Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Chicago Windows by Marian Woyciehowicz Gonsior



Living Roof by Marian Woyciehowicz Gonsior

Lunette Window by Sue Ann Sweeney

The New Class by Jamie Jurado

As I walked off the bus, I felt like I had entered another world, a world I didn’t want to be in. The summer was definitely over as the calming visions of sun, sand, warm breezes, and freedom were replaced by fluorescent lights, squeaky sneakers, human traffic jams, and—who could forget—that horrible school bell. It was the start of the new school year, and I wasn’t expecting much. Being in the seventh grade meant I wasn’t in the new herd, but I wasn’t top dog, either. It was the middle year of middle school, the filler year, the year that would fly by with nothing eventful enough to be memorable. I didn’t expect something new; I didn’t expect change until I saw those two little words written on my class schedule: Writer’s Workshop.

Writer’s Workshop. Just the thought of it wreaked havoc in my brain. What was it? I had never heard of this class before, and I know I definitely did not sign up for it myself. Did the school think I needed more supplemental help? I think I’d written decent enough to get by in all of my classes, but was I really that bad of a writer? Maybe it was a glitch in the system, and the computer put me in a class I wasn’t really supposed to take. Panic was eating away at my being. The one major reason that I automatically shunned the idea of the class was because I despised writing. Previously, I had received papers back with only the occasional red blemish. Based on that logic, I should have thought more highly of myself as a writer, but I was a girl who needed feedback. I had no clue what I was doing to write so well and through this not knowing, I thought I was a bad writer and hated writing.
 
The school hallways echoed with restless summer buzz and chatter. Mingling and wandering the hallways full of students convening after receiving their schedules, I found that a few of my friends were also enrolled in the unknown class, and that eased my stress so much more. The late bell shrieked and, in a hop, I was headed off to English. It was there that I learned the origin of Writer’s Workshop. This year we had a new curriculum that divided English into two classes: Writer’s Workshop focused strictly on writing, and English Language Arts covered all the other aspects of English. It was then that a weight was lifted off my shoulders and order returned to my worrisome mind. Everything was clearer and, with more information, I was slowly warming up to the class. However, deep down, I was still not a fan. Maybe if it was named something different, it would have sparked more interest but, either way, there was nothing I had done and there was nothing I could do. I had to take Writer’s Workshop.

English class had wrapped up quickly and I was soon off to its more dreadful counterpart, Writer’s Workshop. As the first to arrive, time took forever to pass as the stone-cold, empty classroom filled with solemn students. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one concerned about this class. It was surprising how silent the room was compared to the noise in the hallways, especially being the first day back from school. When class finally began, we sat, listened, disregarded, or napped through the introduction and overview of the class. Throughout the term, we would learn one generic topic about writing each week and, in addition, have a weekly assignment to apply what we learned. To me, that had no appeal and brought any feelings of curiosity and interest for the class into nonexistence. However, as the weeks progressed, my feelings changed.



After weeks of grammar worksheets, we finally had our first writing assignment. We were nearing Halloween and, in celebration, the assignment was to write a personal narrative about our biggest fear. We were going to present our stories to the class at the end of the week. Friday came very quickly and I was prepared, paper in hand, expecting a straight run-through of boring presentations. However, it was anything but. As our teacher called for volunteers to read their papers, you could feel the tension in the room as a severe lack of hands were raised, so we were chosen at random. The first few stories presented received the appropriate attention and applause but, over time, the tension broke and the environment became more comfortable. In the middle of the class there were more volunteers and among them were some of the funniest people in our grade. I remember the class clown wrote his paper about spiders, as did the majority of the class, including me. In my interpretation, a paper about my biggest fear was a dark and serious topic, but his paper was bright and comical through his voice, the usage of colorful, expressive language, and an approach I would have never thought of using. Class flew by as the presentations continued; some stories were deep and personal, like mine, whereas others were more creative and hilarious. The once dull and cold room had filled with warm and colorful laughter and, as the bell rang, for the first time I felt like I actually enjoyed the class.

Writer’s Workshop changed my perspective on writing. I discovered the creative aspect of writing and enjoyed the freedom in writing as I told my story with descriptive words and personality. I used so much of what I learned from Writer’s Workshop in later classes from a technical aspect and, because of it, I even took Creative Writing in high school. I enjoy writing now and as I write, I put myself in a more open mindset to express myself in a variety of ways using the simple power of words.

Hinduism in the Star Wars Saga by Scott Hejka


It may be surprising to some to find out that George Lucas, the creator of the Star Wars films, has strong Hindu beliefs. This has resulted in him sprinkling Hindu references and beliefs throughout the Star Wars saga. After looking back at the films and studying Hindu beliefs, one will see that many characters, concepts, and quotes in Star Wars correspond to important aspects of Hinduism.

Yoda is a very symbolic character. Rajan Rajbhandari observes, “[W]hen Luke Skywalker goes to find Yoda . . .  Luke finds himself in a forest, looking for the old, wise Yoda to learn the ways of the Jedi. This is very like Hindu’s Janoi (Gujarati), where young males run to the forest in search of the old, wise yogi, who would provide great knowledge” (Rajbhandari ). These yogis test students’ patience before beginning the strenuous task of learning, just like Yoda tests Luke’s patience by waiting to tell him who he really is before teaching him to be a Jedi.

This is not the end of Yoda’s symbolism, however. Yoda sounds like yoga, training or discipline needed for reaching union with Brahman. It definitely is not a moot point that he is one of the most skilled and wise of the Jedi, which means he has reached union with Brahman or the Force. Also, Yoda is the one who trains Luke in the ways of the Jedi in Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. The creator of Star Wars means for Yoda to be a powerful symbol of someone who brings great knowledge and discipline of the Force to help and teach others; he is someone whom all people can strive to be like, similar to the gurus in Hinduism.

