Maybe tomorrow. I need to go to the Springs to get my new glasses. TRUST me, you want me to get my new glasses.
So, while I’m gone, someone brush RES and the rest of you put on pants, okay.

Oh, and in answer to some idiot who asked that if I don’t like socialism, am I willing to give up government education?
Sure. Tomorrow.

Government education is NOT a law of nature, and nothing in the constitution really allows it.

My father and his siblings went to various school marms his parents paid for. They knew Latin by 10. I had the benefit of public education. My little Latin and small Greek didn’t come till adulthood. And I’m not nearly as educated as dad.

But won’t you think of inner city kids?

What? with graduation rates in minority-majority (eh) schools of 30% and most of those incapable of reading and even fewer of reading in English?  Letting them just roam around might achieve better results.

Also, trust me, most of the kids are not just prevented from reading. Immigrant kids are told they can never assimilate, that they’re oppressed and that this country is the worst in the world. (Trust me. They tried that on my kids, as well as education in Spanish.)

WHY do you hate minority immigrant kids so much you want them to be a permanent uneducated serf class?

The parents who care will arrange for kids to learn. Charities will arrange for the rest. States and cities might make their own arrangements. Some kids will fall through the cracks. As opposed to now?????

Sure, a public education is great for a country of immigrants. It helps foster common culture. Except when the common culture is hating the country you’re in, and a bunch of lies about its history.

Then it becomes an instrument of destruction.  And you want to know if I wish it were done away with? Why are you asking? Is this a trick?

Bah. Throw me in the briar patch.

Breaking Out a guest post by Helen Miller, RN

It was the night after Christmas, a few years back, when I went back to work after a day off. I’d worked the night of Christmas Eve, and had Christmas night off. (This is important.) At that time, I worked as an RN in a long-term care facility connected to a hospital. This arrangement used to be common in small and medium-town hospitals. The facility and the hospital shared a kitchen, and the facility naturally used the hospitals’ labs and radiation equipment. The facility had two wings, and shared a connected dining room/activity room. I was the night nurse for one wing that night, and had one certified nursing assistant to help me with all resident cares that night.

When I took report, I was told that one resident, with early dementia, had tried to feed another resident, with late-stage Parkinson’s. The result was emesis in the dining room. Another resident had come back from a dinner out with family. Multiple residents had had family members in either for Christmas Day or the day after. One resident had had a fall in an urgent rush to get to the bathroom, but had only a couple of minor bruises – no broken bones or head injuries.

Part of being a night nurse means working with the CNA to do rounds – checking on residents, toileting residents, turning residents at risk for pressure ulcers, taking care of incontinent residents, talking to residents who are awake, preventing falls, and making sure residents stay clean, dry, and safe In addition, there are nursing tasks of assessing residents’ skin, changing dressings, auditing charts, doing tube feedings, giving medications, checking on ostomies, checking settings for oxygen concentrators, making sure that tracheal openings are cared for, etc. And all of this needs to be charted. Rounds take place every couple of hours.

On our first round, the resident who had Parkinson’s had loose stools – not uncommon, as people with late stage Parkinson’s frequently get medications to counter the natural constipation of late-stage Parkinson’s. His roommate also had loose stools, but had been been eating chocolates. We followed standard precautions, cleaned our patients, made the beds with fresh linens, washed with soap and water, and moved on.

(Standard precautions mean that you glove up before giving care. You always dispose of linens either by bringing the dirty linen cart directly to the door or by taking a closed plastic bag of dirty linens to the linen cart. You dispose of trash by taking a closed plastic bag to the trash cart. You dispose of the gloves. You then clean hands either with hand sanitizer or soap and water before you leave the room. Soap and water is mandatory after any bowel movement. You don’t take dirty anything from one room to another.)

A few rooms later, we came to a room where the occupants sat at separate tables in the dining room, both close to the table where our Parkinson’s patient sat.  When we went to turn one patient, she bolted upright, and projectile vomited. (Yes, we have black humor. The Exorcist was mentioned.) Suddenly, things looked worse. We were meticulous in cleaning up the resident, changing her linens, and in washing after. We then went to her roommate. She had projectile diarrhea as we turned her. “Well, shit. This is contagious, and it’s just a matter of time for us. We need to start more precautions.”

