Ken Charles' Halloween Treat--"The Walnut Hairbrush"

THE WALNUT HAIR BRUSH

     Micah looked over at the display case one last time, before turning off the lights. He winced at one of the all too common twinges of pain in his joints. Micah sighed, if she's coming it had best be soon. He picked up his cane, locked the door to the curio shop, and began his slow walk home.

***

     Cheryl Albans was thrilled when her standby travel club called with a chance to leave Los Angeles and fly to London for three days for pennies. The club booked special deeply discounted deals for members who could travel on a moment's notice to fill underbooked tours or charters.

     She was an interior designer and consultant. She did not have any particular set work schedule, which allowed her to take trips virtually whenever she wanted. She jumped at the London trip.

She had been tracing her family roots, and had discovered that her great grandmother, Mary Wellington, came to the United States from London in the 1880's. Since her mother died, Cheryl was unaware of any other living relatives. The trip to London was her chance to look for other family. Before leaving Los Angeles, she called London and made arrangements to view archived vital statistics. Something told her that she had to take this trip, and that for some unknown reason, time was of the essence.

     One of the problems with discount packages is that they did not always include world class accommodations. But Cheryl was satisfied with her room. It was clean and bright, and smelled faintly of lavender. She was exhausted after a long day of travel, and had trouble falling asleep. She kept thinking that she had been brought to London, and that she really had no choice in the matter.

     In the morning, Cheryl set about the business of being a tourist. She went to Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. She lunched at a pub, and had fish and chips and a pint. She took photographs of everything, and had a wonderful carefree time, unburdened by any thoughts of any deeper purpose. However, around four o'clock, she experienced a firm conviction that she had to be somewhere in Kensington, and that she was running late. She started to hail a taxi, but stopped short when she realized that she had no particular destination in mind.

     She had planned on having dinner, and then going to a show. But her need to find something, who knew what, in Kensington left her uneasy. She returned to her room, read for a disinterested while, then went to bed early. Her last thoughts before, or perhaps her first thoughts after, falling asleep were of perfume.

***

     Cheryl devoted her second morning in London to searching public records for Mary Wellington and her kin. After several hours of hunting, she located vital statistics for her great grandmother, but was sorely disappointed to find that Mary Wellington was an only child like herself. Mary's mother had died in childbirth. Mary had one child, Cheryl's grandfather. Her grandfather had only one child, her mother. Cheryl, in turn, was an only child, and the last surviving descendant of Mary Wellington. She left Vital Statistics feeling small and abandoned.

     After lunch, Cheryl decided to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum. Wandering museums always inspired her. Maybe she could write part of the trip off as a business expense. She hailed a taxi, and rode to the museum. As she headed to the door, Cheryl suddenly felt that she was close to her appointment, and that the appointment was not at the museum. She turned and started walking down the street, with no idea of where she was headed. she walked for half an hour and took several turns. She had no idea where she was at when she spied the curio shop. It had a plain well aged brown awning out front. The front window read "Smithson's Antiques and Gifts".

     She crossed over to the shop and opened the door. A little bell over the door chimed brightly. Micah looked up and smiled. A young woman was signing in the Guest Registry by the door. American, judging by her dress. Definitely the right age, with long, silky auburn hair, Micah was satisfied that she had come at long last. He unlocked the display case.

     Cheryl began looking around the shop. The material was all of high quality, and reasonably priced. Cheryl the tourist was replaced by Cheryl the business woman. She saw two small bronzes, and a nice landscape that she knew she could place immediately. In fact, her practiced eye revealed that there were enough pieces, possibly, to justify the whole vacation as a buying trip. Still, she felt that she was missing something important. The last time she got this kind of feeling, she picked up the thirty thousand dollar gem from Edouord Leon Cortes that was hanging in her living room, for four hundred dollars. She decided to make a closer inspection of the stock.

Micah watched Cheryl surveying the stock. She had a pen and a small notebook in her hand. Occasionally, she would bend over and examine one piece or another, make an entry in her notebook, then move on to another work. He noted that she had a good eye. With very few exceptions, she examined only the best of his stock. He thought, wistfully, that if he had had a daughter, this is how she would have turned out. Of course, for all practical purposes, although she did not know it yet, this woman was closer to him than even a daughter could ever have been.

     Micah knew that she was hunting. He had every confidence that she would find it without any help. He noted that his pulse was rising, and that he was short of breath. He reached into his vest and located his pills, but decided that he would be fine without them. Be patient. She is coming this way.

     Cheryl nodded to the elderly proprietor, but suddenly turned away when she spied a lovely Venetian blown glass vase. The piece was exquisite, as was the price. Maybe after she sells the first shipment, she thought.

    Cheryl was beginning to feel a little frustrated. The stock was great. There was plenty of room for profit, but there were no apparent steals to be found. The owner clearly knew his business. She smiled at herself. She was acting like a spoiled child turned loose in a candy store. Surrounded by sweets, she was fussing because she could not find a particular chocolate. But Cheryl was certain that that particular chocolate was, indeed, here! With a slight pang of regret, she put down the vase, and walked back to talk to the owner. She needed to talk about volume purchasing and shipping.

    It was time. She had seen all she needed to see, but not what she wanted to see. She would come back at any moment. Micah again considered his pills, but decided that this meeting would not take very long. He would close the shop as soon as she left. He could go home and take a nap, and rest up for her return.

     Micah rose to greet her, "Good afternoon, I am Micah Smithson, III, at your service." Cheryl shook his hand and introduced herself. She started explaining that she was an interior designer, when she found the object of her desire. She stopped speaking right in the middle of a sentence. Naturally, Micah was not surprised or offended. Cheryl leaned closer to the display glass. She found herself short of breath.

    Cheryl knew that she had found the source of all of her recent confusion. But she could hardly believe that this piece was worth all the trouble. It was an old fashioned wooden hair brush. The brush was well preserved. It was a dark, hard well-polished wood. The bristles were all in fine condition, definitely natural, probably boar.

     "What kind of wood is the brush?"

     "Walnut. It was made here in London in 1876."

     "It's lovely. May I see it?"

     "Of course."