The Jedi can be seen in several different ways, as described by CieSharp: “I see the Jedi as brahmins, the priestly caste of the Hindu Varnashrama system. The Jedi are primarily spiritual
in nature, and to be a Jedi is a birthright, as is being a brahmin. The Jedi dress simply, and brahmins likewise stay away from opulent clothing. Do you see that ponytail that Anakin, Obi-Wan, and other Jedi sport, which originated from the rear-top portion of the head? This is known as a ‘sikka’, which . . . is considered a source of spiritual energy” (CieSharp). In his opinion, the Jedi knights, despite resembling “spiritual samurai” or a kind of Buddhist monk capable in martial arts techniques, are similar to Brahmins (the priest-like class in Hinduism). Jedi share several similarities with the Brahmins. These include their simple clothes (Jedi always wear simple clothes) and their ponytail-like locks of hair that (in Brahmins) symbolize a source of spiritual energy. Both Jedi and Brahmin are chosen from birth. This symbolizes that only a select few have what it takes to achieve the level of spirituality that they exhibit—they are role models for all who seek to be in union with the Force or Brahman. CieSharp also points out that although Brahmins would try to avoid fighting, they could certainly be very skilled at it. Jedi do not generally arrive on the scene decapitating the opponent, instead waiting for the opponent to begin the battle and using their light saber weapons for defense rather than active battle (except when they are fighting others with light sabers). Jedi are peaceful law enforcers; this means that in Hinduism and Star Wars, being peaceful and doing the right thing are highly stressed as important skills. George Lucas clearly intends for the viewer to glean from the story that non-violence and following one’s conscience are very important qualities to exhibit in the real world, not just in a fictional world.     

The most obvious and perhaps most famous example of a shared theme in Star Wars and Hinduism is the similarity between the Force and Brahman. Brahman “comes from the Sanskrit verb root brh, meaning ‘to grow’. Etymologically, the term means ‘that which grows’ (brhati) and ‘which causes to grow’ (brhmayati)” (Das). Brahman causes things to grow and live and at the same time grows with life, meaning all life and Brahman must be unified and inseparable. Yoda’s explanation of the Force in Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back is so great for explaining Brahman that some professors and teachers probably use it to explain Brahman to their
students. Yoda says “Size matters not. . . . Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship” (Lucas). Brahman or the Force is a world soul that contains all that was and all that will ever be. Both Hinduism and Yoda say that its energy surrounds us and makes us one with it; the physical bodies one sees are simply just illusory projections of the Brahman within oneself. Both Hindus and Jedi focus very strongly on being one with Brahman or the Force by accessing the small part of Brahman in every single object. Doing so unites you with the universe and gives you the skill and power to achieve Nirvana in Hinduism or become a powerful Jedi knight in the Star Wars saga. It is definitely not an easy task to achieve either of these; it comes through much training and self-discipline. The “power” that comes from mastering the Force or Brahman is not worldly power, but has more to do with spiritual and mental power. For example, Yoda (a master of the Force) does not have much worldly power, but he does have great wisdom and knowledge of the Force.  

In conclusion, George Lucas’s strong Hindu beliefs have translated into many significant Hindu references in the Star Wars saga. From Brahman and the Force to Jedi and Brahmin, many comparisons can be made. Why does Lucas put these references in Star Wars? Most likely the reason is that he believes that the principles and ideals of Hinduism are noble and can be applied universally to anyone’s life.





Works Cited

CieSharp. “Hindu/Vedic Influences on the Star Wars Saga.” Jelsoft Enterprises Limited, 22 Jul 2002. Web. 23 Oct 2011
Das, Subhamoy. “Hinduism: Beliefs & Practices.” About.com. The New York Times Company, 2011. Web. 23 Oct 2011. <http://hinduism.about.com/od/basics/u/beliefs_practices.htm>.
Lucas, George, Executive Dir. Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. Dir. Irvin Kershner. 20th Century Fox, 1980. Film.
Rajbhandari, Rajan. “Star Wars and Hinduism.” YodaJeff.com. N.p., 1994. Web. 23 Oct 2011. <http://www.yodajeff.com/pages/hinduism/>.

Love by Yvonne White


Love is sweet.
Love is like time that heals all wounds.
Love is kind.
Love conquers all. It is stronger than hate and arrogance.
Love is blind. It makes you to do foolish things when you are in love.
Love is for the world. It brings joy, happiness, hope and peace to nations.
Love is a heritage. Stories full of struggles and wisdom passed on to generations by ancestors.
Love satisfies the bodies and souls.
Love is a story full of proverbs, knowledge and power.
Love rules!


A Flicker of Light by Ashley Michalski


  
What we long for is not the simple matter of morality
Within these lines of fury, hope is convinced
Caged enraged linked haggled, handled,
To find each other, inside of the home
That needs a distribution of a title.
What we long for is patient
A flicker of light at the sight of the clock
Given its name,
He planted his feet, inhaled oxygen
At the very sight of living.

At the peak of going through hell
Failure has seen the worst in us but those eyes remain wise
What we long for is not fair, however complex, at the very root of its beginning
It’s true to say I hate fighting
But I will fight for those I love.
Security twines into place
A father watched his daughter fight
For her life as the knife wound
Ended her composure, murdering her rights,
Victory never bled this much.
 
W
hat we long for is what percentage of compassion we still have to be nestled
And hate to get us through the night,
What we long for is nothing short of superior
Nor fearless of the man
But it’s always kind.

Big, Kind Heart by Anastasija Baranovska


It was around 10 p.m. on a February evening. Samantha was standing outside in the very center of the city that she lived in. She always liked to experiment with her looks, and it was probably one of the reasons that led her to the profession she chose. Samantha was a designer. She had just finished a meeting with one of her customers.  Samantha’s husband always told her that she loved her job too much.

This night turned out to be one of those nights that she would never forget. She was freezing as she stood outside. The February snow was hitting her face. That was the snow that did not make anyone happy. It was the February snow that everyone was tired of because it turned out to be the coldest and the most ruthless snow of the winter. She stood there for a good fifteen minutes since she left the apartment of the customer. Samantha was really cold, and she tried to warm herself up by rubbing her hands against each other, but it seemed like the blood in her veins was lazy and didn’t want to circulate.

Samantha’s husband was on his way to pick up his pregnant wife. He was in a hurry because he knew that a pregnant woman needed to have enough sleep. He also knew that she shouldn’t be standing outside alone on a February night.

He loved her very much. Samantha loved her husband even more. They were friends because they were able to drive in a car for hours without talking and feel completely comfortable. They enjoyed the silence, and they enjoyed each other’s company. They were soul mates. The first thing that they wanted to do every morning was to look into each other’s eyes, and they could do it for the rest of their lives. They meant everything to each other, and they both knew it. Now that Samantha was pregnant, she couldn’t wait to have a baby. Moreover, she was sure that she would be an amazing mother to her husband’s child.

As a designer, Samantha had that artistic ability to see and recognize even slight differences in color, shades, and light. She knew it was her husband’s car that had just pulled up on the intersection of the road because the car had lights that were different from any other. When it started to move again to park next to her, time stopped suddenly. She saw a big red truck appearing out of nowhere and running at high speed, straight into Samantha’s husband’s driver’s seat.