Contact plus precautions are used to keep from carrying contagious matter on your skin or clothes, and also are meant to help the caregiver not catch whatever the resident has. So I went to the other wing, got the isolation cart, grabbed a box each of gowns and procedure masks, and we continued on rounds, donning and doffing gowns and masks for each resident.

Over the course of the exhausting night, four more residents began to show symptoms. The other wing got a case, and used the other isolation cart, so chairs were put outside each room with gowns and gloves. We hauled around gowns and gloves. I called our nurse manager. Hospital infection control was notified. The county health department was notified. The state health department was notified. We continued rounds. I continued duties. There were no breaks for either of us between charting and rounding.

In the morning, my relief came. She had worked Christmas day, but not the day after. I started to give her report when she excused herself to the staff bathroom. I heard the unmistakable sounds of vomiting, and sent my relief home. This was the last shift she had been scheduled to work before leaving on a family trip to Jamaica two days later. (This is important.) Now I was working a sixteen hour shift. My nurse manager came in, and confirmed my orders – all residents to stay in their rooms, all meals on trays with disposable plates and flatware and cups, no communal meals, everyone to change gowns and gloves between each resident and to wash with soap and water between each resident. In between passing morning meds and helping to feed residents who needed feeding, I called an order for more gowns, masks, face shields, and still more gowns. I also doubled our order for trash bags and linen bags. I let the house supervisor (charge nurse for the entire hospital) know that we would probably need a lot more staff, as I expected my relief would not be the last to get the whatever it was. Soon one of the day CNAs ran for the staff bathroom, and left in tears – she couldn’t afford the time off, and we couldn’t afford to keep her on shift, even though we needed the hands.

We were authorized to collect samples of fresh stool and fresh emesis, and get them to the lab. It was a couple hours before I came on duty the next night that our fears were confirmed – Norovirus.

I was not the first staff member to note either loose stools or vomit, but I was the nurse who called it an outbreak, implemented precautions, and got the ball rolling. It had been too late from that moment in the dining room when one resident vomited in the dining room. Norovirus has an incubation period from eight hours to seventy-two hours (on average), a duration of one to three days, (on average), and a period of virus shedding after the patient has no more symptoms. That virus shedding can last up to three days. Norovirus can persist on objects for up to ten days, and it only takes five or so Norovirus particles to infect someone. Norovirus kills about 200,000 people a year around the world, most of them very young, very old, or with pre-existing conditions. Long-term care facilities are full of the very old and of people with pre-existing conditions.

The outbreak was exhausting. Nobody worked the entire outbreak. My usual night CNA was sick halfway through the second night. We paid bonuses to hospital nurses and techs who came over to work. I worked three nights in a row of either twelve or sixteen hour shifts, and then succumbed. (While I was giving report, I said, “Excuse me,” and went off and puked. I bleach wiped the staff bathroom, put on a fresh mask and gown, and finished report standing five feet from my colleague.)

At home, we had advance warning. I had called my husband, so we had bleach wipes, pads, garbage bags, Sprite, soda crackers, gelatin cups, Nuun tablets, and other sick kit supplies laid in. My husband had gone to the local pharmacy and bought a big box of nitrile gloves, and another of masks. He had pulled out the couch in the family room. Our master bedroom had an ensuite bathroom. When I got home, I stepped on the waiting towel, stripped as soon as I got in the door, and put my uniform and the towel in a garbage bag. My coat went in a separate garbage bag. My nursing bag went in a third garbage bag. My masked-and-gloved husband carried the garbage bags to the laundry room in the basement. I “skated” on bleach wipes to the slippers and bathrobe left out for me.

I went to the master bedroom, all stocked with supplies, put my phone to charge, and fell asleep. I was sick from both ends multiple times, and bleach wiped everything. I didn’t allow any of our family into the bedroom for 48 hours except my husband, who came masked and gloved into the bedroom while I was in the bathroom to take out garbage bags of garbage and dirty laundry, and plop a pile of clean sheets on the bed. I made the bed. I communicated with my family in the same house via phone. During the time I was in self-imposed quarantine, my mother had a stroke. I could only encourage her to go the hospital from a distance, as I couldn’t add virus exposure to a very vulnerable person. Nobody in our house got sick. Once I was symptom free, I maintained quarantine, but padded down and did bleach-heavy laundry. From the time I went home until I was eligible to go back to work was around five days.

