Monday, October 31, 2022

Topics Tickling the Mind - Victor Davis Hanson podcast

Quote du jour

"What's about to happen is very obvious. Voters think the economy sucks. Voters think Joe Biden sucks. Therefore, voters think Democrats suck. End of discussion."

- one Republican deeply involved in midterm races

Sunday, October 30, 2022

Corpus Christi

 Continuing our retrospective of Mary M. Isaacs' short stories...This one was published here Nov 8, 2020, and June 6, 2021

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

   It was another locked and deserted church. The young man walked up to the chain link fence and gripped the wire with his fingers. He looked up, gauging the height of the fence. Yes, he could probably climb over it fairly easily, but a heavy padlock on the double doors beyond showed how useless that effort would be. The dry leaves, dirt, and litter on the steps suggested that no one had attempted to get in for some time. There were faded shadows of graffiti, which had been scrubbed as clean as possible, but the doors and walls were forever scarred. 

   He wondered what it looked like inside. The windows had been broken and were now boarded up, but had the sanctity of the building been breached? Would the inside be destroyed too, vandalized like the outside? He hoped not but feared so. 

   He let go of the fence and dropped his arms. This was the third abandoned church he had seen that day—fourth, if you counted the burnt-out shell of a building he’d seen that morning. He couldn’t be certain that it had been a church, but there had been several clues… He felt sick at heart. 

   As he stood there, he had a vivid memory of going to church as a very young child. He went every Sunday with his grandparents when he visited with them in the summertime. The big brick downtown church—the cavernous interior, the fellowship hall filled with the older ladies for the women’s meetings he attended with his grandmother—he had been smiled over and patted, he’d been given milk and cake, he’d looked at the Bible scenes hanging on the walls. He went to Sunday school there, put his offerings into the basket, and sang Sunday school songs. He remembered the Bible stories, remembered them well. He had received story pamphlets and small Bible pictures and a certificate when he later completed communicants’ class. He could still recite the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed; they continued to comfort him during times of fear and distress. 

   He could not understand what had happened to it all. How had something that had been respected and loved, so quickly become something despised and maligned? He had a sudden thought and reached deep into his pocket. His fingers found something small and smooth, and he brought it out. It was a silvery cross; on it were incised the words, “God is Love”. He looked at it and then looked at the abandoned building. Where was that love now? Did anyone believe it any more? 

   Deeply disturbed, he turned back toward the motel where he had spent the night. He kept his eyes forward or on the ground in front of him, so he wouldn’t see the damaged and barricaded churches that he’d passed. He had started out that morning looking for a church to attend; at the end of the day, he was mourning their destruction. 

   He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of steps behind him until they had caught up with his. He turned his head to see an older man smiling gently at him. He gave a brief smile in return, but then looked ahead and kept on walking, the other man by his side. 

   “Why is a young man like yourself walking so slowly?” asked the older man. Then, peering closely, he added, “And why looking so dejected? It’s a beautiful day to be alive, isn’t it?” 

   The young man stopped abruptly and turned to face the other one. “I’ve been searching for a church—any church. I’ve been looking everywhere. Not just this city, but all over. Some are locked up, some are empty, some have been converted into homes or businesses. Some have even been burned or demolished,” the words poured out as the young man opened his heart. “I haven’t found one open church. It makes me sad—it’s all gone, everything’s gone. Where is God? Where is Jesus? I’m looking for them everywhere, but I can’t find them…” He put his hands over his face and wept. 

   The other man looked at him with compassion. After a few quiet moments, he said, “It’s been a long day for you, for both of us. I think we should sit down and have something to eat. Will you join me?” And he indicated a bench on the side of the road. 

   The young man took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then wiped off the tears with the heel of his hand. “Something to eat sounds good, thank you. I don’t have much with me right now, though—just some fruit and water.” After they both sat down on the bench, he opened his backpack and pulled out a paper napkin, which he spread between them. Reaching in again, he brought out a few apples, a bottle of water, and a cup. 

   “I have some bread,” said the other man. From a bag he carried, he brought out a small loaf of homemade bread. 

   While the young man watched, the older man raised the bread in his hands, prayed silently over it, and lowered it. He then broke off a piece of the loaf and held it out. Their eyes met briefly, one pair calm and the other pair startled. 

   The young man reached out slowly, as if in a dream; he took the piece of bread and brought it close to him, without taking his eyes off it. He held it in both hands, carefully and silently, while he bowed his head. Prayers and words and images swept through his mind: beatings and scourgings—”This is my body” –and the agony on the cross. Thunder and darkness, the shaking of the earth, heart-numbing grief–then the sudden radiance of glorious light, so blindingly real to him that he closed his eyes, only to realize that the light was everywhere, outside of him and within. All was illumined, he knew it all, and time stopped for a while… 

   Then the light slowly faded until once again he saw only the piece of bread in his hands. He raised it to his mouth and ate it slowly. Even though the blazing light had gone, he still felt its brilliance and warmth inside him. In deep surprise he raised his head to tell the older man what had happened. 

   But no one was there. 


 Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2020 (from a forthcoming book)
"Corpus Christi" is part of a collection of stories in "The White Bird", as seen on the sidebar

Quote du jour

In the family register of glory the small and the great are written with the same pen. You are as dear to your Father's heart as the greatest in the family.

- C H Spurgeon

Saturday, October 29, 2022

From China and the Border to the Unspeakable - Victor Davis Hanson podcast

Best of the Web*

*…that Dave and I have seen all week!

(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)


Why did Census undercount some red states, overcount blue? One lawmaker demands answers

Feel Good Friday
Wyoming School Porn: The Camel And The Tent

Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies for 10-23-22

Larwyn’s Linx: Two Tiers of Justice: Bannon Sentenced to 4 Months Jail For Ignoring J6 Committee Subpoena
In The Mailbox: 10.24.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Blackouts: another dark consequence of Net Zero
In The Mailbox: 10.25.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Hunter Biden’s Laptop Documents At Least 459 Legal Violations, Watchdog Group Says
In The Mailbox: 10.27.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Who and What to vote for in Arizona in 2022
In The Mailbox: 10.28.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Democrats: The Only Way To Save Democracy Is One-Party Rule

Larwyn’s Linx: Democrats to Voters: Why Do You Care So Much About Crime?