     Micah handed her the brush, and watched. As Cheryl took the brush, she was overcome by waves of emotion. First, she felt unconditional love. She felt warm and content, enfolded in a sea of lavender. But just as quickly, the brush turned icy in her hands. Cheryl cried out, then almost fainted, overcome by fear, pain and a sense of betrayal. A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead. She quickly passed the brush back to Micah. She apologized to him, saying that she just felt a little dizzy for a moment, but that she was better. He told her to sit for a moment, and offered her some water. She refused, assuring him that she was fine. In fact, she was anything but. She definitely did not want to touch that brush again, yet knew that she could not leave the store without it!

     "How much is the brush?"

     Micah smiled. "In many ways, the brush is priceless. I have refused offers of up to sixty pounds. But that is because the brush was not intended for those individuals. It was meant for you. It is my gift."

     "Oh, I couldn't! No, really, I'd be happy to pay for the brush. Please, how much is it?"

     "Then, the price is one pound. And if you are unhappy with the brush, for any reason, bring it back."

    Micah carefully wrapped the brush in tissue paper, and placed it in a gift box. With great ceremony, he accepted a one pound note from Cheryl, and placed it in his antique cash register. He escorted her to the door, then closed the shop, and left for the day.

***

     After drying her long auburn hair, Cheryl took her expensive Crabtree and Evelyn brush out of her travel kit to give her locks their nightly one hundred strokes. As she was about to start, she paused and set the brush down. She went over to her suitcase and took out the Smithson's gift box. She sat on the end of her bed, her back straight, her feet flat on the floor, the box held with two hands in the middle of her lap. Sitting there barefoot and in her nightie, trembling slightly, she resembled a naughty little girl awaiting impending discipline. Cheryl sat like that for several minutes, afraid to open the box, and equally afraid to set it down. Steeling herself, she opened the box and removed the dark walnut hair brush. Nothing happened.

     Cheryl realized that she had been holding her breath. She released it with an audible,

     "Whew!" Setting the box aside, she began brushing her hair. The brush felt like it was made for her hand. It was firm and strong, and separated the strands of her hair without any pulling or tugging. The brush massaged her scalp, and felt tremendous. As the strokes mounted, she increased her speed and the power of her strokes. At times, she imagined that she could hear a little girl laughing and singing. As the nightly ritual drew to a close, she became aware of a strong scent of lavender. With the final strokes, she clearly heard a child's laughter, and a little girl's voice counting with her own,      "Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... One hundred! See Miss Wellington, your hair is so pretty!"

     Suddenly Cheryl was very sleepy. She carefully placed the brush back in the box, and went to bed wondering why a little girl was talking to her ancestral link to London. She slept, or least lacked consciousness. The contentment that she experienced while brushing her hair, gave way to darker thoughts as she entered Morpheus's realm. She was in a long, poorly lit hallway. She could not see to the end. Somewhere up ahead, she could hear a little girl crying. Cheryl called to the little girl, but the girl continued to cry. She started to walk down the hall, but could get no closer to the girl.

     Cheryl cried out in her sleep. She kicked off her covers, and dug her fingers into her pillows. She found herself near the end of the hallway. Running just ahead of her was a little girl, clutching an overly long night shirt. Cheryl called out, and the little girl looked back over her shoulder in her direction. As she looked back, she lost her grip on the night shirt. The little girl tripped over the night shirt , and fell forward and down a flight of stairs. Cheryl and the little girl screamed in unison. She awoke, sobbing and drenched in sweat.

     After some time, Cheryl became aware of someone knocking on her door. "Hello, in there? Miss, are you all right?"

Cheryl called out, "just a moment, please." She peeled off her drenched nightie, and quickly threw on jeans and a tee shirt. She ran into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, went to the door, and found the Porter checking out reports of a guest screaming. Cheryl blushed deeply, and apologized for disturbing the other guests. She explained that she had been reading horror stories before bed, and a moth landed on her face just after she fell asleep. Naturally, the moth became a fierce creature of the night. The Porter, who already knew that all Yanks had too much money, too little common sense, and no manners or sense of propriety (but the no bra look works for you), just smiled and told her he understood, and was there anything he could get her--some tea perhaps, and no-- then I'll be on my way, and good night (and try not to wake the rest of the guests, and tomorrow read a bloody romance novel).

     Several hours passed before Cheryl was able to go back to sleep. As she drifted off, she swore she never touched the perfume!

***

     Cheryl sees herself sitting in a huge cathedral, with two young children, a boy and a little girl. No, it is not Cheryl. But the woman could pass for her sister. The little girl is poking at her brother. The woman leans over and whispers to the girl. After several moments, the girl again starts poking at her brother. The woman places herself between the siblings.

     Cheryl sees a drawing room. A man in a waist coat is seated reading a newspaper. The door to the room opens. Cheryl sees her look alike leading the little girl by the hand. The little girl's face is red and wet with tears. The man folds his newspaper as the girl comes to his side, and says, "I'm very sorry that I was naughty in Church today, Poppa, but I never touched the perfume. Really!"

***

     As Micah expected, Cheryl was waiting outside the shop when he arrived. She held the gift box with both hands. "You knew I'd be back."

     "Yes, I did. Please come in."

      Micah opened the door and let them in, but left the blinds drawn, and the closed sign on the door. He told Cheryl to place two straight backed chairs by the rosewood coffee table in front of his desk, and to place the walnut hair brush in the middle of the table. He then walked back to his office and started boiling water for tea. When the tea was finished, he poured two cups, and rejoined Cheryl.

     Micah sat down painfully, and set his cane aside. He took a long sip of his tea while he studied her. He began slowly, "I did not know your name, of course, but I have known of you since your conception, just as I knew of your mother. I know that you are the last of your blood line." Cheryl shuddered and her eyes widened, but she dutifully remained silent. "Even though you are still young, and may yet have children and many descendants, my bloodline dies with me. A war wound ensured long ago that there would be no blooded Micah Smithson, IV. And my health is failing rapidly. So it was time for you to come and break the cycle, since I am Micah Smithson the Last. I waited for your mother, but she never came. But God has sent you to save our souls."

     Cheryl was watching the walnut hair brush. It glowed, with an intensity that varied with the cadence of Micah's words. She knew with absolute certainty that whatever the old man was telling her would be the truth. And that thought petrified her! He paused and took another sip of his tea. She desperately wanted to sip hers also, but was certain that her hands would shake too much to hold the cup. Micah continued, "I am the last direct descendant of Micah Smithson, the brother of the little girl in your dreams." Cheryl gasped.

