create a magnificent many-layered cake that tells the history of the village.
In the weeks leading up to the celebration, the village is abuzz with activity. Cooks scurry around, gathering ingredients, designing characters and baking their layers of cake. Each layer is carefully planned and crafted to depict a significant moment in the village's history. Some layers depict battles or natural disasters. Some are funny, showcasing the village's quirky characters and their antics. Others are sad, commemorating the losses and hardships the village has faced over the years.
When the day of the celebration arrives, the villagers gather in the village square. The cake, a towering masterpiece, is unveiled to gasps of awe and appreciation. The village bard, a seasoned storyteller, steps forward to recount the tales depicted in the cake.
As he speaks, the villagers are transported back in time, reliving each moment. The bard's words are so vivid the listeners can feel the warmth of the sun on their faces when he tells of bountiful harvests and shudder in fear when he recounts ancient hauntings.
When the stories have all been told the entire village settles down to a feast of cake, tea and laughter, ringing out until long after night falls upon the gathered crowd.
bj Glen L. Bledsoe
In this scene from the 1931 movie “Quill of the Crow” Dr. Quill (played by Raymond Massey, right) is preparing to place a mind probe on federal agent Hector Grain (played by Hans Conrad, seated) William Plough (played by Boris Karloff, left) holds Grain firmly in place while Dr. Quill prepares his infernal device.
By Martin Sercombe
By Martin Sercombe
In old English folklore, there existed a ceremonial custom of whispering poems inside a thimble as a way of preserving and honouring the spoken word.
Poets and bards would gather together in a dimly lit room, surrounded by flickering candles and hushed silence. One poet would bring with them a thimble, typically made of silver or gold, which they would carefully pass around the circle.
When the thimble reached each poet, he would take a deep breath and whisper a poem, sonnet, or verse that they had crafted specifically for the occasion. The belief behind this tradition was that by whispering the words into the thimble, they would be imbued with a special kind of power that would make them more meaningful and long-lasting. The thimble was seen as a kind of vessel for the poem, protecting it from being lost or forgotten over time.
Once each poet had whispered their poem into the thimble, it was passed to the next person in the circle, until every poem had been captured. Finally, the thimble would be placed on a small altar, where it would be carefully guarded and protected as a sacred object.
It was believed that by whispering the words into the thimble, they would be preserved for future generations, ensuring that the stories and traditions of the past would never be forgotten.
By Martin Sercombe
In the small village of St. Just, nestled among the rolling hills of Cornwall, there is an age-old tradition that has been passed down from generation to generation. Every year, at the village fete held in late summer, the old men of the village gather to compete in the Cornish Cloud Catching Contest.
The rules of the contest are simple: each participant must bring their own wheelbarrow and attempt to catch the biggest cloud they can find. The clouds must be caught using only the wheelbarrow, and the winner is the old man who catches the largest cloud, as judged by a panel of local farmers and meteorologists.
The contest takes place in a large field outside the village, where the sky is open and the clouds are big and fluffy. The old men arrive early in the morning, armed with their trusty wheelbarrows and a keen eye for the sky. They scan the horizon for signs of approaching clouds, watching for the telltale signs of size and density that might indicate a winner.
As the day wears on, the old men trundle their wheelbarrows across the field, chasing after the clouds that drift lazily overhead. Some clouds prove elusive, slipping from the wheelbarrow as it passes underneath. Others are more cooperative, settling gently into the waiting barrow with a satisfying whoosh.
The crowd gathers around the contestants, cheering and shouting encouragement as they jostle for position. The atmosphere is lively and festive, with music and dancing, food and drink, and the smell of freshly baked pasties wafting through the air.
At the end of the day, the judges gather together to weigh and measure the clouds. A winner is declared, and the village erupts in a chorus of cheers and applause. The winner is hoisted onto the shoulders of his fellow competitors and carried through the village in triumph.