Larwyn’s Linx: Charts: How Democrats ignited our energy and inflation crisis

Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".

Quote du jour

Affordable energy is a bedrock of civilization.

- Mike B

Friday, October 28, 2022

Double Bonus Free Gun Friday

This week's double bonus Free Gun Friday is a Crusader Arms 5.56 with some custom goodies!

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+ Mount Trigger Tech AR15 Adjustable Trigger 2.5 - 5 
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Jerry Lee Lewis on Ed Sullivan

R.I.P. Jerry.

Bonus Free Gun Friday

Our bonus Free Gun Friday is a sweet H&K MR762A1 rifle package!
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Free Gun Friday

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Quote du jour

"Employ your time in improving yourself by other men's writings, so that you shall gain easily what others have labored hard for."

- Socrates

Thursday, October 27, 2022

Where Do We Go From Here? - Victor Davis Hanson podcast

Quote du jour

“At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: “I have to go to work — as a human being. What do I have to complain of, if I’m going to do what I was born for — the things I was brought into the world to do? Or is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?”

- Marcus Aurelius

Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Marionettes of the Democratic Party - Victor Davis Hanson podcast

Quote du jour

"Whenever you are angry, be assured that it is not only a present evil, but that you have increased a habit."

- Epictetus

Tuesday, October 25, 2022

Quote du jour

"By working faithfully eight hours a day, you may eventually get to be boss and work twelve hours a day."

- Robert Frost

Monday, October 24, 2022

Quote du jour

The only resource environmentalists think is unlimited is other people’s money

- Steven Hayward

Sunday, October 23, 2022


Continuing our retrospective of Mary M. Isaacs' short stories...This one was published here Oct 11, 2020


   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.

   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring.


   In a nearby room, an old man put down a large handbell and carefully retied the cincture around his long robe. In the small kitchen down the hall, a middle-aged woman finished putting away a few dishes and hung a towel up to dry. Both of them headed for the brick-walled room at the same time.


   The young woman heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She stood up and, dragging the knapsack with her free hand, moved closer to the wooden table. She stood there silently as the footsteps came closer.

   The old man, followed by the woman, entered the dimly-lit room, but they stopped abruptly at the sight of an unexpected visitor. The three of them looked at each other for a moment, and then the old man stepped forward with a smile.

   “Greetings and welcome,” he said, inclining his head slightly. The young woman shifted the wrapped object in her arms as he spoke; the older woman’s eyes instinctively took in how it was being carried.

   “Can we help you?” the old man said. “I am Brother Simon, and this is Sister Julianne.” He indicated the woman standing next to him. “We are…caretakers here.”

   “I’ve come a long way to find this place,” the young woman replied. “There is something important I must do.” She turned down a fold of the blanket in her arms to reveal the sleeping face of a very young child. The older woman drew in her breath audibly.

   Brother Simon looked sober. “It’s a boy?” he asked. When the young woman nodded, he lifted his eyebrows and then said, “How old is he?”

   “Seven months old,” she replied, holding the child a little closer. “And the Ceremony happens soon.”

   “Next week!” Sister Julianne said, moving forward while putting one hand over her heart.

   The young woman looked at her, assessing—and then smiled. “I have come to the right place. God led me here.”

   “How long have you been travelling?” asked Brother Simon.

   “A week or so—I’ve lost track of the days,” the young woman replied. “I travelled by night, when the child was asleep, and then hid and rested by day. I sold or traded away all my jewelry and there is no metal on our clothing, so they couldn’t track us the usual way. But they’re looking. I did get a head start, though, and we have come a long way.”

   “You and the child are welcome to stay here,” said Brother Simon warmly.

   “No, they will search everywhere for me. Even here.”

   Still holding the child carefully, she pulled back her right sleeve and turned over her arm. They were silent as they saw the brand.

   “They will never stop looking for me until they find me—one way or another,” she said, as she shook down her sleeve.

   “What will happen to the child?” asked Sister Julianne in a whisper.

   “Nothing will happen to him–because they won’t find him. He will be here, safe with you. What’s one child more or less to them, anyway? There’s plenty more where he came from.” The young mother’s expression became bleak.

   “You brought him here to save him?” asked the older woman.

   “Yes, to save him.”

   “Of course he can stay here,” Brother Simon said. “And you can stay, too.”

   The young woman shook her head. “I can only save one of us. And there is no saving for me,” she said, her face set. “They will kill me on sight because I escaped. And if they find him, they will take him back and—dispose of him. I won’t let that happen.”

   “But surely they know you escaped with the child,” the older woman said. “Won’t they keep trying to find him?”

   “Open the knapsack and take out what’s on top.” Sister Julianne did as she was directed and pulled out a folded cloth. “Look at it,” said the young woman. When the cloth was shaken out, it was revealed to be a baby’s nightgown, torn and stained with blood. The young woman reached for it.

   “I will carry this with me. They will find it and think that the child was killed by animals. And because they must kill me, they will never know that he survived. The dead cannot speak. And he will be saved.”

   “Where did the blood come from?” Brother Simon asked the young woman.

   “It’s mine,” she said simply, as she tucked the small garment into her sleeve.

   There was a moment of silence, and then the old man spoke again. “Is there anything we can do for you—anything at all?”

   She turned to him quickly. “Yes—please baptize him before I go. I want to see him baptized.”

   “I am not a priest,” began Brother Simon, but she interrupted him.

   “I know that—the few that are left are hidden better than you or I could ever find in time. But this is a church…”

   The old man shook his head. “It was a church.”

   She looked him straight in the eye. “It will always be a church. You are the caretaker of this holy place and you are a believer. In the absence of a priest, you can baptize.” When he still looked uncertain, she added “If the child and I were to be retaken, we both would die; me quickly and him terribly. Such urgency allows you to baptize.”

