Maria Marten and the Red Barn
Foxy Corder was a born philanderer and a petty criminal; always running after the ladies in the village and selling pigs that weren’t even his. This is his story, a true crime, set in the village of Polstead, England. The year of misadventure; 1827.
Long John Silver, pieces of eight, Blind Pugh and the Black Spot! My father loved telling the tale of Treasure Island. In later life he’d call out, in his lusty Pirate Voice, in the middle of a conversation, apropos nothing, “I likes the young’uns for the cut of their jib. But I likes the old’uns for their experience!”
The Baby Bureau
Dea and Mort headed over to the Baby Bureau. They’d just finished their bio tests, plus they’d had their application installed in their frontal lobes to monitor their mental suitability for Bonding Officer training. Now for the final hurdle. Interview time!
Who Saved Who?
Dreams can predict the future. I know it’s true because it happened to me. I dreamed that I had a dog. She was little with black and white hair that stuck up everywhere round her head like she’d been knitted out of left-over wool. I even drew a picture of her, my dream dog.
What goes around
Tonight, I will be getting married at midnight. The poor guy just doesn't know it, yet. I caught sight of myself reflected in the copper elevator door of the luxury hotel, Wynn Las Vegas. Wearing not quite a bridal outfit. Red latex dress and black velvet choker, to hide my barcode, I look so young. Young? Not really. I’m 52 but I look 25. And I will forever.
Places of Power
I’m ready to be accused of making this up, but it is a true thing. There is a temporary mental health issue called Jerusalem Syndrome suffered by tourists to the City of Jerusalem. It starts spontaneously and randomly with a visitor’s intense focus on cleanliness. They bathe and shower and cut their finger and toenails obsessively. Then a toga is fashioned from the hotel bedsheets and towels, draped artistically around themselves to represent a character from the Bible.
Loss of a Child
My daughter was 13 years old when she lost her friend, Anna, who was 12. Anna was Inuvialuit, a native girl from the Western Arctic, a beautiful child, with long curly black hair, round cheeks, with such a laugh and a presence that could light up a room. Anna was adopted by a non-native family and she grew up in town in Canada’s Northwest Territories with my daughter, Grace.