Coffee Klatch: Dark Times

Woo-woo!👻

That's right. It's the spooky season. 

Dark times call for dark entertainment. Many people watch scary movies or shows during October, or at least that's what all the streaming services want us to think! 

My annual nod to the season is a re-reading of Macbeth.

I've already talked about why I started reading a Shakespeare play each month. It just seems fitting to read the play that includes ghosts AND witches in October. (There are plenty of plays to choose from with dark deeds or murder-y scenes, and even others with ghosts.) Maybe next year I'll do a Hamlet re-read - it has a ghost, after all.

Probably not, though. Besides the standard creepy tropes, Macbeth includes the slow descent into insanity of one of the main characters. It just offers so much to click in with the trending cycle of the year! Hamlet has a descent into insanity of one minor character but it's... sadder somehow. Both are tragedies, but Hamlet is a sad tragedy where Macbeth is a sort of manic-depressive, hyperactive romp through the hell of politics and war.

I'm no Shakespeare scholar, by any means, so I am open to any criticism of that assessment. 

This year, I have two versions in my laptop. One is a PDF with a layout that's easier to read. The other one has more easily accessible footnotes and includes a brief summary before each scene. I can quickly pop over to the footnotes for clarification without losing my place in the script. 

Anyway, since my geeking out over the Bard takes place on my laptop, I'm simply drinking plain, black coffee brewed at home. (Ha! Black coffee + dark literature = Dark Times.) 

At home, I use a coffee phin to make my morning cup. That's a Vietnamese drip filter device, sort of like a pour-over, I guess? I buy Vietnamese Weasel coffee at my local shop, add the cinnamon and clove (as I explained here), and let the phin do the work. 

image credit: tamingofthespoon.com

 

I do not use sweetened condensed milk at home, as they do in the shops, but the above picture shows the process of using the phin. If you're curious, you can click the link in the caption to learn how to make traditional Vietnamese coffee.

A lot of us have Big Holiday Traditions for the end of the year, be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Solstice... Do you acknowledge Halloween as a season in any way? What books, beverages, or decor fit the season for you? 

Fiction Friday - Ten Meters of Concrete

Casey pressed his back against the curved sides of the tunnel and caught his breath. From his left, a cool night breeze assaulted him with the scent of decaying leaves out of the ditch he was in. The sky on that side was dark night, but when he looked to the right he could still see the fading pink-orange glow of the sunset.

It would have been peaceful if not for the oppressive thwupa-thwupa-thwupa coming from above. He had some ten meters of protection. Was it enough? For now at least, it would do. Even the "eye in the sky" couldn't see through concrete.

In the fading light, he pulled his backpack close and checked the contents. He'd been too rushed, totally unprepared! As he passed through the kitchen, he'd grabbed a couple knives, the flashlight from the drawer, and whatever he could fit from the pantry. He was too agitated to eat tonight, but what were his options for the next days?

• 4 jello-cups (with fruit)
• 3 cans of tuna (the pull-tab kind, thankfully)
• 1 box of Cheez-its
• a half-full bag of single-serve of potato chip packets that his Mom usually added to his lunches.

With a pang, he thought of his parents. Where were they now? The house was empty, but they should have been home. What was happening?

He'd skipped out on gym class that afternoon and watched from the nearby park as military vehicles pulled up into the school turnaround. After a few minutes, he saw a long line of people - enough teachers, staff, and even students to fill a couple busses - ushered out the big double doors and forced into the waiting transports. 

He was too far away to hear, but he could tell they were yelling and fighting against the soldiers. If they even were soldiers! Casey knew all too well that wearing camo didn't automatically come with a rank.

A crowd had run out the back gym door and raced around to the front, protesting whatever was going on. They'd been pushed back easily, but it looked like Mr. Small had a new limp as they retreated.

The scene haunted him. The military didn't just raid schools at random.

Casey shook it off and dug back into the bag. He found his dad's can of mixed nuts. He lined it up with the rest of his supplies. That was all of the food. His school water bottle was still pretty full, but he hadn't topped it up at home. 

Okay. It was enough to start with. He'd get water and more food in the morning.

By now the sky was dark on both sides, but he could track the copters' progress by the beams of searchlights. Who were they looking for? For the first time, Casey wished he'd paid attention when his parents watched the news. Or maybe even in Social Studies class! 

He considered his friends. How were they? Had any of them been corralled into the trucks? His cell phone battery died hours ago, so he couldn't even check on anyone.

When his brain finally gave up worrying, he tried to arrange his backpack into a kind of pillow so he might catch some Zzz's. It was lumpy as pillows go and the noise of the aerial patrols didn't help, but eventually he drifted off.

He woke a few hours later, curled around something warm and fuzzy. He jerked alert, banging his head on the hard surface behind him. It was still dark night, but his eyes had adjusted enough to see that a scruffy grey dog had crawled into the culvert and curled up next to him during the night. 

Or maybe just a very dirty dog.

The dog opened its eyes and looked at him. 

A swishing sound told Casey it was wagging its tail against the floor.