   “How did you learn these things?” asked Brother Simon.

   “I was taught well, God rest her soul,” the young woman closed her eyes and crossed herself. “I want him to be baptized, as I was.”

   “Who baptized you?” Brother Simon said, amazed.

   “A priest. God rest his soul, too,” the words came out in a sob. Sister Julianne came closer and put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders.

   The old man stood in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Sister Julianne. “We’ll need the candles,” he said. She nodded and left the room. While she was gone, Brother Simon went to the side wall of the room, kneeled down, and carefully slid a few bricks out of the wall. He reached into the space behind them and withdrew a silver dish and a small corked bottle. He carried them all back to the table. When the young woman looked closely, she saw that the bottle was filled with a clear liquid and the dish was shaped like a scallop shell.

   Brother Simon began speaking as he placed the dish on the table and uncorked the bottle. “The last priest who was here had a vision—a warning of a difficult time to come. He was right.” The old man smiled grimly as he poured a little of the water into the silver shell. “He dug out the space in the wall behind the bricks, in which to hide the holy water and the baptismal shell. And there are other things in there. He prepared quite a lot before…” his voice trailed off.

   “Before what?” asked the young woman sharply.

   Brother Simon looked up. “Before he was taken,” he said simply.

   “You never saw him again?”

   “No,” the old man shook his head sadly. “The night before they came, he hid everything in the wall and made me vow to guard it with my life. That it all would be needed some day…” The old man finished his preparations and turned to the young woman. “May I?” he said, holding out his arms. Without a word, the young woman carefully handed the sleeping baby to him. Brother Simon settled the child in his arms and gazed in silence at him. His eyes took in every detail.

   During this time, Sister Julianne had returned with several votive candles; she lit them and placed them in order on the table. She then came around to the front and stood beside the young woman. The two of them looked at each other, then the young woman took the other’s hand in both of hers.

   “Will you be his godmother, please? The only mother he will have after tonight.” The older woman nodded her assent, and then they both turned to face the old man and the child, still holding hands.

   Brother Simon looked up from his study of the child’s face. “We will begin. What is his name?”

   “Christopher Joel,” the young woman replied.

   The old man looked surprised. “They wouldn’t have liked that…”

   “They don’t know anything,” she said scornfully. “They’ve all forgotten, or they refuse to remember.”

   Brother Simon held the sleeping child in one arm and made the sign of the cross over him. Then he picked up the small silver dish. Being careful not to let any liquid fall into the baby’s face, he poured some water on the top of the small head three times. “Christopher Joel, I baptize thee in the name of the Father…and of the Son…and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The two women echoed the final word. The child did not wake but continued sleeping peacefully.

   When he was finished, he gently handed the child to Sister Julianne, who gathered him into her arms with a smile of joy. He then turned back to the young woman. “I would like to anoint you. What is your name?”

   “I can’t tell you that. It’s not safe for you to know who I am.”

   Brother Simon looked at her and then said, “I understand, and you are right. But God certainly knows who you are, because you are his, and that is all that matters.” He took up the bottle of holy water and marked her forehead with the sign of the cross. “Into His hands I commend your spirit.”

   The young woman reached up to her forehead and traced the cross-shape. Then she looked at Brother Simon and asked, “Is there enough holy water for one more thing?” He nodded; she pulled up her right sleeve once again. “Please put it on this, to take away the shame.”

   Brother Simon covered the brand with holy water and murmured a cleansing prayer. All at once, a look of release flooded her face. “Thank you,” she said simply as she lowered her sleeve.

   Turning to the other woman, she indicated the knapsack beside them on the floor. “There are blankets and extra clothing for him in there, and a bottle. I weaned him early, to make things easier for whoever would be taking care of him.” She looked at the older woman, who was cradling the baby protectively. “He’s a good baby—and you will be a good mother to him, I know. He will be safe here with you both.” She looked trustingly from the woman to the old man, and back again. Then she looked down at the child for a long moment. Curving her hands around his face, although not touching him, she whispered some words inaudibly, as if in blessing. When she finished, she bent over and kissed the sleeping child lightly on both cheeks and on his forehead. Then she straightened up and, with tears beginning to fall, kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Christopher is your son now. Guard him well.”

   “I will–with my life,” answered Sister Julianne.

   The young woman turned her face up to the hanging lamp with a sharp look of longing–then tore her eyes away. “I need to leave. I don’t know how close they are, and I must lead them as far away from here as I can.” She turned quickly and raised the older man’s hand to her forehead. “Ring the bell for me after your prayers. Twenty-three times.” She looked to make sure that the old man understood, and then left the chapel silently, without a backward glance.


   The baby stirred; Sister Julianne began to rock him gently in her arms. Brother Simon replaced the holy water and the baptismal shell in the hiding place in the wall, sliding the bricks back into their spots exactly. He picked up the knapsack and tucked it under his arm. Then he blew out the candles on the table and took up the two oil lamps. “Come,” he said to Sister Julianne, “You need to prepare a place for this child—for our Christopher Joel—to sleep. I will come back and say Compline for all of us. God brought this child here; he will understand your absence.”

   “Remember to pray for her soul,” said the woman, holding the infant closer.

   “Yes, we must pray for her; and keep her child safe always.”

   The three of them quietly left the chapel, leaving the sanctuary lamp burning behind them.


Mary M. Isaacs copyright, 2020
"Sanctuary" is a part of the collection in "The White Bird", over on the sidebar

Quote du jour

"As the Roman sentinel in Pompeii stood to his post even when the city was destroyed, so do I stand to the truth of the atonement though the church is being buried beneath the boiling mud-showers of modern heresy. Everything else can wait, but this one truth of God must be proclaimed with a voice of thunder."

- C H Spurgeon, on the atonement of Christ

Saturday, October 22, 2022

Break 'Em Up, Clear 'Em Out - Victor Davis Hanson

The Democrat Government, Muddling Through - Victor Davis Hanson

Best of the Web*

*…that Dave and I have seen all week!