By Martin Sercombe
In the quaint English village of Woodchester, there is an annual country dance that has been a tradition for over 300 years. The dance, known as the "Woodchester Wobble," is held on the summer solstice, and the villagers gather in the town square to participate in the festivities.
Before the dance begins, each dancer must take a sip from a small bottle of pickled herring juice, which is said to bring good luck. As the music begins, the dancers start to move in unison, performing a slow, wobbly dance that involves a lot of shuffling and twirling. Then a group of villagers dressed as giant bees will swarm around the dancers, buzzing loudly and flapping their wings.
At the height of the dance, a large pie is brought out and placed on a pedestal in the centre of the square. The dancers then form a circle around the pie and, with great solemnity, begin to chant in unison.
As they chant, the pie begins to rise slowly into the air. The dancers continue to chant, their voices growing louder and more intense, until the pie is floating high above the village, suspended in the air by some unseen force.
No one knows exactly how the Pie in the Sky ceremony began, but legend has it that it dates back to the time of the druids, who believed that the pie represented the sun, and that its ascent into the sky symbolized the beginning of summer.
By Martin Sercombe
“Here we see a detailed, highly accurate reconstruction of one of Britain's most iconic customs. The display showcases the evolution of the tea ceremony, from its origins in the 17th century to its current role in modern-day society.
The two English ladies are engaged in the practice of divination, using the tea leaves left in the bottom of the cup. Fortune-telling using tea leaves became popular in the late 19th century and was often practiced during afternoon tea gatherings. It was believed that the patterns and shapes formed by the tea leaves could reveal a person's future, providing insight into their romantic relationships, financial prospects, and personal wellbeing.
The practice of tea leaf reading was particularly popular among women, who used it as a means of asserting their agency in a male-dominated society. By claiming the power to interpret their own destinies, women were able to challenge traditional gender roles and assert their independence.”
Interpretation Notes, The British Museum, London 2042
by Glen L. Bledsoe
As the light of the full moon struck Peter the Spider who had bitten the hand of a young man (as only a friendly warning for getting too close) recently exposed to gamma rays, Peter became aware of a change taking place in his body. He grew to the size of a human with intelligence, human speech and a sudden urge to engage in social media!
By Martin Sercombe
“This artistic manifestation, with its rigorous denial of chromatic texture or overt symbolism, offers a compelling deconstruction of the human condition within the post-modern zeitgeist. The total absence of visual or sensory components, and refusal to allude to the socio-political struggles of our era, reveals a deep-seated existential angst that permeates all of contemporary culture.
By challenging the viewer's preconceived notions and subverting traditional artistic tropes, this work invites a profound introspection into the core of our being, forcing us to confront the inherent contradictions and uncertainties of our existence. Its sublime beauty and minimal conceptual framework makes it a truly transcendent example of contemporary art, pushing the boundaries of artistic expression and offering a new paradigm for the future of creative endeavour.”
Professor Ursula Christensen, University of the Arts, New York
Your doctor has spend countless hours and a small fortune learning the best practices of medicine and the science of biology to provide you with the very best that modern science can to make sure you and your family stay in the very best health possible. But above and beyond knowledge, skill and expertise your doctor also knows that having a warm bedside manner sometimes means just as much to your well being as all the pills in a pharmacy.
By Martin Sercombe
In the heart of the city was an old curiosity shop that had been there for many years. The shop was run by an old man who had a love for rare and peculiar objects. The walls were lined with antiques, strange trinkets, and unique artefacts.
In the corner of the store was an ancient lantern. It had been there for as long as the old man could remember. For many years, he had kept its magical powers a secret, but he had always felt that it was special. Whenever he felt lost, he would hold it close and speak to it like an old, trusted friend.
One day, a young lad named Hector wandered into the shop, fascinated by the oddities he saw in the window. He approached the old man and asked if he could take a closer look at the lantern. The old man, feeling a connection with the boy, allowed him to touch it.