He scratched the dog on the back of the neck. It was wearing a collar. "Poor guy," he whispered in the dark, "Did your people not come home either?" The dog whined, but whether in answer to Casey or fear of the chopper that chose that moment to pass overhead was unclear. Casey leaned down to nuzzle the dog's warm neck. "We'll be okay." 

*****

This story was initially inspired by the concrete drainage pipes lined up in a construction staging area across from my favorite bar. The bit about the stray dog curling up with the sleeping boy is an adaptation from something that happened to a kid in my English Club.

If you enjoy my stories, considering dropping your own inspirational word or or idea in a comment! 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: It's Not About the Rain

One of my favorites has been on my mind lately. Or rather, for most of my life, really: 

There Will Come Soft Rains
by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

I first read this poem in junior high, and memorized it quickly. I've never forgotten it. For this post's purposes, I found the text online at poets.org .

Coffee Klatch: Children's Books!

One of my regular coffee shops has a book wall. 

It's just peeking in at the bottom of the picture, which I took for a friend who is requesting Vietnamese coffee. Many are children's books, most appear to have been donated. "Leave one, take one" book walls are not uncommon in restaurants catering to the international crowd here. People in transit don't often carry a lot of books, so savvy business owners offer a place to trade. 

This got me thinking about books I've donated. At one point I had started putting bookplates in my books, especially the ones that I loved and thought, "This will always be in my library". 

In fact, I was so paranoid about book theft that I actually added my initials to the bottom corner of a specific page in all my books as evidence of ownership in case any clever book thief tore out the inscribed title page! 

But the books in this shop are children's books. When I was little, I'd just write my name inside the front cover... until I started adding my phone number underneath it. Then, when we lived overseas, it was name and address. 

I've donated hundreds of books to lighten the load of my luggage. Suddenly, sitting in that coffee shop, I wondered: What do my books' new owners think? 

Have they wondered? 
Crossed out the old name? 
Added a new one? 

I picture a book of fairy tales with my name written in childish handwriting, crossed out or turned into a doodle, with a different name printed underneath it.  

Do you love it or hate it when you get a second-hand book with notations in it? 

I don't often write in my books, but I always thought they'd be "my" books. Some passages definitely got marked up as I prepared for a speech class, or a book report, or a drama audition. What about you? 

Have I defiled my books, or given them seasoning with my name and occasional notes? 

Fiction Friday - The Doorman

The Doorman pulled open the heavy glass door.

"Welcome, Mrs. Whitmore." He gave a knowing smile to the well-dressed matron who entered. She scowled at him. 

"Wipe that smirk off your face. Do you know who I am?"

With one hand on his heart, smile still intact, he bowed very slightly. "Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, widow of Douglas Whitmore, mother to Patty and Doug Jr., grandmother to Michael, Stacy, Karina, and by adoption, Chase..."

"Beg your pardon - who's that?"

He ignored her interruption. "...current Chairwoman of DexCo Industries,..."

"...Chase who? I don't know any Chase."  

"... running highly profitable sweatshops in Pakistan, China, and ...Myanmar." He paused. "Although that last one is strictly off the books." Now that his recitation was complete he addressed her question. "And I did not mean to suggest that you knew Chase. Nevertheless, he is your legal grandson, the adopted son of your estranged son Douglas and his partner Eric."

Mrs. Whitmore's jaw dropped. In the silence the doorman gave her a wink. "Nice profit margin last quarter, though."

Her small eyes narrowed at him. Then, as if making a decision, she stepped past him and looked around at the vast lobby. Obsidian floors gleamed in the firelight coming from fire-pots near the ceiling, and glowing through the windows. "Where am I? What sort of place is this?"

"Welcome to Hell, ma'am. If you'll step over to the concierge, you will be given further information." 

She turned back to him, about to speak, but the Doorman made a sweeping gesture toward the reception desk at the far end of the lobby. His part of the conversation was over.

He turned back just in time to greet - "Jamal Okafia, welcome!" He gave the young man in the red T-shirt a complicated handshake while gently removing the gun from Jamal's waistband. "That fight was never going to go your way."

"Psh. Fuck you, too, Bolo-tie! You don't know nothin'. I gotta get back to my crew..." he turned toward the door, but the Doorman redirected him by the elbow. 

"There is no going back, Mr. Okafia. Your past has finally caught up with you. Now, if you would..."

"The fuck do you mean? Where the hell am I anyway?"

"That's right, sir. Welcome to Hell. Please check in at the front desk." He directed Jamal toward the concierge. Another soul was approaching the door.

Once more he pulled open the glass door. "Ahh, Miss Sofia Petrov. You've been a busy girl, haven't you?" he said with a smile. 

A surly twelve-year-old with short, dishwater-blond hair scowled at him. He received a lot of scowls. Smiling at people, here of all places, seemed to make them angrier. No one liked it when a stranger knew their secrets.

"Who are you? Where are my parents?" The questions came rapid fire from the girl's angry face.

"Ah, well, after you locked them in their bedroom and lit the fire, your whole house burned down. No one survived."