     "Oh yes, dear, I am quite familiar with the dreams. I have had them every night for the last forty years since my father, Micah Smithson the Second, died. He was quite mad by the end. But he never knew that there is a way out, which has saved my sanity.

"It was shortly after the onset of the dreams, that I first became aware of your mother. She was still too young. But her mere existence filled me with hope! At that time, your mother was the sole living descendant of Mary Wellington. As she came of age, my spirits soared. But her window of opportunity came and passed all too quickly. Your mother never came. I fell into a deep depression. Just when I thought that I would soon follow in my father's footsteps to the sanitarium, I saw once again the faintest glimmer of salvation. Redemption came from across the sea, as I sensed that your mother was pregnant. I remember that day. It was thirty years, two months and four days ago. Yes, dear, I even remember the time of day. And your twenty-ninth birthday brought me indescribable joy."

     Micah winced over a twinge in his hip. He paused and took another sip of tea. "The little girl in the dreams is named Sarah. She was aged nine. She would have been my great-aunt, had she lived. But you already know that such was not the case.

     "Sarah's mother died in childbirth leaving Sarah and her older brother with a father who loved them, but could not care for them. My great grandfather took on a nanny, a twenty-year old named Mary Wellington, to raise his small children. Mary was the only mother that little Sarah ever knew. And they adored each other! Every night they would brush each other's hair, one hundred strokes each."

     Cheryl heard a little girl's voice echoing "ninety-eight...ninety-nine...one hundred!"

     “Mary was very loving to both children, but at times seemed to dote on little Sarah which would make Micah jealous.

     "My great grandfather was a bit strict with the children. However, it devolved on Mary to administer discipline. Mary was always fair, but firm. As by now you've come to understand, severe infractions received an application of Mary's walnut hair brush, which was always received in the bare.

     "On several occasions, Mary had found a curious little Sarah playing in her room with her personal belongings, particularly her cosmetics. Mary was partial to lavender. After several warnings, one afternoon she once again found Sarah seated at her vanity, sampling her toiletries. Although Mary admired Sarah's perseverance, she nonetheless promptly turned Sarah over her knee for a light smacking, but promised her a dose of the hair brush if it happened again.

     "On the night of the accident, which was her night off, Mary returned home late after an evening at the theater. Upon retiring, she discovered that her toiletries had been moved about on her vanity. In particular, Mary observed that the stopper to her favorite lavender perfume was setting next to the bottle. She was shocked! Only days before, she had warned Sarah of the consequences of playing with her belongings without permission. Despite the late hour, Mary decided that correction could not wait until the morning. Wrapping herself in righteous indignation, she stormed down the dark hallway to Sarah's room. She pulled the sleepy and thoroughly bewildered Sarah out of her bed, and quick marched the little girl back to her room to view the scene of the crime."

     Micah paused again for another sip of his tea. He felt a pang of sorrow for Cheryl as he watched the tears forming in her eyes. He wanted to hold and comfort her, but there was precious little time left!

     "Poor little Sarah was terribly confused. She cried and begged, 'Please, Miss Wellington! I never touched your perfume. I swear it! Oh, please, please, please, not your hair brush! I really did not touch it this time!' But Sarah's protestations of her innocence fell on deaf ears. Mary picked up the walnut hair brush, took little Sarah by the ear, and pulled her over to the bed. However, in an unheard of fit of defiance, Sarah broke away from her and ran from the room. Mary could have caught her easily enough had she tried immediately, but she paused, astounded by Sarah's insolence.

"When Mary started after her, Sarah was half way down that long dark hallway between their rooms. Sarah looked back to see where Mary was, and dropped her hold on her night shirt which was too long for her. She tripped over the night shirt. Her momentum carried her down the stairs, where she fell, and broke her neck."

     Cheryl was crying openly now. Micah paused and reached across and patted her hand. He handed her his own handkerchief, which she unashamedly filled. When she had regained some of her composure, he concluded his story, "The Coroner's inquest ruled the matter an accident. No one, but Mary herself, ever blamed her for anything. But Mary could not live in that house with her memories of Sarah. She resigned her position, and shortly thereafter moved to America.

     "In fact, of course, Sarah never touched Mary's perfume that fateful day. It was my grandfather Micah, who craved an application of the walnut hair brush every bit as much as poor little Sarah feared it. And that is why Mary's walnut hair brush, the lovely brush there on the table in front of us, serves as an anchor for Sarah's restless spirit, and for ours as well. This hair brush was a symbol of Mary's and Sarah's unconditional love, and the focal point of their nightly bonding ritual, but it was also the central focal point of Mary's betrayal of Sarah's love and trust."

     Her voice choked with tears, Cheryl asked, "B-but what am I supposed to do?"

     "In order to release Sarah's spirit, we have to acknowledge our ancestors' guilt, and reaffirm their love for poor Sarah. I had hoped to accomplish this exorcism with your mother when she was twenty-nine, the same age as Mary Wellington on the night of the accident. But your mother never came. You are my second and last chance."

     Cheryl suddenly understood the ultimate purpose of her trip, and her awesome responsibilities. She rose, and without saying a word, lifted the walnut hair brush and kissed it. She handed the brush to Micah, who had pulled back his chair, and removed his jacket. She started to place herself over his lap, but Micah held his hand up. "I am afraid, dear, that the walnut hair brush was always applied to the bare bottom."

     Cheryl blushed deeply, but dutifully unsnapped her jeans. With great embarrassment, she pulled the jeans down to her ankles and stepped out of them. However, she could not bring herself to lower her panties while standing in front of the old man. Micah understood and nodded. She placed herself over his lap. She lifted her hips slightly to allow him to roll her panties down to her thighs. She whispered, "I love you, Sarah," and nodded for him to begin.

Micah raised the walnut hair brush, then brought it down with considerable force given his infirmities. The brush landed squarely across the center of Cheryl's upturned backside with a resounding crack! The crack was accompanied by a lightning flash of pain for both Cheryl and Micah, emanating simultaneously from her bottom and his shoulder. But the pain immediately was subjugated by a sense of cold, darkness and isolation. Cheryl could smell lavender perfume, as Micah raised the brush to continue the spanking. Although one part of her mind duly registered each smack, she was barely aware that she was being spanked over the next dozen blows. She was lost in a long dark hallway, drowning in the overpowering scent of lavender.