Meanwhile, back at work, it was Norovirus. Everything was bleach wiped or steri-wiped. Anything that could be UV sterilized was UV sterilized. Fluids were encouraged. Linens were changed. Bottoms were cleansed. Gowns and masks and gloves were donned and doffed and disposed of. We didn’t lose a single resident out of a very vulnerable population. Of 53 residents, a total of 18 got sick, most in the first two days. Of 40 staff, a total of 20 got sick, most in the first two days. We used extra staff from the hospital. In the hospital proper, three patients got sick, and four staff.  Everybody who could work did work twelve to sixteen hour shifts for the ten days of the outbreak. And then worked some more after the outbreak. Everyone was exhausted.

Lessons learned:

• Any outbreak will probably hit caregivers hardest, because they will have already been exposed by the time they realize that this is something unusual.
• We were lucky – we were associated with a sister facility that could share staff with us if we offered bonuses. In a large outbreak, this isn’t possible.
• Norovirus sucks. It can be shed before a patient has any symptoms. Even after staff no longer had symptoms, they had to wait 72 to report to duty, because of how long virus could be shed. It hasn’t been clarified how long novel corona virus will be shed before or after symptoms.
• Norovirus sucks. Although the most common method of contamination is fecal (touching something contaminated and then touching the mouth, or eating something contaminated), aerosolized emesis (vomit) can cause Norovirus to act like an airborne or droplet contagion. From infection patterns on the Diamond Princess, it appears that the novel corona virus can cause airborne contamination. This is bad. Please don’t run and buy all the N95 respirators and filters – leave some for health care.
• Having supplies in advance (and a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom) allowed me to do in-home quarantine. This isn’t possible in a large outbreak, because the supplies are needed by the medical facilities.
• Taking care of an outbreak uses So. Many. Supplies. Disposable gowns. Disposable masks. Disposable face shields. Disposable gloves. Bleach wipes. Steri-wipes for equipment that cannot be bleached. Disposable plates and flatware. Disposable bottles and cups. Gelatin cups not needing refrigeration. Sleeves of soda crackers. Juice cups. Applesauce cups. Trash bags, laundry bags, so much extra linen, hot water, and laundry soap. More bleach.
• The holiday brought food, guests, and outings. All potential sources of contamination. The ultimate primary source of contamination was never truly pinpointed. It was narrowed down to three possibilities—one of them was the hospital kitchen, but norovirus was not found on any surface there.
• The staff member who went home sick first? Went to Jamaica on the planned vacation, because she was symptom free by then. Had a family member get sick on the plane. Had four extended family members sick at the all-inclusive resort. Mentioned that “they must have had it there, too, ‘cause lots of people were sick there.” Oy, vey. Really. I don’t care what your plans were. Don’t share the horrible stuff.
• Over the next six months, we had multiple staff resignations. Exhausted staff still work, but may be lost to caregiving professions entirely after they have time to take stock. The night CNA I was with now works in a factory.
• Long-term care centers, dormitories, casinos, and cruise ships are frequently the centers of outbreaks, because people have communal dining areas, and share hallways, and may share bathing spaces.

Some of this is applicable to the current outbreak—symptom-free does not mean that somebody will stop shedding virus. However many supplies you think are enough, double them. Then double them again. When I see the photos of staff in Wuhan going from room to room, I can only think that cross-contamination is occurring, and that they must be so very short on supplies.

Most of all, I know that terrible moment when you look at another staff member over a sick patient and realize, “This is contagious, this is awful, and we have been exposed. It’s only a matter of time for us.” And then you keep working until you can’t, because you are needed more than ever.

Do me a favor? Please cover your cough, and wash your hands. It’s still flu season.

Helen Miller, RN works as a staff nurse in a hospital, and has worked in long-term and skilled care nursing.

I woke up still dragging (Well, of course, I’m still dragon. Who would I be? But not Tiamat. More on that later.)

And in a spectacularly strange move, because though I’m religious I’m not pious (or perhaps I’m pious not religious. Sometimes it’s hard to tell) I found myself browsing kindle books for prayer books, over breakfast. (I could tell you how I got there: from a funny reference to a prayer book, in the current read, and then at speed down the rabbit hole. Never mind. It is worse when I’m sickish, yes.)