She couldn’t move. Snow, wind, cold fingers that were just freezing no longer existed. She heard only the sound of the brakes on the wet, snowy asphalt. Her husband’s car jumped away like it was a toy, and it looked like it was so light that it was made out of paper. It flipped in the air and landed on the side of the road. She didn’t hear herself screaming. She didn’t hear anything else around. She ran towards the car.

People, a lot of people. A big crowd surrounded the car. They pulled her away and didn’t let her see what happened to her husband. He was dead. In the emergency room, they said to her not to be depressed and sad because she was pregnant, and it could affect her baby. This advice was not helping much. She had just lost her husband, friend, soul mate. She had just lost her reason to live.

Later, when she woke up, in the cold, light room of the hospital, doctors asked her if she would agree to sign a document for organ donation. She didn’t even think about saying “no” because her husband had a big, kind heart. Without a single doubt, he would be willing to donate one and save someone’s life. So she signed it. Then a nurse entered the room and gave her a shot because she couldn’t stop crying. Finally, Samantha fell asleep. She had a dream about her husband. He was in a spacious room, sitting on the floor with a child, and he was helping a little boy put together a puzzle. Both of them seemed very happy, and when they noticed her, they smiled at Samantha and waved at her.

The time dragged. Day after day, Samantha woke up and fell asleep with the thought of her terrible, life-changing loss. The baby she was carrying was the only motivation for her to keep moving. She buried her husband. Friends and family were there for her, but they were not able to replace her sweetheart. However, time was the medicine she needed. She started to recover after weeks and months of crying. The dream that she had in the hospital was coming back to her all the time. At first it bothered her, but later, she was happy because it was her only chance to see her husband smiling again.

Samantha delivered a beautiful healthy boy in the springtime. It was a total renewal for her. Her dream came true. When she became a mother of her husband’s child, all her love and all her attention was given to little boy Robert. Samantha started to smile and laugh much more often. She found a reason to live again, even though a very important part of her was still missing. Samantha and Robert were a new little family, and they were happy together. She came back to her work again, and everything was working out well for her, but the dream was coming back to her all the time.

Andrew. It was his name. He was wearing light blue jeans and a silly green shirt. His brown, deep eyes were smiling all the time, and he had a beautiful voice. “What a fine looking man,” said Samantha when she saw him for the first time. He was five years old. Samantha was adopting Andrew just because she knew that she needed someone else in her house, and his eyes seemed so familiar and meaningful to her. She loved him just like she loved Robert. Andrew found his home and true family. He was a great help for Samantha with little baby Robert; he was there for her all the time and loved to take care of his little brother.

After several months of living together as a family, Samantha received a call from the orphanage. They were calling to notify Samantha that she had to get an annual health check for Andrew, with extra attention to his heart. The reason was that as a baby, he received a donation from a man who died in a car accident. They also mentioned the contact information of that man’s wife because Samantha wanted to go and let Andrew visit and thank that woman. The donation of an adult heart, even though surgeons used a part of it, saved Samantha’s adopted son’s life.

Time stopped again. Samantha had thought she would never experience that feeling again. Now she was able to put it all together. Now she understood why those smiling brown eyes of Andrew were so close and darling for her. She quietly wiped the tears of happiness from her eyes and entered the room where the boys were playing. She could not believe her eyes; there he was. Her son Andrew was sitting next to Robert on the floor, while the sun was shining really brightly, and the light was reflecting off her boys’ faces. Andrew was sitting next to Robert, helping to put the puzzle together. They both saw Samantha and started waving at her. The dream had come true.

Grief by Amy McGarrah


Waiting in the shadows is one who is still grieving the loss of her mother.
One who will also one day grieve the loss of her father.
One who sits alone and wonders if she will indeed spend the rest of her life alone,
Without knowing “real” love.
The definition of real true love is accepting someone for who they are,
not what they drive or how they live.
Someone who has been alone for most of her life because of her disability has found someone who loves her for who she truly is,
and you won’t accept him, because you want to see him for what he was,
not what he has become.
Is he perfect? No, not by any means, but this world would be a pretty boring place if everyone was perfect.
We both try hard to be perfect,
but we always come up short because we both know that we’re not perfect.
We’re human.



Poem by Profound by Kevin Finch

F.E.A.R
Focused Energy Against Righteousness
What happens?
When fear becomes a habit
When we cling to it like magnets
And we become stuck, stale and stagnant
And in the walk of life our feet become absent
And failure is our accent once we’re acting like the captain
What happens?
When we settle for the stability of our deficiencies
And Fear becomes the epitome of our misused energy
What happens?
 A preacher once told me this story….
One day the truth and a lie went for a swim
And the truth disrobed and jumped in
A lie disrobes and took the truth’s clothes
Now we have people believing a dressed-up lie rather than the naked truth.
What happens
When us as holy mess-ups believe a religious dress-up?
But I thought honesty was the best policy
It must not be if these unbelievers aren’t quite fond of me.
And look upon me with animosity
Like I owe them an apology
But take note that they hated Christ before looking at His biography

So I’m not surprised that they hate our Christ-like philosophy
Because of fear, they’re rooted in the economy of mediocrity
And they don’t understand our terminology.
A fearful mind functions out of curiosity
They search for truth but with too much velocity
And they grasp the first policy that they think operates properly
But they properly operate this life out of commodity
Playing God like He’s Uno or monopoly
And this fact remains a hypocrisy
But they throw it to the side like they’re living honestly
But honestly, they’re abusing God’s grace constantly and viewing it as pure comedy
Serving gods without the apostrophe and living according to a faulty theology
What happened?
Fear allows conflict to create a cancer that creeps into the heart of Christians and conceives our confinement.
This cripples our character into an unclean cause.
I’ll tell you what happened
You were lacking and left your gates open while the enemy was attacking.
This resulted in F.E.A.R, Focused Energy Against Righteousness.

Salvation through Jesus Christ by Desmond Thompson


Chafer Lewis said, “Salvation is the work of God for man; it is not the work of man for God” (1). American Heritage defines “salvation” as being delivered from sin and evil (College Reference). This is powerful because as soon as a person accepts salvation, they will be delivered from evil. Salvation is important because in the world today, people go through so many obstacles. The only way they can have comfort is through understanding that life does not end with pain but paradise. This paradise, which comes from salvation, is connected with Jesus Christ.