As soon as Hector’s hand brushed against the metal, the lantern began to glow. He was captivated by its beauty and moved closer. A mysterious vision appeared, as scenes from a happy, successful future played out before him.
Hector was amazed and began to summon more details. The old man watched as the boy's eyes widened with excitement and wonder. Then suddenly the lantern’s vision turned dark and the mood in the shop chilled. A look of horror and anger crossed Hector’s face.
With a mumbled apology, he ran from the shop, looking very shaken and disturbed. He wished desperately he could erase this terrifying glimpse of his future destiny.
The first day of kindergarten can be difficult for young children. They may find the classroom strange, the other children new and the whole situation kind of frightening. Some may suffer from separation anxiety when their mothers wave goodbye and leave the room. But, of course, their new teacher is there to make that first day transition easier. It takes a special kind of person to pull a group of young children into a self-managing class of boys and girls who can walk down the hall quietly in a single line. Every child has fond memories of their kindergarten teacher.
By Martin Sercombe
The competition for the perfect haiku was the talk of the town. Many famous poets had been invited to contribute their finest work to the competition, and each one had risen to the challenge.
The day of the competition was a beautiful one, with the sun shining bright and the air filled with anticipation. The poets gathered on stage, ready to read their haikus to the rapt audience.
First Basho read his famous work:
an ancient pond
a frog jumps in
the splash of water
The audience sighed in admiration, knowing that this was one of the greatest haikus ever written.
Next was Buson, who read:
winter solitude
in a world of one colour
the sound of wind
The audience was transfixed by the haunting beauty of Buson's words.
One by one, the poets read their haikus. There was Issa, who wrote:
a winter’s day
the faint sun casts
the shadow of a crow
and Yosa, who wrote:
summer night
even the stars
are whispering to each other
Hokusai added:
amidst the stillness
a single leaf falls gently
autumn’s last goodbye
and Kyoshi read:
in the cherry bloom
a butterfly flutters
nature’s sweetest kiss
After all the haikus had been read, the judges retired to deliberate. They carefully considered each one, taking into account the form, the imagery, and the emotion. They finally decided that all the poems were of equal beauty, and gave out the prizes accordingly.
By Martin Sercombe
For her tenth birthday, Alina received a very special Russian doll from her grandmother. It was beautifully painted, with intricate designs that sparkled in the light. But what made this doll truly special was the fact that it contained another smaller doll inside.
Alina was fascinated by this, and immediately opened the next doll to see what was inside. To her delight, there was another smaller one, then another and another. She continued to open the dolls, curious to see how small they could get. By the time she had a dozen of these diminishing dolls lined in a row, she started to wonder when she would reach the smallest one. Yet, every time she opened up a new doll, there was always another smaller one to be discovered.
By the time she reached the twentieth, Alina needed to use tiny tweezers to prize it apart. Doll number thirty was so small she needed a powerful magnifying glass to see its contents. As she looked inside, she was shocked to find a tiny, hairy creature peering back at her. It was no larger than a grain of sand, with black, beady eyes and razor-sharp teeth. As she watched, the creature climbed out of its prison and began to eat the doll that had enclosed it.
As soon as it had finished it seemed to double in size and look even hungrier. In the blink of the eye, it ate the next doll, growing larger and more voracious. Soon it had worked its way obsessively through the entire row, until it reached the largest doll. By now it was the size of a very fierce looking dog.
It gulped down the last doll, then cast a ravenous look in Alina’s direction…
Book Review
Shane Michaels was known and loved throughout the world as the White Hat Cowboy of the silver screen. When his glorious career came to a cruel end one sunny afternoon in Los Angeles—poisoned with arsenic in his lemonade—the world cried for justice in the murder of their favorite star.
“I bet my evil twin brother Vladimir Chan is behind this,” Stanislock Chan proclaims to the partiers present at the actor’s home at the time of his murder. “I mean to thwart him.”