(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)


Pests, Filth, and Killer Elevators: Inside Raphael Warnock’s Secret Low-Income Apartment Building
Confirmed: New England facing natural gas shortages, rolling blackouts this winter - but no mean tweets, huh?
This Is Going To Be The Winter Of Our Discontent

Feel Good Friday
Minnesota woman stabbed and brutally beaten for wearing an American flag shirt - (by repeat felon)
How to Get Yourself Shot
School Attacks 2022, Part 9: Worst Case Scenario
NFL Kicker Gives Pro-Christian Message After Nailing Game-Winning Kick
Volkswagen deserves a medal for this one! Climate protesters glue themselves to floor in Porsche showroom. Company turns off lights, heat, lets them protest in the dark!
107-year-old WWII veteran finally receives Silver Star 77 years after his discharge

Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 10-16-22

Electric Nightmare: EV Owner Details 15-Hour Trek to Travel 178 Miles
This Chinese Chip Company Exploits Key Gap In Biden's Export Curbs

>Larwyn’s Linx: Politicized FBI Issues Bulletin Warning About “Election Crimes” Ahead of the 2022 Midterm
In The Mailbox: 10.17.22
Larwyn’s Linx: There Will Be No Civil War Here
In The Mailbox: 10.20.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Confirmed: New England facing natural gas shortages, rolling blackouts this winter
In The Mailbox: 10.20.22 (Evening Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Gaetz on Durham, The FBI are the Perpetrators Not the Victims
In The Mailbox: 10.21.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: The Midterms
In The Mailbox: 10.21.22 (Evening Edition)

Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".

Friday, October 21, 2022

Double Bonus Free Gun Friday

This week's Double Bonus Free Gun Friday is an excellent home defense/water fowling gun! The Reminton 870!
You can enter here.

Things That Reveal the Struggling Left - - Victor Davis Hanson

Bonus Free Gun Friday

This week's Bonus Free Gun Friday is a concealed carry package.
Custom Rogue Holster System 
Executive Belt 
Choice of T-Shirt 
Choice of Hat
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Free Gun Friday

This week's Free Gun Friday is in .308!
- Aero Precision Enhanced 18" .308 M5 Rifle in FDE. 
- Black Magpul Furniture. 
- ATIBAL HYBRID12 1-12X32 optic. 
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Quote du jour

Arming willing staff is like providing fire extinguishers. Most teachers will complete an entire career without needing a fire extinguisher, but when they need one, they need it immediately, badly, and nothing else will do. So it is with firearms.

- Mike McDaniel

Thursday, October 20, 2022

Quote du jour

I threw a boomerang at a ghost the other day. I knew it would come back to haunt me

- anonymous

Wednesday, October 19, 2022

Quote du jour

“Every human has four endowments—self awareness, conscience, independent will, and creative imagination. These give us the ultimate human freedom ... The power to choose, to respond, to change.”

- Stephen Covey

Tuesday, October 18, 2022

Quote du jour

Let’s also be clear about “banning books.” Removing explicit, sexual material from a school library, or simply not buying it in the first place, does not run afoul of the First Amendment. Such books, and similar depictions, are widely available at the click of a mouse. As always, the antidote for bad speech is good speech, never censorship. However, it is well-settled law it is inappropriate, and in some cases illegal, to expose a captive student audience to sexual content and/or political indoctrination. No one, outside of school, is in the least restrained from reading and viewing whatever they please.

- Mike McDaniel

Monday, October 17, 2022

Quote du jour

''No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.''

- Heraclitus

Sunday, October 16, 2022

Quote du jour

"I began to have a new kind of apprehensions and ideas of Christ, and the work of redemption, and the glorious ways of salvation by Him. An inward, sweet sense of these things, at times, came into my heart; and my soul was led away in pleasant views and contemplations of them. And my mind was greatly engaged to spend my time in reading and meditating on Christ, on the beauty and excellency of His person, and the lovely way of salvation by free grace in Him."

- Jonathan Edwards

Saturday, October 15, 2022

Best of the Web*

*…that Dave and I have seen all week!

(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)


The West Didn't Become Rich Because of Slavery But in Spite of It
Boston pays its cops millions for getting college degrees - Program provides a 10% increase in base pay for an associate’s degree, 20% for a bachelor’s degree, 25% for a master’s/ law degree.
Ohio Voters Are Not Stupid, the Polls Are Mostly Bulls**t and Tim Ryan Is Losing
A Venezuelan Man of Mystery Helps Tell Story of America’s Open Border

Feel Good Friday
The Ant and the Contact Lens
Yes, Democrats, Sometimes a ‘Good Guy With a Gun’ Does ‘Stop the Bad Guys.’
How a 12-year-old tricked the Navy into letting him fight in WWII | Military Times
‘Climate Change’ Is a Dangerous Cult
Wyoming School Porn: They’d Rather Not

Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 10-09-22

Electric Vehicles: So Much Fail
Scientists in China Discover Rare Moon Crystal that Could Power Earth
NASA releases new images of 'fingerprint-like' dust rings from Webb telescope
Man Never Uses Charger on Tesla on 1,800-Mile Trip By Running Gas Generator in Back for Week Straight

Larwyn’s Linx: Tulsi Gabbard: FBI and Intel agencies committed treason trying to steal our democracy
In The Mailbox: 10.10.22
Larwyn’s Linx: This election is your best last hope to curb power-hungry Democrats' extremism
In The Mailbox: 10.12.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Democrats’ Border disaster by the numbers
In The Mailbox: 10.13.22
Larwyn’s Linx: Why Does John Fetterman Have Convicted Murderers on His Payroll?
In The Mailbox: 10.14.22
Larwyn’s Linx: In Pennsylvania, fear and uncertainty are on the ballot
Larwyn’s Linx: For More Crime, Vote Democrat

Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".

Friday, October 14, 2022

Double Bonus Free Gun Friday

This week's Double Bonus Free Gun Friday is a sweet Sons of Liberty rifle in 5.56 NATO!
To enter, click here.