She looked down at her singed cuffs, then out the door the way she'd come in. Somehow, she still looked defiant.

He followed her gaze. "They won't be joining you, I'm afraid. Their souls have a different destiny."

At that, Sofia's face cleared. "Good." The scowl evaporated and her curious eyes finally looked around the lobby in fascination. "So, this is Hell?"

Every now and then, someone caught on without being told. 

"Cool. What do I do now?" But she had spotted the concierge. "Over there?" With a brief glance back to see the Doorman's nod, she was off.

The Doorman turned back to guard the door. Sometimes it was good to get them young. 

This story was inspired by the character of The Porter in Macbeth, which I'm currently reading. He is rousted from drunken sleep by the sound of knocking at the gates and considers what if he was answering the gates of Hell. It's comic relief in a dark play and I wanted to play with the "what if?" Hope you enjoyed it! 

Don't forget to leave your inspiring writing prompts in a comment.

Wednesday Poetry Corner: King of Storms

Thor is not amused.
He has declared war on us.
Heavy is the storm. 

(Haiku written by me, Oct. 6, 2026)

View during the evening storm 06.10.26

 I read a lot of Shakespeare, and although I can't tell you which play has the line "heavy is the head that wears the crown" (maybe one of the Richards?) I think my Shakespeare reading habit is leaking into my haiku habit. 

Coffee Klatch: Spicy Coffee

It's pumpkin spice season in the U.S., and I do love me some pumpkin spice. (Not available where I live.) I love all the fall spices. In fact, I add cinnamon to the coffee I make at home everyday. 

Fall spices are more than that, though, pumpkin spice, mulled coffee, mulled wine... I enjoy making a big pot of mulled wine so much that, when I couldn't find mulling spices here, Brett ordered the individual spices to be delivered so that I could make it. 

I still have a lot of cloves left over, so when a video about adding cloves to coffee crossed my YouTube feed, I clicked on it. Apparently, adding one to three crushed cloves to a cup of coffee can act as an antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, and a bunch of other good stuff. 

So I tried it. 
I enjoy a little spice in my coffee. 
It works. 

 

I'm not such a fan of spicy books, though. Not in the traditional sense of spicy = racy = sexy. There's other spice, though, wouldn't you say? 

Take Agatha Christie, for instance. Her books often include a romantic element, but that's not the spicy part. Murder, secrets, betrayal, fighting over inheritance - that's the sharper spice in an Agatha Christie.

That's the kind of spice I like in a book: whatever stirs things up. I've tried reading spicy romance. I have. Just can't get through it. I struggle enough with regular romance!

And when I'm writing, the romantic part often goes sideways. The protagonist ends up better off on her own or in a different relationship, or just more self-aware. If the romantic element survives, it's a sidebar.

So I'm curious - What makes a book spicy for you?

Is it romance? If so, what makes romance relatable or interesting?

Is it a dramatic situation or plot twist? 

Is it secrets, betrayal, or murder? 

Fiction Friday - The Best Time of the Year

For eleven months of the year, I live in the dark.

Not perpetual blackness. No. Every month or so someone lifts the attic trap door to come up and search for something. While they dig around in some other box not mine, light follows through the door and casts shadows all around. 

But it never lasts. Usually it's just me and the other seasonal decorations, piled into a couple of white tubs near the ladder. 

It's crowded in here. That's the worst part. 

One year, the plastic cauldron had been packed away without a proper cleaning. Maybe that was the worst. We had ants that year. It's a mistake the family hasn't made since! 

But eleven months hidden in the dark when all you want to do is make people smile, laugh, maybe scream with joyful surprise is a long time.

October is different. 

When the attic door opens, I know. They come right over to my side of the attic. My storage tub plus two more are carried down the attic ladder.

The hands that reach into my tub are big and strong. They lift me carefully, "Got him."

I know that voice so well.💗The one they call "Dad".

He pulls me out and holds me up. "There you are, old boy." He fluffs up my fur, flat from being pressed in a box all year.

I don't know why he calls me boy. I don't know why they call me him. I've never been particularly curious about it. I'm a wolf. Maybe that settles it.

Dad carries me downstairs. Actually, he wears me. With my head over his own, he descends growling. 

"Oh, for God's sake," Mom says from somewhere below. The humor in her voice makes me happy.

The boy comes running. He's getting big enough now that Dad doesn't have to squat for him to scratch between my ears. "Wolfie! Who's a good boy?" Dad laughs, and lifts me off to take me outside.

The sun is warm on my fur. I can feel the breeze moving through the porch, and I smell the leaves, mown grass, and some fresh hay. 

Much better than being packed in a crowded tub in the attic.

Three bales of hay form a low pyramid at the back of the porch. Dad looks at it, then steps up to move one of the bales a little. "How's that?" He sets me on the top.

Not quite. 
He takes me down again.
A little higher. A little to the left. Then back to the right.

Finally, he gets me exactly where he wants me. I always have a front-row seat for the best month of the year. Gardening gloves are propped on either side, making it look like I'm gripping the bale from behind.

Dad pulls a handful of hay loose and sprinkles some on top of my head. 

