42

Behind the brilliant green of the hills, mountain ranges of puffy clouds lit by the setting sun were all that was left of the day's showers. The summer air was still warm and damp, though cooling as the evening gathered.

The breeze smelled sweet and earthy, of the grass and the mud and the wildflowers that struck colorful swaths through the green. Birds chirped their evening songs as they flew home to their cozy nests.

Miles away, past the rolling green hills, past the deep-flowing creek moving darkly through the tall trees, past a marsh and a tumble of rocks was a marker: a ten-foot high plinth of granite thrust up towards the sky. It was not naturally a part of these woods, but there it stood, its top still touched by the sun, its bottom in cool stony shadow.

41

The round, wooden side table was very, very old and it was handmade. It was oak and its dark stain had gotten even darker over the years. The table's design was simple and useful: round top routed on the edges; a drawer cleverly curved to follow the table's lines, blending into the top's skirting; and a single pedestal with three simply curving legs at the bottom.

One of the legs had been ham-fistedly re-glued a few decades past. The top had a few rings where drinks had been set without the careful use of a coaster. The drawer's brass pull had come off and now rattled around in its empty drawer, which was never opened anyway because it tended to stick in humid weather.

The little round table sat in the sun next to a plastic folding table that held all $1 items. There was an orange sticker on the top that read, in black Sharpie, $25/OBO.

40

Shots echoed through the city streets at a quarter after three in the morning. Being so close to the Fourth of July, the majority of residents, if they heard the shots at all, attributed them to juvenile delinquents with firecrackers. Usually, the call center would be inundated with 911 calls, but there was only one.

Julie Robertoson was up at a quarter after three because her new baby son, just a week old, wasn't sleeping regularly. She didn't have any experience with babies and there was no one in her life to give her advice. Julie was walking him back and forth, back and forth in her studio apartment on the first floor of a building where social services said she could live with reduced rent. It was a bad neighborhood, and Julie knew it, but she only had a distant concept of what a "good" neighborhood would be like. Julie was the only one to call 911 that night.

The fifteenth time Julie passed by the window, infant son wailing in her arms, his head exploded.

39

Perro: The Ugliest Dog
(A Picture Book)

Perro the dog was sad, but not because he was ugly.

Perro was definitely an ugly dog. He even won the "Ugliest Dog Contest", paws down.

Perro the dog was not sad because people stared at him.

Perro only had fur on the top of his head, the tip of his tail and on his ankles. The patchy fur didn't make him sad, even though there were not many people who liked to pet him.

Perro the dog's tongue hung out of his mouth. It made him thirsty on dry days, but his tongue hanging out was not making him sad.

Perro the dog had short, skinny legs.

Perro the dog had a long, skinny neck.

Perro the dog had a big head with big eyes that looked everywhere but the same place.

These things did not make Perro sad, either.

Perro had a whole rainbow of homemade sweaters to wear on cold days. Being a dog in a sweater, however, didn't make Perro sad.

38

Once upon a time...

I hate to interrupt at such an early point in this story, but I know how you are, and I wanted you not to worry. You see, I understand how stories that start with "Once upon a time..." go, and I wanted you to know that although there will certainly be strife and uncertainty for the main characters, they will be okay at the end. Better than okay, in fact. They will be absolutely wonderful and giddy with the happiness that will follow them for all the rest of their long days. Starting again:

Once upon a time, there was a girl...

Sorry. Yes, it's me. I can tell you don't believe me, or, at least, you don't believe that you'll be worried, but I know you, and you will worry. You may even take it personally. If you have to pause mid-way through the story, you'll fret, but I want you to know, it will be fine. You're thinking that there's nothing in this story that will make you worry? Oh, but there is. It will start off okay, but, trust me, stories like this tend to veer pretty quickly. All right, all right. Enough. Here we go again:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought she was happy.

See? It's the word "thought" that brings it all down. I could change it to:

There was a girl who tried to be happy.

But really, that's the same thing. Swapping out a word doesn't make someone instantly happy. But I digress...

37

Louis was one of those people who never tried as hard as they could because if they did and still fell short, it would mean they weren't good enough. If Louis never tried as hard as he could, then he could always tell himself that if he had only tried harder, he would have succeeded. Berating oneself as lazy was infinitely better than being an actual failure.

It was during his late thirties that Louis realized he was one of those people. He was in the middle of berating himself for once again missing the deadline for a writing submission when his synapses finally let him know it was not laziness at all; it was fear of trying.

The knowledge hit Louis like a sidekick to the chest and he numbly thought it must have been what Adam and Eve felt after eating the Forbidden Fruit. He sat down on the floor of his one bedroom apartment and cried because this kind of enlightenment didn't go away.

36

As religious orders go, the Brothers of Peace were among the most devout. Unlike other famously hypocritical religious, those accepted into Peace were those who had proven themselves worthy, steadfast, hard-working, and truly peaceful. The Brothers of Chastity couldn't make those claims. Not after the string of scandals.