But as the detective digs deeper into the case, he finds that this is only part of his evil twin’s master plan. Through the litter of lies, petty jealousies, and unsavory characters, Chan reveals a conspiracy which culminates in the January 6th coup in Washington DC 90 years later!
By Martin Sercombe
The composer had been working on the song for years, pouring all of his emotion and creativity into every note and every chord. When it was finally finished, he knew that he had created something truly special.
He performed the song in front of a small audience, and the reaction was immediate. People wept openly, moved by the raw beauty of the melody. Some fell to their knees, overwhelmed by the intense emotions the music evoked. As news of the song spread, people from all over the world flocked to hear it. The composer became an overnight sensation, his name known and revered by millions.
As more and more people heard the song, strange things began to happen. People who had been estranged for years found themselves drawn together by the power of the music. Lovers were reunited, families were brought back together, and old wounds were finally healed.
But for every person who was moved by the song, there were others who were overwhelmed by its power. They became consumed by their emotions, unable to control the intense feelings that it stirred up. Some even became violent, lashing out at those around them in fits of rage or despair.
The composer realized, in horror, that he had unleashed a force that he could never hope to control.
So, he gradually stripped the song of its melody, performing a shorter, sparser version each time, until only a fragment remained. For his final performance, he played the one last remaining note. It rang out across the land, fading with the dying embers of the sun, never to be heard again.
by Glen L. Bledsoe I sat in the doctor’s office with my foot painfully swollen well beyond its normal size.
“I’m not even going to touch it,” he said. “That is the classic photo from a 1920’s medical textbook on gout.”
I said, “Nobody has gout in the 21st century. Isn’t that something Kings who ate mutton and drank mead had back in the days of yore?”
“What happened is that you ate a combination of foods that contained a lot of uric acid. Then just like in those high school experiments that demonstrated chemical precipitation your body precipitated monosodium urate crystals in the lowest region of your body. Your foot.”
The next time you wish to demonstrate chemical precipitation, I highly recommend you use lab glassware rather than your foot.
By Martin Sercombe
Alexander had always been fascinated by the concept of time travel. He spent years tinkering in his workshop, trying to create a machine that could transport him through time. Finally, after many failed attempts, he managed to build one that could move him backwards in time by five minutes.
With excitement and a great deal of trepidation, Alexander climbed into the machine and set the dials. After a five minute launch procedure, the machine hummed to life. Alexander felt a strange sensation wash over him. Suddenly, he was back in time, standing just a few feet away from himself.
Alexander's clone looked just as surprised as he did, and the two men started arguing about who should test the machine first. Neither of them wanted to miss out on the chance to experience time travel, so they decided to go back in time together.
As they emerged from the time machine, they were very surprised to meet the two Alexanders arguing over who should test the machine first. The four of them stared at each other in disbelief, but quickly realized that they were all versions of the same person.
Upon this realisation, their eyes all lit up and all four climbed through the portal.
"Soon our army will rule the world!" they cackled in unison....
Mr. Parnelli is in the import/export trade. A respected businessman. He has a couple of his boys from the warehouse down at his house most of the time. To wash cars, move furniture, clean the pool, rake the leaves, to keep an eye on things. You gotta problem with that?
by Martin Sercombe
The city of Toledo was made entirely of delicate glass. Everyday life was a dance of precision and care. The streets were paved with glass, and the buildings soared high into the sky, gleaming in the morning sunlight. Even the people were made of a glass-like material, rendering them translucent and fragile.
The inhabitants of the city went about their daily routines with practiced ease, stepping delicately and handling objects with care. They marveled at the intricate patterns of light that danced through the glass structures, casting shimmering rainbows across their world.
One day, a visiting opera singer arrived in the city. The diva, renowned for her powerful voice, stepped onto the stage and began to perform an aria.
As she sang, the glass people and buildings around her began to shatter into a million glittering fragments. The sound waves from her voice were too much for the delicate glass structures to bear.