     Cheryl heard her own voice as a little girl of nine, pleading over and over, "I swear I did not touch your perfume! I swear it!" Her own little girl pleas became a sort of mantra which she sobbed out after each blow. Crack! "I swear it!" Crack! "I swear it!"

     Micah was not counting, because he knew that he would sense when it was time to stop. Sweat soaked through his shirt and vest. The pain in his shoulder felt like a hot poker. He was certain that he had torn something that would have taken months, if he had had months, to heal.

     Micah feared the strain on his heart, and for the briefest moment considered stopping. But this pain was only temporal, while damnation was eternal! So ignoring the telltale signs of an impending coronary event, he continued to raise the walnut hair brush again and again, only to send it crashing once more down onto Cheryl's crimson mounds.

     After thirty or forty cracks, Micah's arm lightened, and the blows started falling in a natural rhythm. He felt a kind of bond with Cheryl as if they were sharing something special. He even imagined that he heard a little girl's laughter! However, after several more whacks, that sense of closeness was supplanted by feelings of anger and disappointment. He became aware of her chanting. Crack! "I swear it!"

     Although she did not know exactly what Micah was experiencing, Cheryl could tell that something had changed by the sudden increase in the intensity and rapidity of the smacks. In addition, she had experienced a similar shift in her perceptions. For the briefest period, she imagined that she heard a little girl laughing. She felt incredibly close to him, almost as if they were lovers. During these periods of virtual respite, Cheryl found herself raising her bottom up meet the next kiss of Micah's brush, then crashing back down to grind her pelvis against his leg. But all too soon, those periods would dissipate, and the laughter would turn again to cries of sorrow and repentance. Her mounting pleasure would once again turn to shame and embarrassment, and an instinctual desire to flee.

     There came a point as the spanking drew to a close, where Micah's and Cheryl's separate visions coalesced into a single reality. The smell of lavender filled the shop. An overall sense of comfort and well-being filled both Micah and Cheryl. She sobbed openly, tears spilling down her cheeks, both as a result of the extraordinary pain radiating from her scorched bottom, and as a result of a sense of immense pride at having fully discharged her ancestral debt to poor Sarah. The little bell over the door started ringing, and the Venetian vase resonated harmonically. The shop was filled with a little girl's laughter.

     Crack! "Ninety-seven."

     Crack! "Ninety-eight."

     Crack! "Ninety-nine."

     Crack! "One Hundred!"

     Micah set down the walnut hair brush. The back of the brush was hot to the touch. The fullness of the little girl's laughter bounced around the shop, then slowly faded away. Cheryl smiled through her tears, and sobbed, "Good-bye, Sarah! We love you!" He lifted her up and held her while she cried.

***

     Poor Cheryl's bottom was too sore and swollen for her to squeeze back into her jeans. So Micah gave her a lovely antique 1880's floral dress, which fit her perfectly. Cheryl looked at Micah who smiled and said, "Of course, it was one of Mary's favorites. But now, it is time for you to return to America."

     Cheryl shuddered at the thought of sitting on the long flight home. Micah carefully wrapped the walnut hair brush, and packed it in a new gift box. At the door, he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. As he closed the door behind her, he felt in his coat pocket for the paper with the name of his Solicitor who held his final will signed yesterday afternoon, designating his God-niece Cheryl Albans of Los Angeles, California, United States of America, with her full name and address carefully copied from the Guest Registry, as his sole heir.

     Micah locked the door to his shop for the last time. He could no longer see, but it hardly mattered. Instinctively, after fifty years of practice, he turned off the shop lights and made his way slowly back to the rosewood coffee table. Settling himself in his chair, he felt for his tea cup. He took a sip, then carefully found the saucer and replaced the cup. His last thoughts were of his love for Sarah and Cheryl, that the tea was cold, and so was he.

KC Copyright 1997

***************

You can find "The Walnut Hairbrush" in 

https://www.amazon.com/WICKED-MYTHS-FAIRY-TALES-THINGS-ebook/dp/B06WRPHJ8M/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=wicked+myths+ken+charles&qid=1569980109&sr=8-1 

Ken Charles' Valentine--"The Widow"

This story is not intended for those individuals under the age of eighteen, or for those individuals who are unusually sensitive to adult or sexually oriented materials. For the rest of you, enjoy.

THE WIDOW

By Ken Charles

     Captain Frederick J. McAndrews, R.A.F., was young, dashing, heroic, and an absolute fraud. Everybody loved him. Every girl, whether bar maid, nurse or steno clerk, would kill for his smile. Everybody watched his every move. But only I took the time to observe him. I suppose that is why he chose me when he could have had any birdie in town.

     It was like any other Saturday night in March, 1944. Everyone was drinking a little too quickly to get it in before curfew, laughing a little too easily, and pretending that Hitler was going to fall any day. Everyone was pretending to ignore the build up around the base. Everyone was watching everyone who might be a Nazi spy while pretending not to watch. So it did not surprise me that no one really took the time to do more than simply watch Captain McAndrews while he chatted up the locals, or pretended to drink the Yanks under the table. However, it was my job to watch the watchers and the watched.

     I was extremely discrete, nursing a pint at the end of the bar, never looking at him directly, but never taking my eyes off of him in the mirror behind the bar. It was the same as always. In the last hour, he had bought two rounds, and been spotted two more, but he had never finished more than a couple of sips from any glass. Although some people came and went, Captain McAndrews was always the center of attention. After the first round or two, he rarely said a word, but it was apparent that he never missed one either. Two or three times, he was accidently jostled by blushing patrons on their way to the powder room. It did not work three weeks ago, two weeks ago, or last week either, but that would not stop them from trying it again next week. It was becoming so predictable that I was considering just adding additional dates to last week’s report.

     Mercifully, he decided to make an early night of it. Before he finished putting on his coat and making his numerous farewells, I was out the door. The early evening drizzle was now a downpour. I was still three blocks from home when the wind reversed and ripped my umbrella. I was two and half blocks from home when the car pulled up.

     “Say, can I give you a lift?”

     It was wrong. The simple and obvious answer was no thank you. Double pneumonia was still better than being shot.

     “Thank you. You’re a life saver.”