Understanding this concept is quite simple. Romans 10:8-10 says, “But what does it say? The word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart (that is, the word of faith that we preach): that if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation” (Nelson Study Bible). These verses have given us the key to obtaining salvation. Now that the basic foundation of salvation has been laid, it can be evaluated clearly.

When people evaluate salvation, they have to understand that there are three basic steps to salvation. These three words are faith (belief), confession, and acceptance. Understanding these three steps will open up the understanding of salvation. These three steps always have to be wrapped up with Jesus Christ in the center. Many times people get caught up with thinking that salvation can be obtained without Jesus. This is a big misconception, because Jesus said in John 14:6, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me” (Nelson Study Bible). The biggest principle is that it does not matter what you do; if you are not connected to Jesus, you cannot receive salvation. So how do people receive salvation? This is the question many people ask. The three steps discussed earlier will teach people this concept.

Faith is the first and most important step to salvation. The Bible says, “Without faith, it is impossible to please God.” Faith is needed in order to be connected to Jesus. People have to grasp the point that when they let go of all their false beliefs and let God have His way, things will come together. Many times in life, individuals put so much trust in things and end up hurting more than they have to. However, when you have faith in God, life begins to open up and you have a problem solver. Faith in Jesus shows that a person understands that there is nothing they can do to obtain salvation. Salvation only comes through an inner a faith in Christ. The faith that is inside of a person’s heart motivates and drives them. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for and evidence of things not seen.”(Hebrews 11:1) Faith is a key step to salvation.

After a person has established their faith in Jesus Christ, then all they have to do is confess to the Lord Jesus. This is the simple but yet most complex phase to salvation. Many people believe that you do not have to confess. The Bible clarifies in Romans 10:9 “that if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved” (Nelson study Bible). People have to confess that Jesus is Lord; they must believe He died and that the power of God raised Him from the dead. The average person might ask, “What does this have to do with salvation?” The answer has everything to do with salvation. This step is important because people are claiming their faith in front of the world. God wants His Son Jesus Christ to get glorified. Confessing to Jesus is what brings this glory and everlasting connection between God and man. The result of this is salvation.

Faith brings on the confession to Jesus, which brings the final stage of acceptance. Accepting is making the decision that Jesus is the way to life and living according to that. Many people try to fake the first two steps, but the third is a direct result of the first two. When a person truly accepts Jesus, they will live their lives with Jesus as the core. These individuals will not do whatever they want without a conscience of right or wrong. They will, in fact, live their lives in a manner that will glorify God. God wants glory. Giving it to Him after confessing your faith in Jesus Christ is the key to salvation.

People in the world live by their own agendas with no direction of their eternal destination. As individuals who go through so much day to day, they have to get out of that mindset and let God have His way. Salvation is the reward of giving your life to God. When they go through the process of salvation, it does not matter where they have been or what they have done because salvation is the ultimate forgiveness. When people evaluate their lives, they have a decision to make before they die. Do they want to die in pain or live forever in paradise?




Works Cited

“American Heritage” American Heritage Books. 2001.

Lewis, Chafer. “Christian Quotes.” http://dailychristianquote.com/dcqsalvation.html Page 1

“New King James Study Bible” Thomas Nelson Inc. 1982.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Reflections Through Windows by Sue Ann Sweeney

Question for the Mirror by Sarah Kosel and Rebekah Phillips

“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
who’s the fairest one of all?”

Not you nor I nor little Snow White
for princesses too easily take fright

at wolves and apples and spinning wheels
and Rumplestiltskin’s cruel deals.

Bring me the damsels not in distress
who save themselves from villains who oppress,

and don’t show up at Charming’s ball
because they refuse his beck and call.

“Yes, Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
those of strong heart are the fairest of all.”


My Biggest Struggle by Robyn Fox

As a child, I lost my hearing in my right ear. I had a mastoid that grew and ate my ear bones. However, like most children, I was born in a hospital with no complications. I did not start having problems with my hearing, which affected my writing, until third grade.

In the third grade, I started to have earaches and bad headaches. It was affecting my learning as well as my life at home. My mom took me to see an ear doctor and he said, “Oh, you just have swimmer’s ear. Just put some eardrops in your ear twice a day. You will be better in a week.” We did everything the doctor told us. A week went by, and I was getting worse. Therefore, my mom took me back to see the ear doctor. Guess what he said? He said the same thing. “Oh, you just have swimmer’s ear.” My mom stopped him before he could get another word in. She said, “That is what you said last time we were here. However, she is getting worse, and it is affecting her learning and our communication. I want you to give her some kind of test to see if there is something in her ear that is causing her so much pain.” The doctor said, “I will, but I doubt that we are going to find anything.” So the doctor ordered an MRI and a CT scan on my right ear. My mom and I had to wait a month for the results to come back.

By that time, I had missed a lot of school. The results came in, and we went to see the doctor for the results. I missed another day of school to see the doctor to find out if he found anything wrong with my ear. And he did. He found a mass that was in my ear that destroyed my ear bones. It was too late to save my hearing, but he could take it out and go from there. He said we needed to set up a day to have the surgery, and it would be an inpatient surgery. So I ended up missing more school by the time I had the surgery. I had already had no clue what was going on in the class. Therefore, my mom had to teach me my vowel sounds and everything I had missed since I was absent a lot.

Missing all that school has really changed who I was as a writer, reader, and person. When it comes to writing a paper, I can tell someone what I want it to say more than I can actually write a paper by hand. That is because I missed so much school; I did not fully learn how to write as well as everyone else in my class. My comprehension level was very low, as well as my reading level. As I grow older, I have been doing everything in my power to become a better writer as well as a better reader. In high school, I was reading at a 4th grade reading level. However, now that I am in college, I am reading at a college level, and my writing has improved greatly.

In conclusion, I now know that writing is a great part of my life. I will need to be a strong writer if I want to get any kind of job or get anywhere in life. Now I am reading and writing at a college level and not having as many problems as I was when I first came out of high school. I feel that as I grow to become an independent adult, I need to make sure my writing skills are very well-developed, as well as my reading skills, especially, if I really want to go into the education field and be a teacher in the future. My struggles throughout most of my elementary school life, trying to be a better reader and writer, has shaped who I am today as well as who I am as a writer. This struggle has made me a stronger person as well as a more self-evaluating writer.

The Only Thing by Heather VanHartesveldt


In the center of my town, between a gas station and a salon that offered dollar haircuts, was Burgundy’s. A crappy, run-down diner that had been serving the same ten people every day since forever. Unfortunately for me, it was also the place where I worked.