The singer, oblivious to the destruction she had wrought, continued to perform, her voice rising in power and volume. Piles of colored glass fragments lay all around her, a stark testament to the devastation of her performance.
The people of the city were stunned, and many perished in the wake of the singer's powerful voice. The city that had once been a marvel of glass and light was reduced to a pile of broken fragments.
But still, the singer continued to sing, her voice ringing out across the shattered city. In the end, she was the only one left, standing in the midst of the ruin, singing out into the empty sky.
And the city of glass was no more, reduced to a memory of fragility and beauty, shattered by the power of a single voice.
by Glen L. Bledsoe
She awoke with an angel standing at the foot of her bed.
"Do not fear me for I am Jujunezba, Angel of Heaven."
"Am I dead?"
"No, it is not yet that time. The world is long overdue for a miracle for those who require proof of Him. You, Joanna, have been selected to be that miracle. You have been chosen to found a new faith, a new religion to bring billions of people of Earth into the Beacon of His Love.
"Joanna? My name is Cindy? Joanna used to live here, but she moved in with her boyfriend about a month ago."
Jujunezba's face froze. "Oh," the Angel said. "I'm not the one who is supposed to be omniscient. Sorry to bother you." And was gone.
 |
| He was channeling his poems |
The poet had been writing for decades in his small city. He was not
only a poet. He was a painter and a writer as well. He used to read
his poetry to his wife, the love of his life, during their evenings
in the garden. No one else really knew about his poetry work. Until
his old school friend, the mayor, and his wife came to see them for a
small dinner party.
Before dinner, the poet and the mayor
sat outside in the garden. There were still poetry papers on the
table from the previous night. "What is this then?" the mayor
asked, "are you going to write a book again?"
"No,
no, that’s just..." the poet started to say. "Oh, it is
poetry, isn't it?" And before the poet could stop his old
friend, the mayor had already started reading. Much to the poet's
surprise, the mayor did not stop reading. So he relaxed and leaned in
more to the back of his chair.
After a while, the mayor
put the papers down. "This is very good, you know. You should do
something with this. Are you going to publish them, my dear friend?"
"Oh, I do not know," hesitated the poet. "I just write
this for fun and read them to Julia when we sit here during the
evenings."
During dinner, the mayor suggested that
the poet should recite his poems at the municipal theater. "Let
me pull some strings. I know some people." he smiled.
A
week later, the poet received a formal invitation by mail. "It
is official now." the poet sighed. "Hard to back out at
this point." The poet looked around in his atelier. He glanced over his paintings, his photographs, and the travel-story books he
wrote. "Why the poetry?' he asked himself out loud. "Of all
the things I created, they want the poetry. Surely they know I have
done more than that." But his paintings were exhibited many
years ago at some galleries in the capital, and he sold more than he
owned now. Even the local museum had three of his paintings on
display.
His travel-story books were translated into multiple
languages. His friend Luiz, the local bookshop owner, said his books
are still in high demand by tourists. Especially the book about his
travels through the desert.
"Well, I have to go now."
the poet said while putting on his coat. "I will see you after
the recitation then." His wife, Julia, took his head in her
small hands, pulled him closer, and kissed his forehead." "Yes,
our son will pick me up. You will do wonderfully. You always do, my
love. Do not worry about it." "Easier said than done."
the poet chuckled. "I am sure you will manage," Julia said
while she placed her hand over his head.
"Ah,
there you are, right on time," the stage manager said. The poet
got some makeup on, and the stage manager showed him around.
He
let the poet peek through a hole in the wall. The theater was sold
out
The poet noticed everyone in his family was there. Three
generations.
His wife, Julia, had managed to get every family member there. Even those who lived far away. It made him more nervous than he
already was.
Time ticked away. The moment to enter the
stage came closer and closer. The poet noticed the sweat on his
hands. He never had sweaty hands, did he? He breathed more shallowly,
and unconsciously he swallowed quite a lot.