He steps back, nods. "Our Halloween mascot. Perfect."

The rest of the family has been busy. There are decorations all around us now. At the other corner of the porch, the skeleton is rocking in his chair. Fake spiders have spun cottony webs across the windows, helped by Mom. A whole circle of bats hangs above the front door.

And me. Dad's favorite. Their mascot.

Mom takes out her phone and snaps a million pictures from the yard.

A neighbor walking past stops and stares. A man coming up the sidewalk slows to scan the skeleton, then the bats, then me. He stops, points. Everyone talks. Everyone smiles.

Later, a few people come into the yard to look more closely.

One woman jumps when she notices me. Then she laughs. I love that.

The family laughs too. The son tells her, "That's our Wolfie."

Yep, that's me!

As the afternoon fades, the family goes inside and the lights come on. They blink orange and green around the yard and in the windows, making the webs glow and bat shadows dance against the siding. 

The sky turns a beautiful pink and purple before fading to full night. 

Finally when Dad locks the front door, he comes out and stands beside me, leaning on the hay bale to look over everything. Then he reaches over and drapes his arm around me. "Gonna be a good season."

He goes inside and the house goes dark.

I'm back. It is going to be a good season. It always is.

This story was inspired by my dad's favorite Halloween decoration when I was a kid: a giant wolf head that he wore, along with wolf paws, to give the older neighborhood kids a friendly fright from our darkened porch (after trick-or-treating hours). That wolf was just a footnote to our Halloween, so it was fun making this guy Main Stage! 

Don't forget I'm always open to writing prompts. Have an idea? Drop me a comment! 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: Enough

It is enough
To read without sharing the humor.
To see beauty without taking a picture. 
To sing a song no one will hear.

It is enough -
The sight.
The sound.
The joy.

It is enough.

One world is enough.
For me.
For you.
For each.

Or are we each one world unto ourselves?

Overlapping.
Interconnecting.
Underlying.

We. Are each. Enough.

(poem written by me on Sept. 29, 2026)

The irony is not lost on me that I wrote these lines about not requiring an audience while knowing that I would share it publicly. I'm not a poet. I don't know if it's "good" by critical standards but for me, it is enough to practice writing publicly. 

Coffee Klatch: Dark, Darker, Darkest

Last week I was in Cambodia. Not a country known for it's coffee, you might say. True. Now that I've been there, I'd put Cambodian coffee somewhere between Vietnamese and Thai. 

You know I LOVE Vietnamese coffee! But when I visited Thailand a year or two ago, I was distinctly underwhelmed by their coffee game. Not worth commenting on.

Cambodian coffee is strong. Super-strong, like in Vietnam.

But without all the bells and whistles of Vietnamese coffee - no sweetened condensed milk, no salted cream, no frozen coconut milk. Strong and black. Unless requested otherwise.

I wasn't mad at it.

Breakfast coffee overlooking the hotel pool.

A good wake-up jolt: Strong. Black. Dark. No fuss. Just coffee.

Very. Dark. Coffee.

…

Speaking of dark.

Mr. Dark.

Mr. Dark is the villain in Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Guess what I'm reading right now?

Something Wicked This Way Comes was a repeated reference in The Dead Zone by Stephen King. I finished Dead Zone and wondered if there was a significance. 

There is. 
Of course there is! 
It's Stephen King! He's not known for being random.

I wanted to post something about the dark Cambodian coffee, and reading today I thought "Mr. Dark! Dark coffee! There's a link!"

And incidentally, the book itself is quite dark. 

Nighttime dark, attitude dark, dark deeds made my corrupted souls.

Dark on many levels.

...Dark like Cambodian coffee.

Fiction Friday - The Crazy Chicken

One day, a crazy chicken wanted to leave home. She waited until no one was watching and jumped to the top of the short wall around her yard. Then she jumped down outside! This was the real world! 

But outside the wall, she was in a street with many bicycles and motorbikes. They went past her too fast - very scary! Now she wanted to go back into the yard, but couldn't get to the top of the wall. 

What was this? There was a small break in the fence, so she rushed toward it! But it pushed her back out. She fell down onto the road, dizzy. 

Crazy chicken! 

(image by me)

This was the original Crazy animal story that I wrote for my Vietnamese lessons. Like The Crazy Frog from last week, it was based on something I actually witnessed. This time, while riding my bicycle on my own street. I kept it short and used very simple words that I would be able to translate. My teacher only had to help me with a few vocabulary words and some grammatical errors in the Vietnamese version.  

Wednesday Poetry Corner: Planning Ahead

Unpredictable
Sunglasses and umbrella
Bring both, just in case. 

(Haiku written by me September 12, 2026)

I spoke this haiku into my voice recording app as I was leaving the house one day. It's not a complaint! It's actually refreshing to know either could happen. I just like to be prepared. 

One day I didn't bring my umbrella because the clouds were just scattered around, and a massive downpour happened while I sat looking out at it from the restaurant.

When I post personal haiku, it's usually from the same day or the day before. But I'm traveling from the 22nd to 26th and wanted to be sure I have something ready to go up. If you don't read this until October, it's because I came up with one on the spot!