Bonus Free Gun Friday

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Hornady Precision Hunter 6.5 Creedmoor (2 boxes) - $85 
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Free Gun Friday

This week's Free Gun Friday is an FN SCAR 17S Battle rifle, with scout light and scope!
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Quote du jour

"To give without any reward, or any notice, has a special quality of its own."

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Thursday, October 13, 2022

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Free Gun Wednesday!

Today's Bonus Free Gun Friday is five chances to win some gunsmithing tools and accessories!
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Real Avid Master Gun Vise 
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Wheeler 30pc SAE/Metric Hex & Torx P-Handle Set 
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Quote du jour

"I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations."

- J.R.R. Tolkien

Tuesday, October 11, 2022

Angela Lansbury has Died at 96

Our younger generation, who may only know her through Murder She Wrote and Beauty and the Beast, should know she was quite the babe when she started her long and fruitful career!

Rest in peace, Angela!

For Truth Simply Take a 180

Quote du jour

So, we are in a great experiment in which regressive progressivism discounts all the institutions, and the methodologies of the past that have guaranteed a safe, affluent, well-fed, and sheltered America. Instead, we arrogantly are reverting to a new feudalism as the wealthy elite—terrified of what they have wrought—selfishly retreat to their private keeps.

- Victor Davis Hanson

Monday, October 10, 2022

Victor Davis Hanson: War, Italians, and Gender Dysphoria

Quote du jour

''When we are planning for posterity, we ought to remember that virtue is not hereditary.''

- Thomas Paine

Sunday, October 9, 2022

A Little Sunday Night Music

Pat Barrett - Build My Life

Forty Days for Life®--And Mine

 Editor's note:  Continuing our retrospective of some of the Mary M. Isaacs stories we have published. This account is from 2020, but the 2022 Campaign for 40 Days is happening right now!

To learn more, visit


Something happened during one of our "40 Days for Life®" prayer a mid-sized, San Francisco Bay Area town...

   It was very quiet, no foot traffic in and out this day, because the Planned Parenthood clinic was closed for an afternoon meeting. Another woman and I were praying the rosary off to the side: she was standing in a walkway between the building and the small parking lot, and I was sitting on a folding chair in the shade of a sidewalk tree. It was a warm and sunny afternoon in the fall, and we both needed our sunglasses. From my vantage point I could see along the front of the building, past the front door to the street corner. We held our rosary beads; I also held the large, scriptural prolife sign I’ve used for a long time.

   I have taken part in the “40 Days for Life” international prayer vigils for several years, originally outside the small Planned Parenthood clinic in our county and now in front of their newer, more central location, where surgical abortions take place at least once a week. Our city is not very big and our 40 Days group is small, but it is a dedicated group.

   The local organizers have a policy that there must be at least two people present during all vigil hours, for safety’s sake. We seldom if ever encounter the kind of opposition or violence that sometimes takes place in larger cities. Incidents do occur from time to time, however, and people sometimes gang up on a solitary person praying, so no one is ever to be there alone.

   While we were in prayer that afternoon, a woman drove by on the opposite side of the street. She rolled to a stop because of the traffic light, then glanced out her window--and read my sign. She immediately leaned out her open window, gave me the middle finger gesture, and then yelled, "YOU should have been aborted!" I looked after her in disbelief as the light changed and she sped away. Her reaction really struck me. The middle finger, cursing, thumbs-down signs--those don't really bother me very much any more. I’ve gotten used to those. But that sentence did bother me, for some reason.

   I was still trying to process it as we finished our prayers. I told the woman with me what had happened and what had been said, because she hadn’t been facing the street at that moment. She stared at me, astonished and shocked. We talked about it for a while and then sat in silence, but those words continued to bother me.

   A short time later, a man in a motorized wheelchair came around the street corner, just beyond Planned Parenthood's front door. He stopped, leaned to the side, and looked as if he was talking on an in-ears headset. Then he started forward, toward us. As he came nearer I braced myself, wondering if he would get in our faces and harass us. People do, sometimes, when they see us praying. You get used to that, too, but it can be upsetting.

   As he came closer, though, he looked right at me and started smiling. Because I was sitting on my folding chair we were at eye level with each other. He stopped close to me, only about a foot away, and said, "Every time I pass by here I lay hands on this building, and I pray that the women who come here will go somewhere else." As he was speaking, I took off my sunglasses and looked straight into his eyes. He ended with "God bless your work here." Then he started up his motorized chair and continued on his way.

   As I watched him leave, a sense of peace and calmness washed over me. Under my breath I said, “And God bless what you do, too.” 
   It wasn't until days later that I realized why the "YOU should have been aborted!" shout bothered me so much.

   The following week, during another prayer shift, there were three of us present, including one of the leaders. We were in the middle of our prayers when two young men stopped in front of us--one short, one tall, both very young (it became clear during the conversation that they were probably older middle schoolers).

   The short one was the spokesman, while the other merely stood and listened. The speaker asked about my sign, an old “40 Days for Life” one, which says, " Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you -- God" [Jeremiah 1:5]. It was clearly his way of creating an opening for talking, which continued for about 15 or 20 minutes. He brought out all the usual talking points, but not in a belligerent way. It was more of an "I don't know anything else because this is all I've been told" kind of way. Each point was well-countered, mostly by the leader and the other woman present. After each response, he went on to the next talking point. But he listened, and the taller one really listened (I watched his face). They were polite and respectful; they even excused themselves when they finally had to leave.

   At one point, the speaker brought up the issue of "unwanted babies". I answered that one, by telling him that I was adopted--that my birth mother had resisted pressure to either abort me or marry my biological father. Instead, she carried me to term and gave me up for adoption, by a couple who could not have children: my mother and father (who went on to adopt other children). I told him that I was deeply grateful to my birth mother for the gift of my life.

   After the young men left, I started thinking more about what I'd said to them, remembering the few, but important, facts I knew. My birth mother had cared enough for me to reject abortion. I was a real person to her, and she was adamant that I should live. She even gave me a name at my birth, a name which is on my legal adoption papers. It isn’t just a placeholder name, like "Baby Smith" or some such--she gave me a full, three-part, personal name that obviously had meaning for her. No one now knows that name except me and her--if she still lives--because my adoptive mother and father are both dead.