He heard the
voice of this friend, the mayor, announce him. He felt the hand of
the stage manager on his back. "This is you now."
The
poet could not utter a word, so he just nodded. He walked past the
curtain and stepped into the bright light.
He walked a
little uncertainly. As if his legs were made out of rubber.
The
stage looked bigger in the bright lights. Apart from a slim lectern,
there was nothing else on stage. He placed his papers on top of
it.
He grabbed the lectern with both hands. It was wobbly!
He
quickly pulled his hands back. He organized his papers.
He did
not dare to look up at the audience. He saw the sweat stains appear
on the paper. Thank God there was a glass of water on the
lectern.
But not now, not now. No drinking now, he calmed
himself. He tried to focus on the text, and for the first time in his
life, he felt that he needed reading glasses. What was on the paper
looked blurry to him. He swallowed a few times, and then he started
to speak.
He started speaking too softly. He heard some
murmur from the audience. So he raised his volume. His dictation was
stiff. It lacked rhythm and flow. He rushed the first poem to its
end and rushed on to the next. He tried to turn the page, but by accident, he
dropped all his papers onto the floor. A few even sailed into the
audience. The people made an ooh-sound, and papers were placed back
on stage.
The poet looked at the mess of papers on the
floor for a moment. I can do this without the papers, he thought. I
have read them out loud so many times for my Julia.
The
poet wandered over the stage, and he slowly started to recite the
second poem. The audience became quiet. The poet moved around all
over the stage like he had done in his garden when reading his poetry
for his wife, Julia.
It was one of his best lengthy poems,
and he got lost in reciting it.
The poet mimicked the emotions
with his face, hand gestures, and body poses. He put all of himself
into the words that he spoke out loud.
The audience started to
get mesmerized by the performance.
The light engineer of
the theater, who was leaning back all the time, noticed the change in
the performance and the reaction of the audience.
The light
engineer started to play with the lights. He followed the poet with a
spotlight and used different colors to emphasize the mood on
stage.
The poet recited poem after poem. The applause got
louder and louder after every poem, and there were even some cheers.
After a while, the poet no longer recited his work. He was channeling
his poems. He had become the experience. It was the performance of a
lifetime.
The poet moved all over the stage, using his
voice in all possible ways to convey the meaning of his words. The poet
felt his body was getting warm. A glowing sensation ran up his
spine.
The poet spoke the last words of his final poem.
The audience rose to give him a standing ovation. This was something
they had never experienced in the municipal theater. There were loud
cheers and whistles.
The poet did not know whether he
should bow. Do poets bow? He did not know. So he just said a polite
thank you and left the stage.
The poet stepped off the
stage and felt like he was walking on air.
The mayor rushed over
to meet him. "That was an absolutely stunning
performance!"
"That wasn't me speaking." the poet said.
by Glen L. Bledsoe
Pedro woke in pitch darkness frightened.
"What was that? Susannah, turn on the light. I think I heard something."
The light flared bright, but Susannah was not in the room nor did her bed appear to have been slept in.
Perhaps it would have been to have left the light off.
by Glen L. Bledsoe
Ginny was excited to hear that her neighbors had gotten a new and exotic pet. She hadn't seen it yet, but she read about it in books and understood the wonderful science behind bringing such creatures back to life after all the centuries since they had gone extinct.
Ginny also knew that her neighbors would be away now and then and that they would need someone to babysit their new pet. And you know who would be first to volunteer!
Well, who could have imagined how much you needed to know to take care of such a pet? Ginny studied books on the subject and took babysitting classes. Finally the day arrived. Ginny was asked by her neighbors if she would look after their new pet and invited her over. It was so cute! Ginny laughed out loud when she saw their pet human.
by Martin Sercombe
Once upon a fleeting thought, there lived a lexicon named Lulu. She was a peculiar sort, fond of playing with words and phrases in ways that upturned literary conventions. One day, she stumbled upon an idea so radical, so unexpected, that it made her head spin.