The Brothers of Peace had a monastery in the rolling foothills at the base of the Mountains of Forever. The woods were thick and teeming with wildlife that the Brothers never killed. In keeping with their peaceful nature, the Brothers were vegetarian, and some were even vegan.

Brother Augustine was just vegetarian, he loved a good omelet, and he had been with the order for ten years. Peace cloaked him, as it did all the Brothers who stayed with the order for any length of time.

35

The sewers were running full today meaning it's raining up there. I get good stuff when the sewers are fast. My net always comes back with something interesting. Already today I've gotten a chair, two books, four decent magazines, a Styrofoam head and, my lucky luck, a wallet with $54, some credit cards, driver's license and a family picture.

I'm drying them all out in my quarters. I have a great section of the tunnel--all to myself, too. Nobody goes out this far, only me. Just in case, though, I've set booby traps and signals to let me know if someone's coming and I managed to rig a door with a lock. I even figured out how to tap into the nearby subway's electricity. You can't believe the luxury you can make for yourself in the sewers.

I sit with the wallet under my red lamp. Though the money really will come in handy once it's dry, it's the family picture that draws me. Frederick M. Spalding stands with his family. Frederick requires corrective lenses to drive. His family is dressed for the 1980s and his wife grins gummily for the camera. His two children gaze slightly off to one side and are frozen mid-giggle at something the photographer is probably doing with a stuffed animal. Frederick is looking straight at the camera lens. He is not smiling. His face is smooth behind the oversize glasses. Frederick is staring from the Sears studio in 1988 through to me, still damp from my fishing expedition, in my sewer home, over twenty years later. Frederick M. Spalding. Can you feel me staring back through time at you?

34

The night was stifling hot and the air was so humid it had weight. No breeze stirred though all the bedroom windows were optimistically thrown open. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but did not bring cooling rain. Air conditioners had been rendered useless hours ago when the power grid slammed shut and would not re-open. The power outage also meant the night was black, black, black. No night light, no digital clock glow, no street lights and no neighbor's annoying motion floods. Blackness and silence.

33

INTRODUCTION

This book is divided into four sections:

Section I.--General Suggestions for Becoming a Wizard,
Section II.--Wizardry Self-Taught at Home,
Section III.--The Wizard at his Task,
Section IV.--Materials for Use in Wizardry.

It has been prepared chiefly for those who do not understand the Art of Wizardry.

The manner in which the book is prepared makes it possible for one to be his or her own teacher.

The emphasis is upon Section II, which provides Two Methods for learning, at home, how to bring out the Magic that is within the grasp of all reasonably intelligent human beings.

However, Sections I, III, and IV contain practical assistance, in Spell Advice and Advanced Material, for those already competent wizards.

Section IV is a Compilation, for ready reference, of Quick Spells and Hexes which are modern.

As to the method underlying all magic, it should be said that there has been no better statement given through the centuries upon the art of wizardry than the words of Merlinowski:

"The powers of the earthen magic, and powers from within my own consciousness and fleshly being, are, when drawn forth, fearsome and encompassing of all the elements and ought to be given the most focused study and nervesome majesty and are, in my observation, brought forth through three processes; the first, that of calming the random powers; the second, that of directing them; and the third, that of thinking of them when complete. None of this may be denied in any sensible fashion from reasonable minds or sane intellects, truly." --From Der Magicoriere, A. III, c. xxiv.

In order to learn the elegancies of wizardry one could well afford to give his or her days and nights to the counsel of Merlinowski.

(Acknowledgement to Edwin Hamlin Carr, author of Putnam's Ready Speech-Maker: What to Say and How to Say It, for my blatant lifting of words and form for this "Once Upon a Time" entry.)

32

Sadness doesn't just suddenly appear, like when you realize you have ants. You walk into the kitchen one morning and there's an ant crawling across the counter and you have to buy those little plastic poison roundhouses to put into corners and under the refrigerator. Sadness creeps up on you, and you do notice, but you ignore it, like when you get cancer.

You notice the spot on your arm, or the pain in your side, but it's nothing. Sure, it bothers you a little, but you manage to convince yourself there's no need to trouble anyone with it. Then the spot gets bigger, or the pain suddenly sharpens, so now you wear long sleeves or take an ibuprofen and you can keep on just as you have been.

But the cancer is still there, and it won't go away just because you ignore it. As a matter of fact, it will only get worse. If you hadn't ignored it, you might have gotten help. Yeah, it would have been painful, but not as painful as a slow death.

Sadness is a slow death that eats you from the inside out.

31

The old cobblestone house had fallen into disrepair somewhere between forty and fifty years ago. Without a swift and vast investment of money, the house would cease to be quaint and suddenly become a pile of stones at which people would shake their heads and say, "That is such a shame."