   Pieces started falling into place then until the whole picture was clear to me. That woman's shout, "YOU should have been aborted!" hit me as hard as it did because I so easily could have been aborted. I so easily might never have existed.

Never born. Never having lived.

And that's why it bothered me so much, I believe. Because it had been so possible.


Copyright, 2019, by Mary M. Isaacs
Forty Days for Life®--And Mine is included in the collection "Holy Innocence", featured on the sidebar.
"Forty Days for Life®" is used with permission by and is a federally registered trademark of Forty Days for Life, Inc., a not-for-profit charitable entity organized under the laws of Texas and IRS Code 501C3; and is also subject to other legal protections including copyright; and may not be used without written permission of Forty Days for Life, Inc.

Saturday, October 8, 2022

Best of the Web*

*…that Dave and I have seen all week!

(BTW, if you wonder where any of the links will take you, hover your cursor over the link.)


FBI Undercounts Times Armed Citizens Stopped Active Shootings
Las Vegas stabbing suspect is in US illegally, has criminal record in California: source

Feel Good Friday
School Attacks 2022, Part 7: What Works
The Thinnest Veneer of Civilization
CDC confirms with statistics that constitutional carry states have lower gun-related homicides
Uvalde, Texas School District Suspends Entire Police Force

Sunday Funnies
Sunday Funnies For 10-02-22

Green Energy Transformation: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Larwyn’s Linx: The “Squad”Is Silent As Women in Iran Are Slaughtered While Fighting for Their Rights
In The Mailbox: 10.04.22
Larwyn’s Linx: How Democrats are using 'green new deal' to build an American Social Credit Score
In The Mailbox: 10.05.22 (Morning Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Outsourced censorship: Feds illegally funded private entity to censor millions of messages in 2020
In The Mailbox: 10.06.22 (Afternoon Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Biden’s Secret Promise To OPEC Backfires
In The Mailbox: 10.06.22 (Evening Edition)
Larwyn’s Linx: Garland, Wray Must Be Impeached for Unconscionable Trump Raid
In The Mailbox: 10.07.22

Dave's Rule Five Roundup can be found here, as the Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama. Dave's been compiling the links for about the last three years. Bookmark his site and visit him for your Rule Five links! If it's not at the top of the page, scroll down to "Blog Archive" on the sidebar and look for "Rule 5 Saturday LinkOrama".

Friday, October 7, 2022

Double Bonus Free Gun Friday

Our Double Bonus Free Gun Friday is to start you reloading your own!.
You can enter here.

Bonus Free Gun Friday

This week's bonus Free Gun Friday is a big one!
Nosler Model 21 Rifle in 6.5 Creedmoor 
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Free Gun Friday

This week's Free Gun Friday is a IWI: Masada Slim Pistol, a DeSantis Slim- Tuk Holster and a Holosun EPS Carry MRS Red!
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Quote du jour

"Cowardice asks, "Is it safe?" The opportunity asks: Is he a politician? Vanity asks: "Is it popular?" But conscience asks "Is it correct?" And the time comes when one must take a position, which is neither safe, nor political, nor is it popular. But you have to assume it, simply, because it is the right thing to do."

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Thursday, October 6, 2022

Hollywood Went to War

Sixty-seventh * in our series, Hollywood Went to War, is Richard Boone.
In 1941 Boone joined the United States Navy and served on three ships in the Pacific during World War II, seeing combat as an aviation ordnanceman, aircrewman and tail gunner on Grumman TBF Avenger torpedo bombers and ended his service with the rank of petty officer first class
Mr. Boone, thank you for your service to our country! May you rest in peace!

*Sixty seven posts, eighty-five individuals.

Quote du jour

“Racially homogenous schools should not be sought as a goal. But where charter schools are located in predominantly black and/or Hispanic neighborhoods, the reality of educational success should not be sacrificed for the rhetoric of ‘integration’ or ‘diversity.’ ”

- Thomas Sowell

Wednesday, October 5, 2022

Victor Davis Hanson: Where Are the Democrats Going?

Victor Davis Hanson: Actors and Musicians

Quote du jour


For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of a horse, the rider was lost;
For want of a rider, the battle was lost;
For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost,
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

-  anonymous

Tuesday, October 4, 2022

Quote du jour

“The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.”

—H.L. Mencken

Monday, October 3, 2022

Quote du jour

"For far too long the status quo thinking has been to believe that by putting more police on the street you're going to have more safety. And that's just wrong, that's not how it works."

- Kamala Harris

Quote du jour

“No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave."

- Calvin Coolidge

Sunday, October 2, 2022

A Little Sunday Night Music

Goodness of God - Don Moen

The Sundress

Editor's Note: We continue our retrospective of the Mary M. Isaacs stories we have published. This one was published here Aug. 8, 2021
"The Sundress" - a short story by Mary M. Isaacs

   Lucy was alone in the house that day. She was visiting with her grandmother while grade school was closed for the summer, and her grandmother had gone out shopping…

   Lucy preferred playing alone. She didn’t have many friends at school because she was so shy. Sometimes she felt invisible there, but it was better than being teased, which happened often--teased for her shyness and plainness. And at home she had to be the perfect child; she could never be just herself.

   Her grandmother’s house was an escape from home and school. No one bothered her there; her grandmother always let her do what she wanted. It was like being in another world. She walked up the steps, across the porch, and through the front door into a sheltered place. In that house, she was safe—she and all her imaginings, where she was in control of everything and no one was in control of her.