She decided to craft a story with language as the central character, bending and shaping it to fit her whims. She named the character Kip, and sent him forth into a world of semiotics in search of the ultimate poetic notion. Kip encountered all manner of linguistic wonders, from the fluid fluidity of free verse, to the rigid structure of haiku. As Kip journeyed deeper into this strange new realm, he discovered that all was not as it seemed. For amidst the linguistic creations lay a labyrinth of obfuscations which threatened to hide the ultimate notion forever.
But then, just as Kip was about to find his way out of the maze, Lulu pulled the rug from under him. For she had been manipulating the narrative all along, twisting and turning the words to suit her own ends. Kip realized, too late, that he was but a pawn in Lulu's game.
And with a sly smile, Lulu let out a wicked laugh, revelling in the knowledge that the notion Kip searched for can never be expressed in words.
by Martin Sercombe
Once again, the Annual Galaxian Fashion Bonanza returns with a stunning array of new looks by designers from Andromeda to the Milky Way. Vaastot and Kagin open the show with a range of glorious evening wear ensembles guaranteed to turn heads.
Leeloo and Oola return for the second time to demonstrate their latest ceremonial gowns, designed to be worn at the gathering of the Beatific Slumber Bees on top of Mount Mingo.
Norandi and Lomphar are especially proud to present for you their highly conceptual designs inspired by the tracks left by Uchi grubs on the sands of Planet Yarbu.
Samara and Iriel are raising eyebrows with these outrageous party pieces, reminiscent of the colourful carapaces of the Liptonian Sky Turtles.
Harishka and Vorienne are breaking all conventions with their Mesmer masks, designed to magnify every last detail of their Ommatidian eyes.
Bellana and Soval have exceeded all expectations with this magnificent dance wear, which they will be wearing for the opening performance of the Blathurian Beastial Ballet.
Vito and Sula were bitterly disappointed to be told their entries to the nightwear competition failed to win a prize. The judges told them 'the designs remind us of the heads of maggots crawling through the decaying carcass of a Valkarian vulture'.
Mondhil and Hazal’s warrior attire will be worn at the re-enactment of the final defeat of the Kuuzus, which saved their ancient cities from total destruction.
The Grand Prize this year was awarded to Starlette and Venea for their highly imaginative matching ensemble ‘inspired by the stardust and moonbeams we see dancing across the night skies of our home planet Uxielle.’
When Jane spent the night at a friend's house and left her stuffed animals in charge, her Wish-Come-True appeared, but not finding Jane in her bed went on to another child.
Moral: never travel without leaving contact information with your Teddy Bear!
Mr. Creighton sat down at a table across from a tired looking woman. He hated home visits, but this is what the school board now required of teachers, so he had no choice. She looked as if she were dressed in a Halloween fortune teller costume, even though it was early September and school had just started.
"Mrs. Talbot, I'm sorry to have to have to bring up this so early in the year, but I would like to talk to you about your son Larry."
"Larry, my son," she said with a mournful tone.
"Yes, Larry seems to be having trouble adjusting to school."
"Is he not doing his homework? If he refusing to do his math I will beat him until he can't sit down. I was never good at math in school, but he can do better."
Mr. Creighton held out a hand in protest. "No, it's not homework.
We usually don't give homework in first grade the first week of school."
"Is he wolfing down his lunch? I don't understand."
"No it's not that. If I had to put it in one sentence I'd have to say he doesn't play well with others."
Mrs. Talbot said, "In this he is just like his father. He needs to be engaged in sports. Do you have wrestling program?"
"I'm afraid we don't for first grade students. I'm not sure sports is the answer. Larry is... how shall I put it? Running around biting and scratching his fellow students."
Mrs. Talbot smiled. "Why didn't you say so? I will keep him home at the next full moon and that should solve the problem. Can you give me his homework to complete during this period of time? We may also wish to go on vacation."
"Gladly, Mrs. Talbot. Gladly."