     “Well, I’ve been called many things in my day, but that is a first. I’m Frederick

McAndrews.”

     “Julie Winters. Pleased to meet you Mr. McAndrews.”

     “Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Winters. But call me Freddie.”

     “Fine. Julie, then.”

     He nodded and smiled. I smiled back. He was much larger than he appeared in the mirror, and his smile was markedly different. It actually appeared to be genuine. I shivered.

     “Sorry, Julie. But I’ll have you home long before there’s any heat.”

     I nodded and told him not to worry about it. In a minute, he pulled up in front of my flat. I never told him where I lived.

     “I’ve been watching you, too.”

     They can only shoot you once.

***

     “Lordy, what time is it?”

     “A quarter to five. You can go back to sleep, but I have to get going. And I’m going to need that.”

     I was snuggled in his shirt. I liked it. I did not care to give it back. I informed him,

“Sorry, but you simply cannot have it.”

     “Now see here, Missy...”

     I giggled and pulled the comforter over my head.

     “If I have to come in there after you, someone is going to get her naughty bottom

smacked.”

     “You wouldn’t dare, you brute!”

     “To the contrary! One... Two... Three!”

     I gripped the comforter as tightly as I could. But that only proved to be another Maginot

Line. Before I knew what was happening, the bottom half of the comforter and a bundle of sheets flew up from the bottom of the bed. Freddie grabbed both of my ankles in one large hand and lifted both legs up. As his shirt dropped, is other hand landed three sharp smacks on my poor inverted bum.

He dropped my legs and uncovered my head. “You’re a beast, you know.” I pouted and was rewarded with a kiss. So I pouted again.

     I leaned on my side and watched him finish getting dressed. Unshaven and wearing a wrinkled shirt, I would have bet a pound that he could have reported for duty just like that and escaped a reprimand. As he tied his tie, I rolled out of bed. I walked over and hugged him tightly. I did not plan them, but tears started anyway.

     “This is wrong, you know.”

     “Yes, it is. But not for the reasons you think.”

     “How do you know what I think?”

     “Don’t worry about that. Suffice it to say that you have not done anything wrong or

anything to feel guilty about.”

     I hugged him tighter. “But still I do.”

     Freddie hugged me and stroked my hair. He leaned down and gave a long deep kiss. Then he took his jacket off and laid it over the chair. He took me by the hand and led me back over to the bed. He sat down on the half stripped bed and pulled me across his knee. I did not resist.

     He raised his hand and paused. I held my breath. When I exhaled, he gave me a

frightful whack on the right cheek. I would have cried out, but I had no air. He gave me

another fearful smack on the left cheek. But I was ready now. I whimpered but did not cry out.

Smack! Crack! Freddie alternated back and forth leaving no part of my poor bottom untouched. I did not kick or try to pull away. This was a gift, and I recognized it as such. After about two dozen fiery cracks, I fully embraced its solace and with a small sob, let loose a torrent of dammed up tears.

***

     After my final goodbye kiss, I told Freddie that dinner was at 7:30. He shook his head and told me that he could not promise anything. I nodded and told him I understood. We performed this ritual every morning for the next six weeks.

***

     I do not know how he found them, but the package contained six lamb chops. I smiled weakly, kissed him, and told him that it was a wonderful surprise. I refused to start crying. But there was an extra clean shirt at the bottom of his bag.

     We made love three times that night. The first time I raped him. The second time I rode him for as long as I could. The last time, I took him as deeply as I could so that that much more of me would remember him. I did not sleep that night. I held him until dawn.

     I laid out his clean shirt with his other clothes. I made a pot of coffee, then woke him at a

quarter to five. I refused to cry while I watched him dress. Tears would come soon enough.

Freddie finished adjusting his tie. I walked over and hugged him tightly. He bent down, stared into my eyes for hours, then gave me a long kiss.

     “This was not wrong.”

     “No, Freddie, it wasn’t. But not for the reasons you think.”

     “How do you know what I think?”

     “It doesn’t matter. But I know you love me.”

     “Yes, Julie, I do love you.”

     “Mark me, Freddie.”

     “Pardon me?”

     “I want you to mark me, Freddie.”

     I broke away from him and walked to the closet. We both knew this day would come. So several weeks earlier, I had prepared myself. I took out the antique whale-bone cane that I had purchased. I brought it over to him, kissed it, and placed it in his hands. “I want you to mark me, then leave. If I see you to the door, I won’t let you go.”

     I kissed him for the last time. Then I took the pillows and put them in the middle of the bed. I laid down over the pillows and turned Freddie’s shirt up.

***

     June 24, 1944. The marks had faded. The next outward signs of our relationship would not be apparent for a few more weeks. I was not surprised to see the MP’s waiting by my desk. In fact, I was relieved. They took me directly to the Colonel’s office.

     All of the papers were laid out on the Colonel’s desk. I was surprised at how much material was there. And I was correct that Captain Frederick J. McAndrews was a fraud.

     “Do you have anything that you would like to say, Julie?”

     I shook my head no. What was there to say?

     “Fine, then I have a few things to say. James Frederick Browne was a fine man, and a great patriot. I served with his father, and I knew James his whole life. I hand picked him for his mission. Though I cannot give you any of the details, I can tell you his work saved a lot of lads on June 6th.

     “James was a very thoughtful and dedicated man. But I never would have described him as happy until he met you. The family solicitor will help you with James’s estate. But here are a couple of things that James left with me to give to you.”

     I had never seen it before, but the signature at the bottom of the marriage license from April 14, 1944, for James Frederick Browne and Juliette Winters, was mine. The stone on the ring was small, but perfect. Captain Frederick J. McAndrews, R.A.F., was young, dashing, heroic, patriotic, an absolute fraud, and first and foremost, my husband.

KC Copyright 2004; Moral rights to be identified as the author of “The Widow” asserted worldwide (including in Great Britain in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act of 1988)

A Tale of Two Prepositions

AUGUST 2, 2016

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

A TALE OF TWO PREPOSITIONS OR WHY REPUBLICANS WILL SWEEP ALL STATEWIDE ELECTIONS IN NOVEMBER, UNLESS…

By Bruce C. Cohen

            This is the tale of two tiny prepositions, “to” and “by”. Between them, they have the power to decide all statewide elections this November. As it stands today, “to” is winning which means that if nothing changes between now and the November elections, Republicans will sweep all statewide contests.