Coffee Klatch: Retro Edition

Americans tell harrowing 21st-birthday stories. By comparison, mine was pretty tame. 

Not "lame". Tame. I don't think anyone could beat it.

I turned 21 in the summer before my senior year of college. Since I worked on campus during summers, there I was in a Chicago suburb, with a few of my jazz band friends around. They took me out. (A tenor sax, a bassist, and... I want to say drummer?)

My guys knew their way around the city. 

We went to a couple of cool bars and lounges that had historically been connected to Al Capone. One was rumored to have a getaway tunnel built in. And I drank Irish coffees almost all night. 

I don't know why. It seemed right. 

Can't have been the only thing I had. Maybe a few white Russians or black Russians. My love of coffee was already deep-seated so any drink with coffee liqueur was worth trying.

What was I reading at the time?

I don't know that it ties to that particular summer, but I'm pretty sure that during the prior school year I was introduced to the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne via The House of the Seven Gables. (And a short story whose title eludes me.) 

Unfortunately, during that literature class I learned a trick that served me well ever after:

Don't read a book for class straight through. 

Hear me out: In college we all have mountains of homework. Time becomes scarce. Insisting on reading from wherever you left your bookmark will leave you in the dust. 

Instead, begin each night's reading at the start of the new assignment. 

That might mean not finishing the chapter your bookmark is in. That might mean skipping a chapter entirely. So during class, take copious notes during the discussion about the part you missed. You can get your class participation points by discussing the part of the assignment that you actually read. 

I can't say I loved The House of the Seven Gables as an assigned book. I did well in the class, though!

Years later, I read it straight through and - holy crap! - I loved it.

I read a couple more Hawthorne books, and he became my favorite of the New England Gothics. I even got to tour the original House of "Gables" fame when I visited a friend who lived up that way. But that's another story.

image source: https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_the_Seven_Gables

For a Retro Edition, I should have a retro question, but my question is actually this: 

What author were you forced to read that you ended up enjoying? 

(Or, conversely, if you expected to enjoy the book, which one surprised you the other way and made you hate it?)

Fiction Friday - The Crazy Frog

Jasper had hopped his way up the palm tree to get away from the free-range chickens pecking in the dust. With a two-inch-long body, he wasn't worried about the smaller hens, but one rooster had been giving him a heck of a time.

He rested, panting, on a palm frond, while the oblivious rooster scratched around below. This rest couldn't last for long: the wind was picking up.

The tree wasn't very tall, and as his branch swayed, he noticed a narrow break in the stone wall of the nearby building. A window to shelter! He jumped through it and landed on a broad stone windowsill looking down into a dark room. 

It was quiet. 
It was out of the wind. 
It was away from the rooster. 

He jumped down to the floor. Time to rest.

Sudden bright light woke him. A giant had ignited a trio of suns in this room! Jasper was still as a stone. The corner he had fallen asleep in was not sheltered from the view of the giant, who was now sitting on a shiny white chair near him. Soon she rose and the swooshing sounds of rushing water came from the chair.

The giant took two steps toward him and bent close. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but she walked away and turned off the suns. Safe, but only for now. Jasper looked around for a better place to hide.

Light was all around him when the giant returned. She ignored him, but Jasper watched in terror as two furry predators - worse than the rooster! - raced past him. The giant followed the beasts.

Wait...Past him?

Maybe nobody saw him hiding in his new spot by the sink. He relaxed again and pretended to be a rock. In the toilet room beyond the sinks, a Tokay gecko sang out, challenging the acoustics. Jasper heard a commotion as the Tokay stopped, then started again. 

Before he could get used to the gecko's song, the giant was standing over him, swooping a long arm at him. In a panic, Jasper jumped. The arm followed. He jumped again, but that was a mistake because one of the hairy demons swatted at him with sharp claws. 

No! He was down, and she was on top of him, gripping him in fang-filled jaws. He waited for the worst.

...but the jaws did not clamp down. She trotted through a door into another room. Aha! He could see plenty of dark corners to hide in, furniture to nestle beneath, if only he could get free. 

The bite-y animal scurried under a big bed, followed by the other beast and the giant, who couldn't get under it, but bent down to watch the spectacle. Then, Jasper was released. He didn't move. If I play dead, maybe she'll abandon me! But she was too smart. The fuzzy paw - claws hidden this time - tapped him a couple times. He couldn't take it and made a tiny hop. 

Then came the fangs again. Fangs, then claws or paws. Fangs, then paws or claws. Would it never end? 

Fangs. Paws. Giant!

Again and again, Jasper was caught, dropped, chased, and caught again. Finally, the giant scooped him up in a small white cloth.

In a panic, he leapt down to the floor again. His original tormenter immediately grabbed him by one leg. When she dropped him, back came the giant. Jasper was too tired to fight.

But what's this? The giant put him outside! Out of the house of doom and into the night. It wasn't the way he came in, but at least there were no roosters around. He caught his breath and assessed the damage: a few puncture wounds and one limp leg, but he was alive. 