Some people liked the smell of grease from the fryers and the chime the cash register made each time it was paid. Some waitresses here even seemed to like the people. I was not one of them.

Each time Donald, a regular who was always rude and always awkward, called me over to his table, it took everything in me not to pour his usual sweet tea on his head. He was so picky about everything, complaining about the crispness of his lettuce or the cleanliness of his fork. Today was no different.

I had already gotten a lecture from my boss, Lisa, about being polite, which wasn’t like her since she usually didn’t care what I said. She understood what it was like to have to deal with complicated people.

“Rose,” she had said earlier as she tipped the phone near the register away from her mouth while she took an order. “Behave.”

I walked over to Donald’s booth, the one by the window right in front of the red letters that from the inside spelled Burgundy’s backwards. Donald looked up at me from his plate of onion rings with a typical frown on his face. The glasses perched on his nose were thick, and from where I stood, I could see what looked like an inch of glass in his wire frames. They were clean, though, with not even a visible speck of splattered ketchup or table salt on them.

“Yes?” I asked him, tapping my foot on the ground.

Next to me, I heard the enthusiastic voice of my best friend Emily. She was talking to her table of people, laughing as if what they were saying was the funniest thing she had ever heard. I really don’t know how we’re friends since she’s so different than me, and just at the sound of her happy banter, I instantly rolled my eyes.

“My onion rings are a little soggy,” Donald told me as he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

“Well, you’ve had them sitting in ketchup for ten minutes,” I said, raising my eyebrows at him just before he glanced down at his plate again.

“I’d like some new ones. Make them crispier.”

He handed me over the plate, and I just stared at it for a little bit as it rested in his hands. I felt someone poke me in the back and knew it was Emily telling me to take the plate as she walked past me. I took it from him, and he watched me as I walked toward the kitchen.

“Donald wants new onion rings,” I told Lisa, who was standing in the kitchen near the cooks. She was talking their ears off while they tried to do their jobs as best to the standards of people like Donald.

She rolled her eyes and took the plate from me, setting it down on the aluminum countertop.

“That man,” she scoffed.

I pushed past the swinging doors leading out of the kitchen and stayed near the coffee machines so I wouldn’t have to attend to any of my customers while I waited for the rings. At the counter, drinking coffee and glancing at a newspaper, was Noah. He was dressed in his police uniform since he had just got off of the night shift, and no one was sitting around him. I guess they didn’t want to talk about life with the cop over coffee.

“How’s Donald today?” he asked me when I pretended to be busy wiping the counters off.

He looked across the diner at Donald, knowing exactly how he was. Noah always heard my disgruntled rants about him. When he turned back to look at me, I noticed how the florescent lighting of the diner made the top of his shaved head shine.

“Can’t you arrest him for being annoying?” I asked him.

“‘Fraid not,” he said.

Lisa rang the bell that rested on the counter and pushed a new plate of onion rings over to me. When I turned to grab them off of the counter, she made a long, drawn-out gesture for me that resembled deep breathing. Overreacting wasn’t an option this morning, apparently.

I took them after sending Noah a look and went back to Donald. He was getting up from his table, talking loudly on a high-tech cell phone, and he shook his head at me, indicating he had to leave. He kept talking to whoever it was on that phone. He even stopped near the door, projecting more of his work conversation onto the innocent bystanders in the diner as he plucked a gumball from the machine by the exit. I stood by the now-empty table with the hot plate of food in my hand as he left, disappearing behind the front left corner of the building.

The crisp, twenty-dollar bill he left on the table, like the one he left every day as my tip, was the only thing keeping me from hating him.

Chapter One by Sarah Kosel


It is terribly inconvenient when one’s dinner host dies right in the middle of the meal, not even allowing the guests to digest their food before being completely unsettled by the dreadfulness of an eminent scientist face down in the pork roast. I had been invited to the home of Sir William Claudius, along with a handful of other well-respected citizens of London, to witness the unveiling of his most recent astonishing feat, that of creating a steam-powered machine that could add, subtract, multiply, and divide. In short, those of us fortunate enough to have been present were going to be the first to witness a machine that had the capabilities of a mathematician. Naturally, the skill of this small machine would not have the same intelligence as a human being. However it was extremely remarkable that even this first step had been taken towards making a way for steam, oil, and gears to mimic a sentient being. It was the crowning achievement of Sir Claudius’s career, and a giant step forward on the part of the Royal Society of Scientists.

Therefore, the untimely death of Sir Claudius, in the midst of dinner and before he was even able to introduce the gathered company to his stunning new invention, was rather upsetting. One moment the dining room was filled with the chatter and good-natured competition of a gathering of some of London’s finest intellectuals, and the next moment it was bedlam and chaos as men in debonair suits and women in elegant gowns jumped to their feet, exclaiming in horror at the sudden collapse of Sir Claudius into the main dish. Several of the ladies in corsets fastened much too tightly, as is the current fashion, fainted gracefully to the floor. A handful of men rushed to find them smelling salts, while others ran in quite an undignified manner towards the kitchen, intent on finding servants who could summon a constable. Meanwhile, the late Sir William Claudius continued his intimate and unfortunate soiree with the pork roast.

Realizing to my dismay that no one seemed to be taking any initiative to actually attempt to save the scientist, I reluctantly got to my feet and started towards the grey-haired gentleman. He had always seemed like a decent fellow, the few times we had crossed paths, and I was rather sorry to see him meet such a dour end. As I neared what I quickly realized was a corpse most definitely beyond saving, a silky voiced spoke near my elbow.

“Why, my dear Mr. Roderick,” murmured a petite woman with jet black hair and a misleadingly innocent, heart-shaped face, “we really must stop meeting over corpses.” I turned my head and found myself gazing into the devastating eyes of Miss Evelyn Joyce, a woman of my acquaintance who was both terrifying and beguiling.

“It is rather an inconvenience,” I replied with what I hoped was a charming smile, perhaps a tad irreverent for the circumstances, but decorum has never been my strength. “Perhaps if you would agree to accompany me to the theater or a musical performance, this dilemma could be avoided.” I had first met the lovely Miss Joyce at a winter extravaganza hosted by one of London’s most elite families, only to discover a murdered body in the pantry and a crazed lunatic on the loose among the guests. In that situation, much like this one, I had been forced to take charge due to the complete lack of intelligence of those around me.  Evelyn Joyce had proved to have a keen eye for detail and a quick mind, both of which were of great assistance in discovering the murderer. Unfortunately, she wanted very little to do with me despite our impressive teamwork during the solving of that mystery, and I had been attempting, with an utter lack of success, to cajole her into joining me for an evening out ever since.