Most of the books I found were unexceptionable, but then I found one about “the angels prayers for creatives” or something of the kind, and since it was very short and had very good reviews, oh, and also free, I “bought” it.

First, and before I dive down that particular thread that turns into the meaning of this post, as far as it has meaning, let me tell you I HATE most “angel revelations” “angel prophecies” and “angel prayers” and “angel gifts.”

Not just because some of them have a “bad smell” (I really wish that people who purportedly believe in angels would understand that “angel” means messenger, and it is no garantee of WHOSE messenger these are.) but because most of them are bizarrely vapid and new agey, picturing angels as pretty girls in nightgowns and giving them names out of “The New Age Baby Names Book.”

It tells you how weak (minded) I feel, and perhaps how hard I was fighting sitting down and doing actual work-like stuff that I actually downloaded it.

In terms of names, this book is no exception. The bad smell is more subtle.

I’ve read about half of it, and will probably skim the rest when I take a break. But I’ve already gone “Oh, for the love of Bob!”

First, though, why I downloaded it, I think, and because, like even very bad movies have at least ONE good line in them, even stuff that’s just not right can help with an insight. One of the things it suddenly made me realize is that I’ve been trying to motivate myself to write with the idea of what it can do for my family in terms of $$.  Husband has told me this is stupid, I think, only in terms that weren’t making them through the thick skull. (I self identify as a bone-headed dragon.) Or because they’re not the right terms for me. He keeps telling me it doesn’t matter if I make money, it matters if I’m happy. But the pursuit of happiness, by itself and for itself has never motivated me, and I know d*mn well it matters if I make money.

OTOH trying to motivate myself with money doesn’t work, because to quote a friend years ago, “You might as well be driving a truck, then.”

What I mean is when any creative endeavor becomes just a way of making money, my subconscious (I won’t speak for anyone else) locks up tighter than Fort Knox back when our currency was gold-based. Because, well, there must be easier and less embarrassing ways of making money.  Like panning for gold in your shower, for instance.

Sure, making money will always be part of my motivation, but I need to …  After years of working for trad pub, after the collapse of everything in 2003 when the only thing that kept me working was “we’re paying on TWO mortgages” I need to find the place where I write because I have to, because it feeds some essential part of who I am. It’s been worn down to a nubbin, and might be mostly dead ( for 17 years now, it’s been, to be honest, like using a coffee carafe to dig in the flower beds [one of the funniest, real, amazon reviews ever. The question is not whether it broke. The question is why you thought that was a good idea.]) but there have been stirrings recently, and things that unexpectedly came alive, and so I know it’s not fully dead. Now I need to figure out where it’s hiding. And stop beating it with the “We need money whip” even if 2020 is attempting to drain all our resources. (No. Really. Between cats and cars, not counting health and other stuff. Never mind. We won’t starve. But… I have serious security issues.) I need to find where the vein of “it’s alive” runs and channel it.

Anyway, the bad smell…. The bad smell is that it seems to think you live for and by and in yourself.

One of the things it says is that it doesn’t matter if you don’t do anything creative, your life is your creation, and therefore you are creative.

Can anyone find my eyes? I think they rolled under the sofa. Yeah, that’s it, would you dust the cat hair off them?  Thanks. Oh, good. Okay. Good thing I’m a touch typist.

Most of it seems to be self-esteem pumping up, which is great, except you have to have something to be proud of. Otherwise you just become very proud of stewing in mediocrity, and you think you’re too good to actually apply yourself to anything, and at the end of that lies despair and self-hatred.

It reminded me quite a bit of other books I’ve been reading.

So, I have a near-toxic disbelief in psychology and psychotherapy. (It’s the part of me that is not very religious, or pious, or whatever. I already am forced by the fact that grandma handed it to me, to believe in a messianic religion. I don’t need a mostly pseudo-scientific one in addition.) but some psychiatric-friends of mine have convinced me to do exploratory reading to deal with some stuff (okay a lot of stuff) that I probably should see someone for, if I trusted people to go grubbing around in my mind (honestly, I just don’t want people to accidentally traipse into an unwritten novel and either break something or get broken for good.) Some of the books have been very helpful, others less so.