            There are 115 counties (including St. Louis City) in Missouri. The election authorities for these counties is established in Missouri Revised Statutes Section 115.015 which provides, “The county clerk shall be the election authority, except that in a city or county having a board of election commissioners, the board of election commissioners shall be the election authority.”  Section 115.017 establishes the counties where a board of election commissioners can operate. Six counties qualify, including St. Louis County, St. Louis City, Kansas City, Clay County, Jackson County and Platte County. According to the Official Manual State of Missouri 2015-2016, as of 2014, these six counties had a total of 1,647,478 voters out of a statewide total of 4,081,259, comprising approximately forty percent of the electorate.

            In 109 of 115 counties, the county clerk serves as the election authority. In the other six counties listed above, however, a board of election commissioners serves as the election authority. The problem is, these six boards of election commissioners have no constitutional authority to act. Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12 provides in relevant part, “Unless discontinued all present or future boards… of the state exercising administrative or executive authority shall be assigned by law or by the governor as provided by law to the office of administration or to one of the fifteen administrative departments to which their respective powers and duties are germane.” (Emphasis added) On its face, this section applies to “all” executive branch boards without exception, including boards of election commissioners. This is where the preposition “by” comes into play. Boards may be assigned “by” law or “by” the governor as provided “by” law.

Nothing in Missouri Revised Statutes Chapter 115 assigns the boards of election commissioners by law to the office of administration or to an executive branch department as required by Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12. Accordingly, the responsibility for assigning these boards falls on the governor. The law providing for assignment of a board by the governor is the Omnibus State Reorganization Act of 1974, Missouri Revised Statutes Appendix B (hereinafter “OSRA”). Under the OSRA, if a board is not assigned by law to the office of administration or a state executive branch department, then the governor may assign the board. All it takes is a one page letter. It is so simple, even John Ashcroft could do it (see e.g. EXECUTIVE ORDER 86-03).

This is where the preposition “to” comes into play. Unfortunately, no governor has ever assigned the six boards of election commissioners “to” the office of administration or an executive branch department. The Official Manual State of Missouri 2015-2016, at page 871 lists the six boards of election commissioners as “Boards Assigned to the Governor”. Under Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Sec. 12, there is no such thing as a “Board Assigned to the Governor”. Boards may be assigned “by” the governor, not “to” the governor. Until such time as the boards of election commissioners are assigned “to” the office of administration or an executive branch department, those boards have no more authority to conduct election activities than a Wednesday night coed volleyball league.

In the governor’s election in 2012, Democrat Jeremiah W. (Jay) Nixon defeated Republican David (Dave) Spence 1,494,056 to 1,160,265. Governor Nixon outpolled Spence 725,825 to 366,058 in the six board of election commissioner counties: St. Louis 324,748 to 185,704; St. Louis City 117,979 to 19,478, Kansas City 107,474 to 23,806; Jackson 94,008 to 73,518; Clay 57,962 to 43,398; Platte 23,654 to 20,154. Without these six counties, Spence won 794,207 to 768,231. Similarly, in the Secretary of State election, Democrat Jason Kander defeated Republican Shane Schoeller 1,298,022 to 1,258,937. But if you subtract the votes from the six board of election commissioner counties (Kander 675,103 to Schoeller 382,293), Kander lost 876,644 to 622,919.

In short, democrats cannot win a statewide election without the votes from the six board of election commissioner counties. But without a constitutional election authority, the forty percent of the Missouri electorate residing in those six counties are disenfranchised. Their votes cannot be counted.

There are two ways to return the franchise to the voters in the six affected counties. First, Governor Nixon could assign the boards of election commissioners to the office of administration or an executive branch department in accordance with Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12 and the OSRA. Second, the legislature could assign the boards by a new law. Unless one of these two things happen, Republicans have already swept the statewide elections in November. All that is left is the final paperwork.

******************

Copyright 8/2/16 by Bruce C. Cohen

Permission granted for reproduction with proper attribution.

            *****************

Bruce C. Cohen and Doni R. Miller are currently challenging the 2014 elections for St. Louis County Executive and Prosecutor at the Missouri Supreme Court, CAUSE NO. SC95793. Electronic copies of Appellants’ Brief are available upon request at bccohen1@earthlink.net.

Trump Campaign Shake Up Press Release

AUGUST 17, 2016

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

The Trump campaign announced a major shake up for the second time this political season. The executive chairman of Breitbart News LLC, Stephen Bannon, replaced Paul Manafort as the campaign's chief executive following Manafort's recent Ukrainian difficulties manufactured by the DNC and the Clinton campaign.

Mr. Trump explained, "We are absolutely thrilled, absolutely thrilled to bring Stephen Bannon on board. Breitbart is the world-wide leading publisher of right wing fantasy and fanfic. The world-wide leader. With Stephen here, we can finally start ignoring facts altogether."

Ballroom caning from The Mercies of Cinderella by Ken Charles

     It had the curious appearance of a ballroom dance. The twelve hand selected members of the Prince’s personal guard, in their finest dress uniforms, strode into the Court in two files of six. Each carried a four foot long cane at his side. As the two columns approached the thrones, the last in line stopped. Every four steps thereafter, the next in line from the rear would stop, until the first in each line stopped ten paces from the thrones. The guards then took two steps apart, clicked their heels once, then froze in rigid attention. Cinderella’s twelve Ladies in Waiting, dressed in diaphanous translucent white camlets, entered next in two files of six. When each had taken a place next to one of the guards, the Ladies curtsied to Prince and Princess.

     “Begin.”

     The Ladies turned around in unison, and bent over and grabbed their ankles. Each guard then parted his partner’s camlet at the rear, exposing twelve lovely pairs of creamy white orbs. The guards snapped back to attention as Captain of the Guard came forward, and bowed to the Prince and Princess. Captain of the Guard turned and addressed the twelve pairs.

     “It is the duty of a Lady in Waiting to attend to the needs and desires of her mistress. But the paramount duty of every Lady, which rises above tending to the needs or desires of her mistress, is to ensure the safety and well being of her mistress, even when it might conflict with a Lady’s other duties. In this regard, these Ladies have failed their mistress. While the fault might not be entirely their own, there is still a price to be paid for such negligence.”