“How could the theater be half as entertaining as this?” was all she responded to my comment, smiling prettily and gesturing to the mayhem of panicked guests surrounding us. They had managed to revive most of the fashionably trussed women, and it appeared that one of the servant boys had been sent running to fetch a police constable. Not exactly the high art of theater, yet I could not bring myself to argue about the element of entertainment. Sighing, I simply shook my head in exasperation and approached the body, endeavoring to find the cause of Sir Claudius’s death. He had appeared in the peak of health throughout all of dinner until he suddenly became quite pale and then slumped over into his food.

“I do not see anything that could have caused his sudden collapse,” mused Evelyn from where she now stood on the other side of the scientist. She had pulled a pair of ornate laboratory goggles from the depths of her handbag and was peering down at the dead man, fiddling with the gears and dials on her goggles as she did so. I was curious as to the purpose of the various widgets and gadgets on her goggles, but from past experience knew better than to ask while she was immersed in an examination.
           
“That is strange,” I said instead, “and it would hardly seem that the food is to blame, for everyone else has been imbibing it with gusto, and as yet I see no particularly horrid side effects.” I gazed about the room as I said this, doing a quick survey to ensure I had spoken truthfully.
           
The dinner mayhem had continued nicely, and everyone was still too preoccupied with being panicked to notice Miss Joyce and me examining the recently deceased host. Apart from indecently enjoying the bedlam, it seemed that the guests were no worse for wear; dinner had obviously not been the culprit. Beside me, Miss Joyce had finished peering at Sir Claudius and was currently using an oddly shaped instrument that looked rather like a cross between a pliers and retractable telescope to probe through the remainder of his food. Having carefully moved his face out of the pork roast and placed it on the table, she was methodically picking up a sampling of each portion from  his plate, examining it carefully, and then depositing them into a tiny collection of metal containers. I stared at her in bemusement for a moment before hazarding a query.

“Might I inquire as to the nature of your work?” I asked hesitantly, having had several unpleasant acquaintances with Miss Joyce’s sharp wit on previous occasions of querying. For a moment I thought she was not going to respond, but then she paused and glanced up at me.

“Your assumption that it was not dinner that killed Sir Claudius would seem to be accurate, if one begins from the premise that Sir Claudius was eating the same food as the other guests. Seeing, however, as there is always the possibility that somebody tampered with his food and only his food, I would like to investigate further.”

She smiled demurely and returned to her task. Miss Joyce herself was not as fond of scientific pursuits as many of the fashionable ladies of London society; her main occupation tends to be towards that of writer. Like most individuals with a proclivity for the written word, however, she was unashamedly nosy and possessed a dilettante’s interest in nearly everything. Miss Joyce also possessed a wide circle of curiously minded friends who had various abilities and skills which could further any intellectual inquiries she had.

“I suppose you have a friend who will be able to test the nutritional quality…or lack there-of…in the food?”

Miss Joyce inclined her head slightly in what I took for agreement. With a satisfied smile, she closed the last of the small containers, having accomplished her task, and slipped everything back into her handbag. “Stand to attention, Mr. Roderick,” she murmured slyly, “we are about to have company.”

Turning my head, I caught a glimpse of a pudgy gentlemen making a beeline towards us. I grimaced at Miss Joyce before facing the oncoming terror.

“Mr. Roderick! Mr. Roderick! How fortunate that you should be here,” huffed George Wilson as he approached us. He was a short, older gentleman of considerable girth and inconsiderable intelligence who had a nasty habit of attaching himself to me at various London social events. I stifled a groan, plastering a smile on my face as I shook his hand.

“Mr. Wilson,” I nodded, “how pleasant to see you, despite the unpleasant circumstances.” Glancing towards the corpse, I noticed to my amusement that Miss Joyce had somehow managed to discreetly place Sir Claudius’s face back in the pork roast. It had been my good fortune not to realize Mr. Wilson had also been invited to Sir Claudius’s dinner, for the man was an interminable bore, yet seemed convinced that he and I were the best of friends. He was under the illusion that he had assisted Miss Joyce and me in solving the pantry murder, and had since decided that we were the perfect team. He was, however, quite justifiably, rather terrified of Miss Evelyn Joyce, and so he had developed the habit of pretending she was not present when, indeed, she was, in order to deal with this fear.

Miss Joyce, never one to be ignored unless she wanted to be, had taken this habit of Mr. Wilson’s rather personally. She had since made it her unrelenting mission to ensure that Mr. George Wilson was always vividly aware of her presence.
           
“Why, my dear Mr. Wilson,” she said suddenly, pretending not to notice him jump at the sound of her voice, “it is a delight to see you as well.” She extended her hand, and smiled coyly as he bent over it.
           
“Charmed,” muttered Mr. Wilson, sounding as though he were being strangled. Miss Joyce’s smile flitted to a grin momentarily, though she regained her composure before the pitiable gentleman stood back up.

George Wilson turned quickly back to me. “Have you found anything regarding the unfortunate demise of Sir Claudius?” He asked eagerly, intent on extricating himself from the awkward situation with which Miss Joyce was intent upon torturing him.
           
I shook my head, realizing as I did so just how little I had managed to accomplish regarding my self-initiated investigation. At least Miss Joyce had taken samples of the scientist’s food; I had simply stood by and watched. “It has been unfortunately hectic this past half hour,” I replied, “and as such I have been able to glean very little. Of course,” I added after a moment’s thought, “I should think a properly trained constable would be more appropriate, given the situation.”
           
Mr. Wilson appeared somewhat crestfallen at this comment, although he nodded his head in disappointed agreement. “I suppose so,” he acquiesced, “especially considering the eminence of the victim.” He looked down at Sir Claudius, shivered, and returned his gaze to me. “What a pity that we were unable to see his marvelous invention. It sounded like a device that would be quite superb.”

“What makes you think that we shall not get to see it?” interjected Miss Joyce. Mr. Wilson had seemingly managed to briefly forget she was there. The reminder of her presence unsettled him enough that he was not immediately able to answer.

After a moment of stuttering, he finally managed, “Well, I should think it rather indecent to go showing off the poor man’s inventions, at least until the cause of his death is ascertained.”

“Perhaps,” was all Evelyn Joyce said in response, sounding completely unconvinced.
           