Free at last!

Until... 

The tormenting devil came running out the door and dragged him back inside! Why the torture? Why not kill him and be done with it?

But it didn't take long for the redeeming giant to get him again. This time, she took him farther away, outside the gate beyond the house. He lay there in the dark, wondering if he'd ever recover. After a short rest, he began the long journey down the hill.

Limp. Hop. Limp. Hop.  

My crayon visualization of the event.

 

This story was inspired by an actual event that took place in my house this week! A few years ago, I started writing short children's stories based on animal adventures that I've witnessed here in Vietnam, as an exercise for my Vietnamese lessons. Usually I choose very basic vocabulary and then get my teacher to help me find any words I don't know. After that, I've translated the stories into Chinese with my Chinese teacher! None published, of course. This will be the third, but by the time I get it into Vietnamese or Chinese it will have to be much shorter and simpler. 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: Lazy Days

Lazy, drippy day 
Staying inside safe and dry.
Nothing to see here.

(haiku written by me on September 12, 2026) 

 

Clearly, the day I wrote this I genuinely was too lazy to do much else. Although I was also beginning to show symptoms of a coming cold. When that happens, I try to take as much off my plate as possible and focus on resting, to give my body a chance to fend off the cold before it blows up into a big one.

So, not much happening right now. Talk to me next week, though! 

Monday Coffee Klatch: Denied!

I can't believe my favorite coffee shop is closed for two weeks! 😭

It says 8 days, but the math doesn't add up.

Because even though this sign says they will reopen on 16/08, in Vietnam many small businesses use the lunar calendar. Lunar 16/08 is September 26 according to the Gregorian calendar used internationally. 

Lunar 16/08 also happens to be the day after Mid-Autumn Festival. Since this is a family-run establishment, I assume that if the family is taking a vacation at the tail end of summer, the whole coffee shop naturally has to close down with them.

Mid-Autumn Festival is tied to the full moon around this time of year. It's very big in China as well as here in Vietnam. In China, it's one of the big holidays, right up there with the lunar New Year. 

I digress. Denied my favorite coffee shop makes me a bit grumpy about the holiday. Apparently. It makes it very easy to just stay in bed late of a morning. I'm so sad and dependent! 

Lack of the delights of my preferred morning beverage made me think of books that denied me my typical joy in reading them. I have only in recent years embraced the idea of simply setting aside books after starting them. Caution: One vague spoiler ahead.

One stand-out "Did Not Finish" book was from my former book club: Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski. I read very little before I decided I didn't want to pollute my brain with this garbage. If I didn't already have issues with the person who had recommended it, his recommendation would have solidified my estimation of his character. 😩

Two books that I actually finished that DENIED me the pleasure of reading are in fact widely recommended on "Must Read" book lists. So. Many. Book lists. And I have read both of these and just... ugh. 

1. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini - How did I feel denied by this one? SPOILER! (avert your eyes)

Nothing good happens in it! There. Now you know. Don't waste your time unless you want to absolutely despair of positive things happening. There are, apparently, people for whom NOTHING good happens. It could be you! Do you want to feel terrible? Read it. Not me. I'm still pissed about the hours wasted reading it. I can't say it was poorly written. If it's on all those lists, it must have literary merit, but for me? Barf.

2. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez - This was a different denial. Too confusing. This was so absolutely bizarre - and I like bizarre! - that I have no idea what happened or who was related to whom or what the actual story there was. Why is this highly recommended? Maybe if I read it again in 30 years I'll have a different viewpoint. I don't know.

Have you read either of these? What did you think? What is a book that you would not recommend to another reader? 

Fiction Friday - The Gnarly Old Tree, Part 2

(For the first part of this story, please visit this post.)

As the three men headed into the grassland to find the phone, Dad announced that the dot on his Find-It app had jumped again. "An animal probably got hold of it," said Ranger Stevens. It didn't look like the movement of some animal running across the prairie to Dad, but he held his tongue.

When they started rifling through the grass at the new location, it jumped again. The rangers looked at Dad's phone screen. It had moved a significant distance in an instant. "Could be signal bouncing," Stevens said this time. "We're in a part of the park people aren't supposed to be in. No towers out here." 

Dad just started walking in the direction of the dot. The rangers followed, and soon Stevens was looking at Dad's screen every other second. Miles kept his eyes on the horizon. "Whoa..." he said, just as Dad's frustrated voice said, "There it goes again!"

Miles wasn't listening. "Did you see that?" Stevens looked where Miles was pointing. "What?"

"Something... shimmered. The whole landscape changed. You really didn't see it?"

"A shimmer?" Stevens shrugged. "Mirage."

"It's not hot enough for a mirage."

"And yet you saw one."

The next time Dad noticed the dot move, Miles and Stevens both saw a shimmer in the air at the location. Miles spoke up. "We need to go back."

"Back!? Why?" Dad had spent so much time on this hunt already, he wasn't about to throw in the towel. 

"Back to wherever your kid lost the phone. It's not moving across the grassland. Nothing is moving out here. Let's start at the source."