     Cinderella felt tears welling up. She had not told any of them what she intended when she went for her ride. Indeed, until she gave Snow Princess her apple, she had not even thought of such a misadventure. It was not fair that her Ladies should have to pay for her misdeeds.

     “Assume positions. One!”

     Crack!

     Twelve simultaneous cracks echoed through the Court, accompanied by twelve concurrent gasps.

     “Two!”

     Crack!

     Twelve red lines appeared an inch below twelve others. Twelve more gasps were followed by several intermittent sobs.

     “Three!”

     Crack!

     The Prince and Princess looked out at thirty-six fiery bars.

     “Four!”

     Crack!

     A dozen yelps, and a dozen more crimson weals leapt to the fore.

     “Five!”

     Crack!

     Tears fell readily as a fifth line blazed forth, forming a dozen perfect staffs for musical compositions.

     “Six!”

     Crack!

     A dozen vicious diagonal cuts barred the gates. The guards snapped back to attention, as Captain of the Guard turned back to the Prince.

     “A full measure, Milord, as ordered. Does it meet with Milord’s satisfaction?”

     “Well done, Captain of the Guard. You may dismiss your troops.”

     Captain of the Guard bowed, and turned to his troops.

     “Company dismissed.”

     The guards clicked their heels, then retreated in the reverse order from their entry, leaving the weeping Ladies bent over on display. When the last of the guards had left the Court, Captain of the Guard turned back to the Prince and Princess, bowed, and took his leave.

    The Prince rose. “I leave you, Milady, to deal with your Ladies further as you deem meet and proper.”

     Cinderella rose and curtsied to the Prince.

     “Milord.”
     

     The Prince left the Court to the fanfare of a dozen muted sobs. Once the great hall doors closed behind him, Cinderella ran down the steps to the center of the room.

     “Come to me!”

     The Ladies ran to Cinderella and hugged her and each other. Together they cried.

****************************************

Ready to read the rest?  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01B1W4YWK

INTERPRETING YOUR NEW PUBLISHING CONTRACT

     A publishing contract is like any other contract. It establishes a business relationship between the author and the publisher. It is not an admission to a private social club. Although an author may feel privileged and proud to have a work under contract, the purpose of the contract is to exploit and disseminate the author’s work, not to stroke the author’s or the publisher’s egos.

I. “Shall” vs. “May”

     The publishing contract sets out the road map for the parties’ dealings, specifying what actions are required and so must be performed, and what actions are permitted and so are within the parties’ contemplation, but may or may not occur. Mandatory or required actions are frequently, though not exclusively, found in a clause containing the word “shall”.

Section 3--Within ten (10) days of the execution of this Agreement,  Author shall deliver three, right justified, printed copies of the Work on 17”x 23.529411” green paper to Publisher at Suite 123, Drilling Platform 138, North Sea.

Under this Section 3, the Author is required to deliver three copies of the work in a specific form, at a specific place, within a specified time period. Failure to perform any of these requirements constitutes a breach of the contract. Even though 20” x 20” paper has the same total surface area as 17” x 23.529411” paper, Author is required to use the latter paper.

     Permissive actions are frequently, though not exclusively, found in a clause containing the word “may”.

Section 4—Author may, in its sole discretion, substitute an electronic copy in PDF format for any written document or notice required or permitted to be sent under this Agreement. Any such substituted document or notice may be sent by facsimile transmission or e-mail in accordance with the contact provision of Section 3, 287 of this Agreement.

Under this Section 4, Author has the right, but not the obligation, to fax or email a document, rather than send a printed copy.

II. Basic Contract Construction

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride (1987)

     The primary purpose of putting the parties’ agreement into writing is to make the parties’ rights and obligations clear. Unfortunately, sometimes the agreement isn’t as clear as the parties expected. Courts assume that everything in a contract was put there for a reason. Accordingly, wherever possible, a court will attempt to give meaning to every word in a contract. Therefore, just because the parties may disagree as to the meaning of a contract clause, it does not follow necessarily that the contract clause is ambiguous or unenforceable as written.

     Courts rely on a number of different kinds of rules for interpreting a contract. The most important rule, of course, is one that supports your position. That said, let’s take a look at a few of the more common rules.

     The first rule of contract construction is that there is no need to interpret a contract if the meaning is clear. Words are given their plain and ordinary meanings. If a simple reading will suffice, then a court will look no further.

Section Five—Author shall stand on the corner of Fifth Ave and Main Street in a chicken suit for one hour, commencing at 1:00 p.m. central standard time, on the third Tuesday in each calendar month containing the English letter “Y”.

This Section Five provides clear and unmistakable direction. Author is required (“shall”) to stand in a specified place, at a specified time, for a specified duration, in a specified manner of dress. There is no question as to Author’s obligations under this clause. A court will not resort to any rules of interpretation beyond the plain and ordinary meaning of the words in the clause. (The wisdom of such a clause is not the court’s concern. The clause was important to the parties or it wouldn’t have been included in the contract.)

     If there is some question as to a party’s rights or obligations under a particular contract clause, the next step is for a court to look at the contract as a whole to determine the meaning of clause.

“The maxim noscitur a sociis, that a word is known by the company it keeps, while not an inescapable rule, is often wisely applied where a word is capable of many meanings in order to avoid the giving of unintended breadth…”  JARECKI v. G. D. SEARLE & CO., 367 U.S. 303 (1961)

     The meaning of general words that follow specific ones is limited by the meaning of the specific words.

"The rule of ejusdem generis, while firmly established, is only an instrumentality for ascertaining the correct meaning of words when there is uncertainty. Ordinarily, it limits general terms which follow specific ones to matters similar to those specified...” Gooch v. United States, 297 U. S. 124, 297 U. S. 128 (1936)

Similarly, contract clauses that are specific take precedence over general clauses (generalia specialibus non derogant rule). Although the Publisher may have the general right to control the cover design, if the Author has the right to review or reject a cover, that exception will take precedence.

     Another rule of construction worth noting is the rule that “the expression of one thing excludes other things” (expressio unius est exclusio alterius). Sometimes, what isn’t included in a contract is just as important as what is. When a contract clause expressly provides that the Publisher has the right to do “A”, “B” and “C”, then it does not have the right to do “D”. If the Publisher has the right to review and correct the text, that does not mean that it has the right to line edit and change those portions of the text that are not erroneous. The right to correct means that the Publisher can fix mistakes such as closing open quotations and replacing misspelled words with the proper spelling. It doesn’t mean it can change the Author’s word choices.