One of them linked childhood issues with auto-immune, and yes, while my childhood was almost exactly what they describe gives “auto-immune”, I don’t think the entire thing is that simple. Sure, stress can bring about a massive auto-immune attack. Last year, I had the experience of having a full blown one, including wounds on both hands, and it healing over the course of a day when a month-long stress inducing issue was resolved.

So I’m not going to say the psychological isn’t involved. I’m going to say “And?” Because this thing, i.e. my internal ticking clock is also not entirely under my control, just like writing isn’t. I can TELL myself I’m perfectly calm, but the asthma and the eczema know better. And I don’t think it’s a matter of “letting out my childhood anger” either, seriously, because the auto immune runs in the sanest branch of my family. Granted, those are also the depressive obsessives. (Yes, they are the sanest. Also, shut up.)

Anyway, there is a newagish branch of thought that turns to solipsism in that they ascribe everything including the common cold to “you decided to catch this.”

In the end that’s what this book does.  “You need to be your biggest fan” and “you’re your own greatest work of art.”

Look, if I’m a work of art, I want to speak to the manager. Also, on the serious side, if there is an intelligence behind it all, it’s not me making myself my greatest work of art.

Solipsism is comforting. Particularly for those of us who for various reasons felt unsafe and scared as children. It assures us nothing can happen to us that we don’t consent to.

But because it’s not real, and tons of things happen to you (and your creativity) that you not only didn’t consent to, but for which you were given no safe word, in the end it’s a self-devouring philosophy.

It occurred to me the other day that leftism is the position of terrified (or neglected) children, who, in their hurt conjure the state as the perfect parent they wish they had, and also believe they can control it.

(For this, we used to have religion, which is if nothing else safer. Never mind.)

So, if you believe that you are your own greatest art work, and know how flawed you are, that way lies self hatred and by extension hatred of humanity and everything, really.

Worse, it’s hatred you can’t admit to.

So, I’ll take the point of “I can’t do this just out of need for money, or out of obligation.  I must do this, because that’s who I am.” And I’ll try to make it accessible, understandable, and worthwhile (Not necessarily beautiful, though there’s beauty in art done right. But, you know, life isn’t all pretty women in nightgowns and with pretty wings. And worlds aren’t all pretty pink planet.) Because whatever art — or in my case craft — is, it is communication more than anything else.

But it is important not to think we Tiamat. Because if we think we’re everything, the children of our minds will tear us apart and hollow us out to build the universe.

And in the end all that will be left is a dead universe. Because you’re not the be all/end all of everything there is.

Thank heavens for that.  It is important to remember, you’re not responsible for the parlous state of our politics, the ridiculous state of our politicians, or the appalling state of our arts.

You cannot be held responsible for all the failures of the universe.  Offload that world from your shoulders, Atlas.

Tend your own garden. Do what you can do. For the rest you must trust other minds and time and world without end.

I think I have post-viral syndrome. Apparently this is a thing. A very annoying thing. As in, I become tired very easily, and when I push it, I become ill once more.

This morning — after cleaning the house, but really, given asthma I CAN’t go more than two weeks. Also bathroom and kitchen start smelling and I can’t take that — I woke up slightly feverish, and it was hard to get up.  Which must be my excuse for this post being horribly late.

There is an advantage to being of a sickly disposition and having come near death several times by forty — no, bear with me — in that it clarifies the mind wonderfully as to what’s important and what isn’t.

You see, I’m of a dutiful disposition, or I try to be. I have this long list of duties — of things I must fulfill because they’re a contract with others — so for instance last night when I started feeling ill the only reason I told Dan was because dinner was going to be late. I cook, because I’m quicker and more adroit at it — which means I do it with cheaper materials — so my cooking dinner is part of our contract, just like part of his contract with me is to do accounting and taxes (infernally complex because of the writing) because I am digit dyslexic, which means even entering data results in snarls that are almost impossible to figure out.

When the children were little I had this long list of things I must do. Every morning, I’d lie in bed, making a list of everything I’d failed to do the day before, and what I must do that day, and every night I went to bed with half of them undone.