It was at that moment that several constables finally arrived, much to my relief. They quickly went about the business of clearing the room of flustered and curious guests, including myself, Miss Joyce, and Mr. Wilson, although Mr. Wilson did attempt to inform them that we would be most happy to assist them in any way possible. One of the constables had gruffly responded that the biggest help we could give would be to promptly vacate the premises, and for once in his life Mr. Wilson made a wise decision and left.

Once the renewed chaos of the police constable’s arrival and the dismissal of the various dinner guests had quieted, I found myself standing outside the late Sir Claudius’s impressive London home, waiting for my carriage. Miss Joyce had somehow managed to remain by my side in the hubbub, and now she turned to me with a slight curtsy.

“As always, it was lovely to see you, Mr. Roderick,” she smiled. “Mayhap we will be cross paths again soon, though hopefully not in the vicinity of any corpses.” I tipped my hat and smiled as she turned towards her own carriage. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, causing me to hurriedly call out to Miss Joyce before she closed the carriage door.

“Miss Joyce!”

She turned, eyebrows raised.

“Would you be so kind as to inform me what the results are after you have that food tested?”

Miss Evelyn Joyce simply smiled and nodded, before closing the carriage door and disappearing into the night.

She Wasn't Torturing Me on Purpose by Rick Benedict

She wasn’t torturing me on purpose. She probably never even read about “sleep deprivation torture.” My guess is that she knows nothing about the various stages of sleep. However, she was a master at the process of waking me just as I was slipping into the deeper sleep we all need in order to function effectively in our waking world.
I was at her home because her husband (87 years old) loves to hunt deer. His sons, his grandson, and he have an annual ritual that starts weeks before the opening day of deer hunting season. They have a cabin in the woods. It has a big propane gas tank next to the shack. Inside there is a gas range, a gas refrigerator, a small table with four chairs, and four double beds fashioned as bunk beds. “It can sleep 16 if you sleep double on the double,” her husband jokes. 
To say that it is a simple shack is to flatter the word “simple.” Yet, year after year they clear the fallen branches from the yard, rake the dirt that surrounds the cabin, stock the cooler with a variety of beer and soda, stock the refrigerator, and prepare meals and “get ready” for their outing.
My mother is 92 years old. She began suffering from dementia a long time ago. We noticed it was pretty well developed when she was about 80. So, it’s been 12 years of watching her cognitive world shrink, even as her emotional world has seemed to blossom. She has never been sweeter, full of compliments and gratitude for visits and attention. “You are such a good son, Richard,” she says to me as I prepare her a sandwich for lunch. “I love it when you are here, son,” she’ll bubble at no particular time, for no particular reason. Her dementia is closing one of her worlds while opening another rich world of appreciation for what is here now.
Her husband is not my father. My father died 40 years ago. My mother married Dick after an appropriate period of mourning. They’ve lived on a lake in mid-Michigan ever since, raising one of his two sons when he lost his wife to cancer at roughly the same time my mother became a widow. As my mother’s illness progressed, he has gone through the stages of grief many times.  He was an “old school” husband who expected his wife to have dinner on the table at 6 p.m., to wash the clothes, clean the house, and basically take care of him. Slowly my mom has been unable to do these tasks that once defined their relationship. Each loss was greeted with denial, anger, negotiations, depression and acceptance… until the next loss. 
To his great credit, Dick has picked up every inch of slack. He shops, he cooks, my mom washes up, he washes clothes, and, in general, the tables have quite literally turned, to where Dick is now the caretaker of my mother. I pray with gratitude constantly for this gift of Dick in my mother’s life. 
As she’s become more forgetful, Dick has managed all of her health care.  Every three months he fills out all the Medicare forms that are required for her receipt of her prescription medication.  Weekly he fills two “pill-organizers” – one for her AM pills and one for her PM pills. Twice a day he reminds her to take her pills. Twice a day she resists – “I already took my pills,”  “I don’t need those pills,” and, more existentially, “how do these pills know what to do when they are inside my body?” It is one of the sad realities of my mom’s current universe that the one person who sacrifices the most for her well-being is the one to whom she gives the least gratitude. We always hurt the ones we love.
As October turns to November, my brother, sister, my sister’s oldest daughter, and I make our plans to stay with mom while Dick goes deer hunting. This year, my niece stayed the day before deer season opened so the men could be at the tree line, pointing their rifles into the harvested corn field at the crack of dawn on opening day. She and two of her three children spent Wednesday and Thursday at Mom’s. On Friday my brother and I took shifts. I still work full time, so I couldn’t arrive until after work–and the two hour drive from work–on Friday evening.  Michelle, my niece, had to leave earlier on Friday. Mike, my brother, filled in the gap. Friday evening Mike, Mom, and I went to dinner together. Afterward, Mom and I returned to her home.
Michelle had given me a head’s up about the sleeping options. Dick and Mom sleep in a room with two twin beds. Upstairs there are two double beds in two separate bedrooms. Michelle thought mom might miss a body in the bed next to hers if Michelle slept upstairs. That was the first night. Apparently, Mom had a fitful night that night, waking up many times, sometimes in panic, wondering where she was, where was Dick, and whose body was in the bed beside her.  Michelle didn’t get much sleep that night. I think Mom was just sharpening her sleep deprivation tortures that first night of the deer hunting season. 
The second night, as Michelle read in the bed next to my Mom’s bed, Mom insisted, “You better go upstairs and be with your children. If they wake up in the night, they’ll be scared if you aren’t there.” So, Michelle reluctantly went upstairs–where she had a lovely and peaceful night’s sleep. 
On Friday night it was my turn. Michelle made me aware of how well Grandma (to her, Mom to me) slept “all by herself.” She didn’t say, “Don’t try to sleep in Grandma’s room,” but that was the message I didn’t quite let myself hear.
I’ve been tired this past month. I had a bone marrow transplant (leukemia) about three years ago. I take immune-suppressant drugs. When I get a cold, it knocks me down and out for a while. I caught a cold in mid-October. I am just getting over it. I still don’t have my full level of energy back. I was so looking forward to being at Mom’s–just the two of us–so I could sit in Dick’s easy chair, read, watch TV, and rest. 