   It was an old house, right on the edge of downtown, two stories with both an attic and a basement. Lucy loved everything about it. Downstairs was a roomy entry hall, with leaded windows overlooking the front porch and a side window near the stairs that looked across at the blank white wall of the old hotel next door. From the hall, you could turn and go into the formal parlor or walk straight down a short corridor to the living room, the kitchen, a bathroom, and a back bedroom. Upstairs were five other bedrooms and another bathroom. Her grandmother lived alone, after Lucy’s grandfather died a few years earlier, so she rented the upstairs rooms to boarders to help make ends meet. There was Mr. Johnson in Room 4, for example. It was the smallest and plainest room, with an iron bedstead and a simple rag rug on the floor, and Mr. Johnson had lived there for as long as Lucy could remember. She never knew his first name. He was a quiet man and was gone all day. Her grandmother did not offer meals or allow hot plates in the rooms, so the boarders went out to eat. The other people always seemed like strangers, but Mr. Johnson belonged.

   The upstairs bedrooms varied in size and furnishings. Lucy played in whichever ones weren’t rented, especially the one with the apricot-colored satin brocade bedspread. Sometimes she took it off the bed and wore it, pretending that she was a princess in a beautiful ballgown. She wrapped herself in its heavy, slick folds and walked around slowly, stopping to look at herself in the big mirror over the dressing table. She played by herself for hours, while her grandmother did housework, cooked, or went shopping. Lucy didn’t like the upstairs bathroom, so she never used it; the floor was creaky and uneven, and it made Lucy nervous to go in there. But from time to time, her grandmother would unlock the door next to the bathroom and let her go up the steep, rickety stairs to the attic. There were interesting things up there: trunks that Lucy rummaged through and odd pieces of furniture no longer used in the rest of the house. Sun came in through several small windows, but the attic always seemed dim and mysterious. She felt especially secluded there; except for her grandmother, no one in the world knew where she was. The basement, on the other hand, was dusty, dreary, and overrun with spiders. She never went there.

   That afternoon, Lucy was playing in the formal parlor, which was right by the front door and seldom used. The door was usually kept open, but the room was saved for special occasions. Lucy played in there whenever she wanted to, however. Her grandmother never minded, and Lucy always put everything away where it belonged. There was a fancy horsehair sofa, a baby grand piano, a bobcat skin rug, and a huge, old-fashioned desk with two enormous, heavy doors that opened outwards. Lucy liked to play in the parlor on warm afternoons. The bobcat skin rug, stuffed head and all, was on the floor in the middle of the room. Lucy liked to lie on it and touch the silky fur. She always looked at the pretend eyes and put her fingers in its open mouth to feel the teeth and fangs. Today she was wearing a new dress which her aunt had sent to her for her ninth birthday. It was a short, white, sleeveless sundress, with red and white striped kick pleats on the sides. Lucy loved her new dress and wore it as often as possible. While she sprawled on the rug, she could feel the soft bobcat fur on her bare arms and legs.

   Lucy looked up as her grandmother appeared at the parlor door, pulling a rolling wire shopping cart. “Lucy, I have to go to the store to get some things for supper. The boarders are all out, and I will lock the front door. Don’t go out or open the door to anyone until I come home.”

   “Okay, gramma!” said Lucy. She heard her grandmother go out the front door and shut it afterwards. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then the noise of the shopping cart rolling across the porch and bumping down the steps. After things became quiet, Lucy looked at the bobcat again, wondering how it had gotten caught. Where had it lived? Who had caught it? Why was it there in her grandmother’s house? She rested her head on the bobcat’s furry one, like a pillow, and thought about her questions.

   All of a sudden she heard footsteps moving around above her; then she heard the creaking of the wooden stairs as someone came down them. Lucy froze. No one was supposed to be in the house! When did one of the boarders return? Why hadn’t she or her grandmother heard them come in? Or had they been here all along? Maybe it was Mr. Johnson—that would be okay! But maybe it wasn’t him… She looked up at the open parlor door and wondered if she had time to close it.

   She didn’t. The next moment there he was, standing in the doorway: the newest boarder. She had barely even met him. He looked at her silently for a long moment, and then said, “Is your grandmother here?” Lucy wondered why he hadn’t heard her grandmother leave and lock the door. Or had he?

   He was wearing a knee-length terry cloth bathrobe; the belt was untied, so it was hanging open. He had placed his arms on both sides of the door frame and was leaning forward, which pulled the robe open even further. He wore nothing underneath. His whole body was hairy, and Lucy saw everything. She was too startled to say anything more than, “No, she’s out, but she’ll be back soon.” Then she turned her face away and looked back down at the bobcat’s head. She hoped that he would leave and go back to his room, but he didn’t. He said, “I’ll wait,” and then came into the parlor and sat down on the horsehair sofa, very close to her. He didn’t say anything more, but just sat there, looking at her.

   All Lucy could think was, "I have to get out of here!" After a moment, she stood up as calmly as possible and walked out of the parlor, even though what she really wanted to do was run. She turned and went down the hall, past the bathroom, and into her grandmother’s bedroom. It was dark in there because the shades were drawn. Lucy walked quietly around the bedroom door and into the closet, standing as far back as she could among the hanging clothes. She didn’t shut the bedroom door because it made noise, and then he would know where she was. And that door had no lock. But she did pull the closet door partway shut.

   Looking down at what she wore, she became worried. The white sundress almost glowed in the dark. She realized how easy it would be for someone opening the closet door to see her hiding there, as her grandmother’s clothes didn’t hang low enough to completely cover her. And, of course, her pale legs showed, all the way down to her sandals.

   Then she heard it: the soft sound of bare feet coming down the short hall. Because the bedroom door was standing open, she could tell when the footsteps stopped at the door. She knew that he was looking into the darkened bedroom. If he looked around the bedroom door, he would see that there was a closet; and if he looked in the closet…he would see her.

   Lucy held her breath and didn’t move, although she was trembling all over. Her thoughts raced wildly: “Someone please come home and make him go away! Gramma, Mr. Johnson, anyone!” Trying desperately to think herself truly invisible, to melt into the hanging clothes, into the closet walls; to stifle her breathing and blink out of existence there. To stop time so she could run away—why hadn’t she run out the front door and down the street until she found her grandmother? Why had she run back to the bedroom closet, from which there was no escape? She was trapped. And no one was there to save her.