     Finally, while there are other rules of construction, one rule particularly needs mentioning. When all else fails, and a contract provision’s meaning is still unclear, then a court will construe a contract against the party that drafted the provision (contra preferentem rule). In most cases, the contract will be drafted by the publisher, and presented to the author on a “take or leave it” basis. In such a case, where any doubt remains as to the meaning of a clause, the court will construe the provision in question against the publisher.

III. The Zipper Clause

"Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-... That's all, folks." Porky Pig

     Somewhere near the end of the contract, there is probably a “zipper” clause. The zipper clause (also known as a “merger clause” or “integration clause”) states that the contract represents the entirety of the parties’ agreement. Any other writings or representations to the contrary are of no force or effect. What the court sees is what it gets. A strong zipper clause can cause a court to ignore evidence about what was discussed in the formation of the contract (parol evidence).

     It is important before signing a contract with a zipper clause to make sure that the contract fairly and accurately reflects Author’s negotiations with Publisher. If the Publisher talked about sending Author to an all expenses paid writer’s retreat in Fiji, it better appear in the contract. If it doesn’t, Author will not be permitted to argue, “But they said they would. That’s why I signed the contract.”

IV. Non-compliance – Cure – Termination of Agreement

“Once more unto the breach” Shakespeare

     A failure to follow the requirements of a contract is known as a “breach”. While every breach of a contract constitutes some kind of violation of a party’s rights or responsibilities, there is no hard and fast rule about the parties’ course of conduct following a breach. Some breaches can be fixed or “cured”. Other breaches cannot be fixed, and may lead to claims for damages and/or termination of the contract.

     How the parties respond to different breaches depends in part on their general course of dealings. If the parties have been dealing professionally and respectfully with each other, then it is more likely that minor breaches such as sending a document a day late where time is not of the essence will be ignored by the receiving party. However, where there is antipathy between the parties, even minor breaches may become major issues.

     Treating the other party professionally is more than a mere platitude or common sense. I recently had a problem with a publisher that had total control over the cover of one of my works. When I raised my concerns over the proposed cover with the publisher, instead of attempting to address those concerns, the publisher claimed its rights to control the cover under the contract. However, instead of stopping at an assertion of its rights, the publisher chose to add in gratuitous ad hominem attacks on me for having the audacity to question its judgment. When the publisher committed several breaches of the contract that were time sensitive and could not be fixed or cured prospectively (a bell once rung cannot be unrung), I exercised my right to terminate the agreement. Had the publisher addressed my concerns over the cover in a professional manner, even if I was unhappy with the final result, I might have been more forgiving of their subsequent breaches.

     Some contracts may include specific procedures for handling alleged breaches. For example, a clause may require the aggrieved party to notify the offending party of the nature of the breach, and give the offending party a certain amount of time to fix or cure the problem. However, if the breach is not cured in a timely manner, the offended party may be entitled to certain specified damages, or may even be entitled to terminate the contract. If there are specific procedures in the contract for raising the issue of a breach with the other party, then the complaining party may be required to follow those procedures before seeking relief in a court.

V. And in Conclusion…

     The best contract is one that the parties never need to consult. By maintaining a professional relationship, it may be possible to resolve many issues without ever resorting to the agreement. However, if it becomes necessary to review the contract, then be sure to read not only any provision in question, but also any other provisions that may help you understand it. Finally, when in doubt, don’t be afraid to consult with legal counsel.

Copyright CK 2/19/12

FOX NEWS –THE ULTIMATE MMRPG FOR 65+ WHITE MALES

                They went to Europe and kicked Fascists’ and Nazis’ asses. They went to the south Pacific and fought off hoards of slant-eyed devils. They came home and got houses and cars and a wife and two kids. Their word at home was the law. They got middle level management jobs and spanked and screwed their secretaries. They said hosannas at the feet of Joe McCarthy. All was right with the world. Then the world passed them by.

                The 1960’s came and their world ended. Suddenly they couldn’t refuse to hire minorities or give all of the choice work solely to white males. You could even get sued for pinching your secretary’s ass. Then by the time free love came into vogue, their hair lines were receding and their washboard abs were washed out.

                It only got worse over the next two decades. Sure they learned how to use a Dictaphone. But they still had to call their kids to come over and hook up the VCR and the Atari. Then came the computer age. The more adventuresome had the kids set up an AOL account. Some of them actually learned how to send an email.

But technology was moving too quickly. Computers shrank in size and phones grew beyond Alexander Graham Bell’s wildest imaginings. Information was too readily available to too many people. But too much information is overwhelming. People needed an escape from reality, at least for a couple of hours. And thus was born the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Play Game. While providing peace of mind to countless youth, it did nothing to alleviate the mental anguish of The Greatest Generation who don’t live grafted to their computers and smart phones. MMORPG didn’t work because the “O” was missing from their lives. Fox News gallantly rose up and filled the void.

                MMORPGs create fantasy worlds where you can travel to other worlds, shoot monsters, engage in felonies without fear of punishment, wage war, and make love without worrying about safe sex. Fox News provides an idyllic world where the 1950’s are brought back to life. For hours every day, one can sit back and listen to vapid blondes talking about how a woman can only be happy if she is married and how she needs to submit to her husband. Balding, overweight men will pontificate about the evils of premarital sex, abortion,  welfare, immigration and the relentless war on Christianity. In short, Fox News is nothing more than a Massive Multiplayer Role Play Game.

                Instead of letting Fox News raise your blood pressure because of a lack of factual foundation for their reporting, just recognize Fox News for what it is, a MMRPG. Facts have no relevance. In a fantasy world, the world builders control reality. Accordingly, the facts are whatever the world builders want them to be. If they want pigs to fly, then pigs will fly. If they think taking healthcare away from millions of people and controlling a woman’s body is best for society, then these things, indeed, are best for society. Just remember that it is only best for society so long as you remain immersed in the MMRPG. Once you reenter the real world, just as it is no longer permissible to steal cars or blow things up, the Fox News fantasies must be left behind.

CK Copyright 2015; Moral rights to be identified as the author of the foregoing story asserted worldwide (including in Great Britain in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act of 1988)