Stevens gave in. "He last saw his phone at the tree, didn't you say?"

Dad nodded. "He was taking a photo of the tree, but he never left the trail." His staunch belief in his son's honesty brought a wry smile to Stevens. He clapped Dad on the shoulder. 

"True. Let's go to the trail. Do you know the exact spot?" 

Dad knew precisely where to go because he had made Liam search the trail before resorting to the Find-It app. 

They went there and looked across the empty grass toward the tree. In the dim, pink light of sunset, Dad had to agree that the gnarly old tree made a spectacularly creepy shadow against the sky. He would have taken a picture for Liam if he could do it without backing out of the app.

Stevens led them away from the trail to get to the tree. This time they all saw the air around the tree flicker. When it happened, they stopped walking. 

They exchanged looks. 

Stevens' brow was furrowed. 

Dad's wide eyes stared into Miles' calm ones. "It...it... changed," he said. They had all seen the branches showing buds instead of dead bark before the air stilled and the tree was old, dead, and gnarly again.

Only Miles looked curious instead of worried. He moved forward one cautious step at a time. As he moved, he felt the speaker of his park-issued law enforcement radio wiggling loose from its clip on his shoulder. He took it in his hand and kept moving. "The radio is drawn to the tree!" he called back to the other two.

They followed, a few paces behind him.

As he drew nearer to the tree, his radio crackled, and Dad could hear it through Stevens' radio beside him. Another step, more static. Suddenly Dad gripped his phone tighter. "I feel the pull. Do you?"

Stevens frowned. "Yeah."

Miles was only three meters from the tree now. He was leaning back to offset the pull they could all now feel to some degree. "Stop there," Stevens called to him. He and Dad were several paces behind him. 

"Do you see this?" Miles asked. He didn't dare look away, so his voice came as a shout. The air was shimmering as before, and now they could see colors flickering on and around the tree itself. 

"The shimmer? Yeah," Stevens begrudgingly acknowledged. "You're right. That's no mirage."

"No - the lights... inside..." Miles' voice sounded further away now.

"Inside where? The tree?" Dad started to panic. "What are you looking at?"

"Wait, I -"

"Ranger Miles, stay where you are!" Stevens suddenly barked. He had seen Miles reaching forward, and guessed at the danger.

Miles straightened his back, but kept his arm out. "Hang on, I think it's - right - Ah!" His arm pulled back as if he'd been bitten, but something dropped on the grass below the tree. Liam's phone. 

Dad handed his own phone to Ranger Stevens and was moving toward Miles before Stevens could do anything. Where Miles stood, he dropped to his knees and crawled over to grab the phone.

Miles still seemed in a trance staring at the tree. Dad looped an arm through his elbow and forced him to move. After a couple paces, Stevens took over guiding him. The closer they got to the trail, the more Miles was able to shake off whatever had happened back there at the gnarly old tree. 

Hiking down the trail to the Visitors' Center, Dad looked over the phone. It was fine. The last photo taken had been the gnarly old tree, and Dad thought he could just make out a shimmery effect around it.

Liam hugged his dad as soon as he saw the phone in his hand. "I knew you would find it! Where was it?"

Dad kissed the top of his son's head. "That, son, is a very good question."

 *CODA*

The next day, the tree was cordoned off for a fifteen meter radius.

A month later, a glass wall had been erected around it so visitors could look but not touch. 

Wednesday Poetry Corner: Lyrics

All song lyrics are poems, aren't they? I recently heard Crazy by Gnarls Barkley while I was out at a restaurant. Do you remember that song from 2006? 

For some reason, in that moment/location/situation, it sounded so poetic I felt the need to share. But the way lyrics read, they include all the repeated words, the "mm's" and "yeah's", so here is my take on the poetry of the lyrics.

Lyrics found online courtesy of musixmatch.com, but I am removing the repetition, mm's, and yeah's, for more poetic reading. 

Crazy
by CeeLo Green, Danger Mouse, and Gnarls Barkley

I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you're out there without care
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?

Possibly

 

And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice, that's my only advice
Come on now, 
Who do you think you are?
Ha-ha-ha, bless your soul
You really think you're in control, well

I think you're crazy

Just like me

 

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on the limb
And all I remember is thinking "I want to be like them"

Ever since I was little, it looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done.

 

But maybe I'm crazy

 
Maybe you're crazy

 
Maybe we're crazy

 
Probably

  

Monday Coffee Klatch: Comfort Books

Some people have comfort foods. I have comfort books. 

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy would be my primary comfort book, if I had to pick just one. Brett is traveling in the US right now, and told me he found my "Hitchhikers book" in the storage tub at his brother's house, and will bring it back home to me. 

Bearing in mind that I have here in the house my leather-bound Hitchhiker's "trilogy", plus a paperback of the 5th book, plus a copy of the original radio scripts, I had to ask which book had been left in the States. 

Turns out, it was a big coffee table book I'd purchased - thin, but huge - with color photos (not from the show or movie) and a fun iridescent dust cover.