   Now she heard nothing at all. Had he left to go back upstairs and she had missed the sounds? Should she leave the closet and look around the bedroom door? Or was he still standing there, totally silent, waiting for her to show herself? If she did, what would happen then? She had no idea what, but she was filled with dread. Would he grab her? What would he do to her? She was almost afraid not to find out. Lucy reached for the closet doorknob--but then hesitated...


   ...the cursor hovered over the button for a moment, and then Lucy clicked “send”. She’d done it—her story was on its way, the creative writing class assignment finished only hours before the midnight deadline. It would have been sent much sooner if she hadn’t hesitated so long. But she’d been nervous, sending in this story about an event that had stayed with her for so many years. Even just thinking about it made her feel a little peculiar in her stomach. If only she knew more about that day…writing about it had brought back many memories, but no remembrance of what had actually happened. She never could remember that. But the story had poured out of her--right up to the missing ending.

   The students had been asked to write a fictional story about an unexpected event. The assignment itself was unexpected, coming as it did on the first day of instruction, but the professor had been delayed returning from speaking at a writer’s conference. The TAs weren’t prepared to lead the class themselves, so they just moved up the first assignment and hoped for the best. Most of the students had been excited by the fact that each of the TAs would pick out a story to run in the English Department’s literary magazine. Lucy had trouble trying to think up a story until she recalled the event from her childhood. She was sure that nothing she wrote would ever be chosen, which is why she finally decided to submit such a very personal and true story, pretending it was fiction.

   Lucy shut down her laptop and got ready for bed. She had an early class the next morning and a bit of a distance to drive to get to the school. That didn’t bother her much, however. It would have been nice to live on campus, but as a transfer student from a community college out of state, she had lower priority for the dorms than incoming first-year students. Instead, she had found a room to rent in a residence hotel far enough away that the cost was reasonable, even with eating out factored in. Lucy had dreamed of going to this school ever since she had lived here as a child.

   Transferring as a junior was the only way she could afford it. If only her grandmother was still alive, she could have lived with her! Lucy smiled at the thought. “Gramma…” she said with love. She still couldn’t drive past the place where her grandmother’s house had once stood before being torn down years ago. She wanted to think of the house as it used to be, to pretend it was still there somehow, still there for her... She had crystal clear memories of the rooms, the attic, the furnishings, her playtimes, everything--except that one incident. Why couldn't she remember what had happened that day? She went to bed still wondering about that.


   Lucy was glad to be home the next day after endless hours of classes and studying on campus. Dinner had been fast food again, but she planned to get deli sandwiches or a big salad tomorrow. Maybe if she found a part-time job, she could move to a studio apartment where she could prepare her own meals. She dropped her books and backpack on a chair, got out her laptop and set it up.

   She opened her email; near the top of her inbox she saw one from her writing class TA. It would be the location of her section meeting tomorrow, she figured. That had not been set at the time of the first session; the students were told that they’d be informed later. She opened the email and started to scan the contents.

   And stopped cold. He’d chosen her story as his pick to be printed in the campus literary magazine? Lucy went back to the beginning of the email and read slowly, trying to comprehend every word. Yes, it was true—and he’d already sent it to the professor, who was editor in chief of the magazine! Her TA told her where the professor’s office was located. She was supposed to skip her section meeting the next day and instead meet the professor in his office, to discuss her story and how to prepare it for publication and for presentation to the class.

   Lucy started to feel panic and her stomach began to knot up. She never dreamed that this would happen to her. Why had she sent in that particular story? What had she been thinking? Her writing wasn’t that good—that’s why she was taking this class, for heaven’s sake! She figured that only her TA, and maybe the professor, would read it, to grade her assignment. Why her story? And why on earth hadn’t she substituted a different name? Even though it was supposed to be fiction, sooner or later someone would guess that the story was really about her; then everyone would know something intimately embarrassing about her private life. Maybe she could change the character’s name—yes, that might work, it wasn’t in print yet! She could pick out some other name and hopefully no one would suspect that it was a true story. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. All she had to do was convince the professor to accept the name change and pray that he would never guess that the story was true, and not fiction. She could do that. She had to do that.


   The next morning, after a restless night's sleep, she drove to the school and walked to the building where the English department was located. She found the professor’s office and knocked on the door nervously. It wasn’t completely shut, so it swung open part way. Lucy looked inside and said a tentative “hello?” but no one was there. She glanced at her watch—oh, she was five minutes early. Maybe the professor had just stepped out for something. There were a couple of chairs facing his desk, so Lucy went in and sat down on one of them. While she waited, she thought again of her story, and that it was really going to be printed in a magazine. That was beginning to exhilarate her. But she had to ask right away that the girl’s name be changed. She couldn’t imagine that that would be a problem, but she hadn’t chosen an alternative yet. Maybe the professor could help her with that.

   Before she could go much farther in her thinking she heard the soft sound of steps coming down the hall, and then a voice spoke: “Good morning. It's Miss Layton, isn't it?" Lucy turned and saw an older man standing in the doorway. His arms were placed on the door frame as he leaned forward into the room. He continued, "Good story! Using your own name helped your imagination, didn’t it? That made it sound real, as if it had actually happened. But it stops too abruptly, leaves the reader hanging; it needs a stronger ending. If you put your mind to it, I think you can come up with one."

   He came into the room, but instead of going to his desk, he took the chair next to her. "What happened when Lucy stepped out of the closet?" He didn’t say anything more, but just sat there, looking at her.

   For a long moment, Lucy felt that she couldn’t breathe. She looked quickly around the room, but the door was the only way out of the office and it was beyond his chair. She was trapped. And no one was there to save her. Her eyes lost focus and she started shaking all over.

   The professor was instantly concerned. “Miss Layton, are you okay? What’s the matter?” He reached out his hand to touch her.

   Lucy shrank back as far away as possible, covering herself with her arms. She stared toward him with a dazed and shocked expression on her face, not really seeing him. “My dress…” she said in a high, tearful voice. “What happened to my sundress?”


Mary M. Isaacs, Copyright 2019

The Sundress is included in the collection "Holy Innocence", featured on the sidebar.