The problem was this: my list of things I absolutely needed to do was set to an insane standard. For instance while the kids were crawling, I not only cleaned the hard floors EVERY day, I also ran the carpet cleaner everyday. And wiped down every surface. And cooked on expert mode, and refinished all the furniture that came into the house. And made curtains and household soft-furnishings. Etc. Etc. etc, in addition to trying to look after the boys and write.

Then I got pneumonia 24 years and one month ago. And almost day. And eleven days in ICU clarified the mind immensely.

Do you know the things that bothered me?  I was upset I’d leave my sons motherless. I was guilty upset and ashamed that the worlds in my head would die with me. And I missed days of just going nowhere in particular with Dan and the kids.

Because the kids were small and we didn’t often have babysitting, we tended to bundle the kids and take them along while doing errands. I missed those Saturdays of going to the grocery store, or the thrift store, or just running errands, with Dan and the boys.

And I realized I didn’t need to provide the kids extraordinary experiences. Oh, we’d still take them to zoos and museums. But we never felt a need for European vacations, or ladidah vacation camps or any of that.

That time, though I survived (and I want to point out I’m not nearly that ill. In fact, I think the virus is past, I’m just tired and a little frail) clarified what life was about for me (and since Dan agreed for our family.)

Most important of all was being there for my family.  Just being there. Nothing special.
Secondarily, it was getting those worlds out of my head. Even if no one ever bought them, maybe some day the boys would find those manuscripts and fix them, and they’d be read. But at least they’d be out of my head, and have a chance.

I changed my life that way, and you know, the career could be better, but I really have no complaints.  Oh, and there’s a ton more worlds to get out of my head, so we’re not done yet.

I realized this year, through my craptastic health the last two months, that what I really want to do is write, and spend time with Dan.  Which means as soon as we can, the cleaning will be shrugged off. No, no one cleans to MY standards, but you know what? As long as it’s enough that the asthma is quiet, I’m fine.

Heck, some of my happiest times right now are when Dan and I are driving somewhere and have time to talk. Quiet walks through museums and the botanic gardens are also great.

Anyway. Illness sucks. but it clarifies your priorities wonderfully.

If you were very ill, if you knew your time was limited (it is of course, but for most of us not that limited) what would you keep of your busy schedule? What would you eliminate?

Proceed accordingly.

A Request from SAH:

Due to the fact that I spent most of this year being ill, as well as dealing with assorted and rather insane emergencies, and that I MUST finish three overdue NOVELS (yes, one of them Dyce.) And that it is likely I will resume my work at PJM next week… May I request that you send me guest posts, so I can run two a week, and somewhat relieve the weight of this blog?) – With gratitude, SAH.

Book Promo

*Note these are books sent to us by readers/frequenters of this blog.  Our bringing them to your attention does not imply that we’ve read them and/or endorse them, unless we specifically say so.  As with all such purchases, we recommend you download a sample and make sure it’s to your taste.  If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. That helps defray my time cost of about 2 hours a day on the blog, time probably better spent on fiction. ;)*

FROM MONALISA FOSTER:  Pretending to Sleep: A Communism Survivor’s Short Story.

Based on actual events, this short story provides a quick glimpse into life under Ceaucescu’s brutal communist regime. Like so many Romanians, ten-year-old Renata lives in fear of Securitate (Ceaucescu’s secret police). They don’t always take you in the middle of the night. In a world where the living envy the dead, not all examples are made in the shadows. Some are made in the light of day.

FROM MEL DUNAY:  Seeking a Quantum Tree (Ancestors of Jaiya Book 4).

Journey to the country of Jaiya, in a world not quite like ours. Here the humans wield magical powers and fight against an Empire which seeks to enslave them, but they share their world with insect people and trollfolk, and stranger things lurk in the shadows…

Sena is a Jaiyan secret agent, sent to warn a neighboring country about an upcoming attack on them by an insane general. When the invasion happens sooner than she expected, she must work with the handsome Taavid, a wealthy businessman and Jaiyan exile, to help save the other Jaiyans trapped in the occupied zone. But General Drozniya controls the occupied zone, and he is obsessed with the Quantum Tree, a legendary source of mystical power which could destroy the world!

Note: Quantum Tree is meant as a standalone with a “happily ever after” ending. However, the hero in this book is the son of the hero and heroine of Book 3, and he and the heroine are parents of some of the characters in the original Jaiya series. The romance is on the sweet side, but there are some disturbing supernatural events, along with some violence, not very explicit, and some references to the horrors of war, more implied than shown.