 

I had to tell him not to bring it back. Sell it, donate it, find it a good home, but I don't need it with me here in Vietnam.

My love for The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy made me buy this beautiful book, but we no longer live the "Coffee Table Book lifestyle™!" 😆

I have the text of the book here in the first version I'd ever owned, complete with inscription from my parents (who gave it to me), paint stains, and my own penciled notes in margins. 

So that's my go-to comfort book.

And here's where we get back to the coffee part of Coffee Klatch.

In The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Arthur Dent's comfort beverage of choice is tea. He goes on about it almost as much as I launch poetic about coffee. 😆

Maybe tea is just too British for me first thing in the morning. Either way, it seems that even a stranded Earthling trying to make sense of the universe appreciates a reliable brown beverage.

So the questions of the day are:

What's your go-to comfort book? (If you have one.)

And what's your go-to comfort beverage?

Fiction Friday - The Gnarly Old Tree

Everyone was in the car ready to go home when Liam exclaimed, "My phone! I can't find it!" His parents exchanged a look before turning around to face the kids in the back seat. "Where did you see it last?"

His face twisted in a blend of worry and confusion. "I don't know. I'm sorry." At eleven, Liam and his twin sister were on a trial run with these cell phones, mostly so the kids wouldn't get lost during this family trip. 

His sister Lianna never looked up from the puzzle game on hers. "You took that picture on the way down. Some tree."

Liam had been using his phone to try his hand at photography. "Oh yeah! That gnarly old dead-looking thing! It made me think of Halloween." Even in the relief of remembering, the strain showed in his face. "It's near the top of the hill."

His dad nodded in resignation. "Well, that's a place to start looking. We'd better go before it gets dark."

"All of us?" Lianna whined.

"No." He got out of the car, then leaned in and addressed Liam. "Come on, Sport; let's get stepping." Then to his wife, "You guys might want to wait in the visitors' center."

Up by the "gnarly old dead-looking" tree, the phone was nowhere to be found. "It's gotta be somewhere, son. You used it here. Let's go back down more slowly, and search the area around the path as we go." As they went, Liam kept stopping to check places he might have paused to take pictures.

Nothing.

He was on the verge of tears when they reached the parking lot. He read blame in his father's eyes. 

"You're sure you put the phone away after that photo?" The question was unnecessary. The whole family had seen Liam zip his phone away after every holiday snapshot or video. Lianna had taken to calling him an old man every time he did it.

Hope bloomed in Liam's eyes as his head bobbed rapidly. "Of course. Always." He watched his dad do something on his own cell phone. Liam didn't interrupt. Dad was on it. Dad could fix anything. He was like magic that way.  

Then his dad frowned at his phone. Glancing at Liam he said, "Let's go find your mom and sister." 

Inside the Visitors' Center, Dad ordered both kids ice-cream sundaes and had a whispered conversation with Mom.

"How did it get there?"

"We'd better ask if we can..." Liam was too focused on his ice-cream to notice his dad cringe at his mom's suggestion. Dad walked away. Soon he was back with a park ranger in an impressive green uniform.

The ranger watched Liam's face as his dad questioned him. Dad showed the screen of his phone to Liam. "It's okay, you're not in trouble, but how did your phone get here?" The cell-phone screen showed a map of the area. In a wide green section far from the path they had just walked, a little red dot was blinking on and off. "I don't know," Liam said. 

"Did you leave the path, son?"

"No! I don't even know where that is!"

Lianna had squeezed in to see. She jumped to his defense. "We were talking most of the way down. Even if he stepped off the path, he couldn't have got that far without me noticing." For once, Liam was grateful for her incessant teasing.

"You weren't playing a game? Throwing things? Maybe it was an accident?"

"I wouldn't accidentally throw my phone!" His dad angled his eyes to Lianna.

"Nuh-uh! I'm not that stupid!" she protested. Suddenly defiant, she asked, "Wait a minute, why did you guys waste all that time re-hiking the trail if you knew where it was?"

"I didn't turn on the Find-It app until Liam had searched for himself. You kids need to take responsibility if you're going to get cell phones permanently." Before either of them could respond, he switched gears. "Now, Ranger Stevens is going to go with us to look for it in this area. That grassland is protected." 

Lianna's eyes had stayed on the phone while her dad spoke. "Wait. It moved. It just jumped!"

They all looked. The blinking dot had shifted several hundred yards north. 

Dad stared at the screen. "That far? That's not possible." 

Ranger Stevens turned to Lianna. "What do you mean, jumped?"

She pointed at the phone impatiently. "It was there, and then it was there." 

Liam was frantic. "I haven't been out there!"

"We know," his sister said.

The dot moved again.

"Well..." Stevens adjusted his utility belt. "Let's go check it out." Liam went to follow his dad and the ranger, but the ranger turned to him. "Sorry kid, not you. Just your dad."

Liam watched as another ranger joined them outside the big glass doors. As he sat back down with his mother and sister, he saw the dot on his mom's Find-It app move once more.

To Be Continued...

This story was inspired by a young boy in my English Club who lost his phone and found it in a strange place.