On Friday night my Mom seemed wired. Normally she sleeps while the TV is on. This night she walked around the house, looking out windows, wondering if anyone lived the homes next door to her home, asking their names, wondering why she can’t remember their names, and (eventually) imagining that she’d once lived in those homes. Then she got agitated. “I know that was my house once! How did they move in without paying me for it!”
Here we go again. Doctors call this “twilight-ing,” the time of the day (usually night) when the confusion gets more pronounced. I decided it was time for bed, even though it wasn’t quite 10 p.m. I reasoned optimistically with myself, “Mom hasn’t napped, so she’ll fall asleep soon. I can read for a while, then I’ll be sleepy and ‘voila,’ the night will pass in quiet splendor.” Wishful thoughts did not bring wished-for reality…
I got sleepy before Mom got sleepy. I turned over and tried to sleep. The lights were off and I was ready for a long winter’s sleep. Remarkably, my Mom began to whistle her favorite four bars of no song. She whistles under her breath. She does it constantly– while she’s awake–but I never expected her to do it constantly in during the night as she whistled herself to sleep. I looked at the clock–“10:40.” “She’ll whistle herself to sleep,” I guessed, so I simply rested and waited.
I’m sure I fell asleep in between the hours of 10:40 PM and 1:40 AM. I don’t think I could have lain there for three hours without sleeping. Still, I looked at the clock at 11:00 PM, 11:39 PM, 12:13 AM, 12:49 AM and 1:15 AM. I asked a couple of times, “Did you drink coffee today, Mom?” She couldn’t remember (she can’t remember what she ate or drank five minutes ago, so that question was purely rhetorical). 
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re not asleep yet, and it’s 1:40 AM. You’ve been whistling all night long!”
“I don’t remember whistling. What am I whistling?”
“It sounds like ‘rey, do, fa, so’,” I whistled. “Please go to sleep.” 
Next time I looked at the clock, it was 4:40 AM. Mother was panting in panic… “Nmnk, nmnk, nmnk, nmnk, nmnk…!” I woke her up to tell her she was having a bad dream. She immediately fell back to sleep.  I could not.
So, I went upstairs to finish the night. No luck. Sleep wouldn’t come. At 7 AM I was up and drinking coffee. Mom slept for 4 more hours!
Fast forward one night….
“I’m tired,” Mom said at 10 PM. “I don’t want to go to bed until you stop watching TV,” she declared. I was watching Stanford play Oregon. It was quite a game. Her husband has a TV in the bedroom. 
“How about if I watch the rest of the game in your room while you fall asleep?” 
“Oh, that would be good. Dick watches TV in there, and I can sleep through the TV.”
Off I went. I got my water, my Kindle, my pillows, and hunkered down for the amazing second half of this great game. I kept the sound low. Several times I was certain Mom was sleeping, until she offered, “turn it up. I don’t know how you can hear it.” 
“I can hear it fine, Mom.”
“Dick keeps it a lot louder than that and I can sleep anyway.”
Mom is very hard of hearing. I have to scream for her to hear me clearly. I kept the sound low, in spite of her encouragement. Again, I was confident she’d fallen asleep. I was getting tired in spite of my determination to watch the entire game.
“Turn it up. I don’t know how you can hear it. Dick keeps it a lot louder than that and I can sleep anyway.”
Why fight it? I turned it up to see if that would help her deepen her sleep. About 20 minutes later, she stirred and asked, “Who’s got the radio on?” 
“It’s me, Mom,” I explained.  “I’m watching the game.” 
“Who is, ‘me’?”
“Your son, Rick.”
“Oh, hi, son. When did you get here? Where is Dick?” 
I explained, again, that Dick was hunting, that I’d been here for two days, and that she had to go to sleep.
“You mean he asked you to watch me while he went deer hunting?” she said in a voice three or four decibels higher than her resting voice. 
“No, I get to be with you. He didn’t ask me. I asked him, so I could have you all to myself.”
Quietly, “Okay. That’s nice, Richard. I’m glad you’re here.”
I turned off the TV and read for a few minutes. It seemed quiet. I got up out of Dick’s bed and took my pillows and Kindle to the door.
“Where you going?”
“I’m going to sleep upstairs.” 
“Okay. I don’t care where you sleep. Good night, Honey.”
Relief flooded me like I’d escaped a bad dream. I was going to have that good night’s sleep Michelle explained was possible if one slept upstairs. I immediately fell asleep around 11:00 PM. 
About 11:20 PM, I was startled by a bright light with my mother asking, “Who’s sleeping here?” 
OMG! “Mom! It’s me, Rick. I was sleeping in your room, and I decided we’d both sleep better if Icame up here.”
“Oh, okay, that’s fine.” She turned off the light, shut the door and went downstairs to sleep. I immediately fell back to sleep. 
About 30 to 45 minutes later (no clock in this room staring me in the face when I opened my eyes), the same scenario repeated: Bright lights on as my Mom stood in the adjoining bathroom with a voice yelling, “Who is sleeping in here!?” 
OMG. This wasn’t going to work. “It’s me, Mom.”
“Who?”
“Rick!”
“Is it just you in here?” sounding a bit like a suspicious wife who wondered who I ran off with while she was sleeping.
“Yes, Mom. It’s just me.”
“Is it just the two of us in the house?”
“Yep. Just you and me, kid.”
“Oh, I thought there were more people in the house tonight. I couldn’t figure out where everyone was.”
“I’m coming downstairs to sleep, Mom.”
“You don’t have to do that!” she insisted. She didn’t know how deeply I wished that were true. I also feared that one more awakening with bright lights in my face and a screaming voice would send me into the world shared only by those who were tortured by torturers trained in the art of sleep deprivation!
I stumbled downstairs. 1:40 AM. I forgot my Kindle. It’s like my blanky. I need it to sleep. I walked back upstairs, got what I needed for my new location (pillows, Kindle, glasses, water). I read awhile. Mom kept asking what I was doing. “Reading.” She didn’t get this machine that I could read from.
Soon I was asleep. At 4:40 AM (the clock was in front of my opening eyes), she was pushing me and saying, “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey…  Who are you?” 
“Your son, Rick.” 
“Rick?”
“Yes”
“Where’s Dick….”
“Deer hunting….”
“You mean….”
“No… I’m here because he’s not… can have you all to myself. Please try to sleep.”
I wasn’t sure I would fall asleep again but, gratefully, I did…. Until… 5:30 A.M. Now she was just talking in her sleep. “I saw Gloria. She’s still working at Fisher Body (where Mom worked for 25 years until my father died). She got a new car. She’s doing really well.”
I said nothing… hoping I could drift off for a few more hours. I did drift, until 7:15 AM. “Are you going soon?” (Oh God, I wish I could say, “yes.”)  I humored her. 
“Sure, Mom. Pretty soon.”
“Okay, have a safe trip. I’ll be okay here by myself.”
Such a loving woman. She had no idea how expert she was in the art of sleep deprivation torture… and, of course, she wasn’t torturing me on purpose.