FROM NATHAN BISSONETTE:  A Wizard in the Monastery

A weary wizard. A cloistered cleric. An enchanted manuscript. Will they save the world, or destroy it?

FROM MARY CATELLI:  Witch-Prince Ways

Widowed, caught between two feuds, Katie was desperate enough that the Witch Prince witched her wits away, so that she let him steal her baby.

Then there was no reason for him to not let the bewitchment fail, then. What, after all, could she do against him? Even the witching woman would tell her that defying the Witch Prince was beyond her power.

And tell her again, when she will not listen.

Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.

So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.

We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.

If you have questions, feel free to ask.

Your writing prompt this week is:LICK*

[*The management apologizes for handing such a prompt to the reprobates, dirty minds and general hang gallows who frequent this blog. We tried to warn the team in charge of vignettes of the foolhardy of their challenge, but alas, they’re innocent and doomed and don’t have a lick of the natural suspicion that should attend to hanging out in this den of energumens. Therefore the management is not responsible for– Oh, heck, the management just ain’t responsible. Carry on. -SAH]

I am not for war. In fact I don’t know anyone who is for war. War is a terrible thing.

But it is not the most terrible thing.

I have to confess to extreme nervousness at making peace treaties with the Taliban.  Remember I come from a country with a long history of war with Islamic entities. For a while the river that runs through the city where I went to college was the dividing line between Christian and Moor. (And those who make high faluting stupid statements about the noble Moors haven’t seen the physical remains I’ve seen, or read first hand accounts. The Golden age of Islam was burnished with stuff stolen from the conquered and built by slave labor. Whether it was more open than it is now, I don’t know. But it was not superior to Christian Europe. It just took from many different cultures and as such served as a conduit.)

I’m afraid treaties are just time to recoup and become a REAL threat. At least that’s the lesson of history.

Now I’m not going to say Trump is making a mistake exactly. I know he had access to things we have not, including what other threats we might be facing, the REAL state of whatever the heck is going on with Kung Flu, etc. etc.

And also of course the political, economic and social will to deal with this as we must, which would be something similar to what we did in Japan. It’s the only way to deal with a totally alien and inimical culture.  We particularly lack the cultural will to stay and mold them into our image. Hell, we’re not molding ourselves into our image. The despicable Howard Zinn is used as the basis of school books that convince our own children to hate their culture and their homeland.

There will be posts on this, in future, as well as posts on what real “culture” means because a batsh*t insane left posted on my xenophobia echo on facebook to insist that culture was food and clothes and festivals. (Spits.)

Faced with all that, Trump might very well be doing the right thing, or the only thing he can do. Because, yeah, you know, keeping our people bleeding and dying there for no visible result is stupid. And possibly because we might very well need them at home in the near future. At least if the Xi-disease goes nuts. There are resources and things we shouldn’t be squandering.

Presidents by definition know more than we do. They are briefed. Which is why anonymous bureaucrats shouldn’t make policy decisions (among many other reasons.) Of course our intel services are a hot mess. Heinlein said they always were.  And the last president would skip briefings (he liked sports better. Who wouldn’t) and our current president seems to be actively undermined by a lot of people who are supposed to brief him, so I don’t even know if he believes anything they say. (At this point, I wouldn’t.)
So for all I know, he’s making his decisions on gut feeling and various websites. Who knows?

OTOH even the WHO says Chinese figures are highly unreliable, and as for the rest, who knows? Will Iran go kablooey when the world economy wobbles?

And while on this, if it hits hard here, will we got stupid enough to vote a communist in? (I don’t like to even think about it. I wake up screaming.)

And at the same time, the student of history in me knows how it went every time Rome pulled into itself.

And I’m afraid my grand-kids, including the not yet born ones, will go bleed and die in that forsaken patch of land, that graveyard of empires.

Unless by then we recover our cultural confidence.

Teach your children well. It might not be too late.

I wished to write a post today, but time has got away from me. So I shall leave you with one greater than I, and he will have to do. (And pray we don’t need to learn the painful lesson again by saddling ourselves with a crazy king indeed because there are things worse than war, and living under socialism is one of them. And a lesson that apparently each country needs to learn in turn.)