That is, if people ever saw it at all. The house was surrounded by overgrown bushes and self-seeded trees in what used to be a spacious, well-tended yard. The driveway was long and winding but was now nearly indistinguishable from the thick woods that surrounded it. The driveway ended at a gravel road, neatly kept by the town because it lead to an important cell tower eventually connecting to a better road, which connected to a yet better road, and so on until you hit the thruway ramps a few miles and one small town later.

No one could see the little cobblestone house to notice that it still had tatters of curtains in the windows. There was no one who might have seen the curtains to come up and peer through the glass to see that the house remained completely furnished as it was more than sixty years ago.

30

Dear Maria,
Sorry about the bikini girls on this postcard. Believe me, it was the least offensive one I could find in the tiny island gift shop.

I'm also sorry about how we last spoke. I know you don't believe in my "little adventure" and that I was a fool to leave the firm, but please try to understand that I never enjoyed being a lawyer and I am 100% convinced that this "little adventure" will prove to you, and to everyone, that I am right!

I have my cell, but I don't know how much of a signal I'll be getting once I'm in the jungle. I will try to let you know how it's going somehow. Please don't give up on me! I know I'm right!

Yours,
Leonard

29

I went to sleep with a gun in my mouth, and now that I'm awake I'm wondering what made me fail to finish the job. I don't mean in a "I'm such a puss" kind of way, but rather a serious, "Why didn't I?" kind of reflection. There must have been something I thought was worth living for, or some idea, a plan, a hope, a guardian angel; if only I could remember what it was.

28

Miss Dombrowski looked like she was trying not to look scared. She had been reading Edgar Alan Poe's "The Black Cat" to her sixth grade class, as a special October treat, when the fire alarm began to ring. The class, that had been enraptured by the first "adult" story most of them had heard, automatically stood, as they had been trained, but Miss Dombrowski froze, a crease appearing between her arching brows. She didn't let go of the book, but twitched her head towards the speaker grille next to the clock.

Though no one had told him yet in his young life, Mark was very good at reading people, and he read surprise, then realization, then fear in his teacher's face. Meanwhile, the class lined up and waited for Miss Dombrowski to lead them out onto the school's lawn for a few moments of outdoor freedom.

Miss Dombrowski, however, was not leading them anywhere yet. As the class was lining up, their teacher had put down the book and gotten her purse from the big desk, observed by Last-in-Line-Louise. Miss Dombrowski, her favorite teacher, had given her this nickname, smiling. It was true. Louise always hung back to be last in line and she always sat in the back of class, as long as alphabetical order didn't thwart her. Now, being last in line meant Louise noticed Miss Dombrowski wasn't expecting to return to the room. Her favorite teacher was also still watching the grille above the door, next to the ticking clock.

When the alarm stopped, it felt as if weights had been lifted off Mark's eardrums, and the whole class sighed. "Stay in line," ordered their teacher, "and stay quiet."

Louise backed away until she found her desk. She grabbed her own bag, a shapeless knit thing her mother had made. It was ugly, but it held a lot, and it was practically made out of rope. Louise crammed her lunch in on top of all the other items she had inside, then she shoved her sweater in on top of that. No one saw Last-in-Line rejoin her class except Mark, who stood second last.

Mark was about to risk a whisper when the loudspeaker buzzed an extra-long change of class bell, only it wasn't time to change class. Miss Dombrowski tightened.

"Attention classes. Attention. This is Principal Benson." There was a pause and Louise pictured Mr. Benson letting go of the microphone button and clearing his throat. The mic picked back up. "All teachers, please take your students to Stairway F. I repeat. All teachers, please take your students to Stairway F.

"This is not a drill. I repeat, all teachers, immediately take your students to Stairway F. Students are not allowed to stop at their lockers or in the restrooms. This is not a drill.

"Coordination Staff, please begin your sweep. Coordination Staff, please begin your sweep."

Now the students were beginning to look scared, and Miss Dombrowski seemed to come to herself now that she had something to do.

"Okay, kids. You lined up very well. Now follow me into the hall. Louise, you may turn out the light and close the door, just like our fire drills. Let's go."

27

The narrow passageway was never meant to be lit in any fashion, and the tiny blue magelight highlighted to Bern why. He already knew it was a tight fit because his shoulders brushed both sides of the passage, but seeing the inside of the plaster lathe on his left and the rough hewn stone of the palace wall pressing on his right, barely two feet apart, made him feel a claustrophobia he hadn't felt in the pitch dark. The air was stale but oddly dust-free. Bern thought perhaps it had been spelled against it in the very stones so anyone using the passage wouldn't show the signs once they popped out in the library, which he hoped to do, if Marijel ever finished with her scribblings.

It was Bern's magelight but it was Marijel who was Listening to the people in the parlor so she could Compose the piece she was frantically transcribing from her brain into her music-ruled notebook. Bern watched in fascination as the black specks filled the page. He knew Marijel was Composing as fast as possible, but he still willed her to hurry.

26

Cabot Geheim took a room at the boarding house in the broken town of Trostlos the day after the reading of his grandfather's will. A bored, stumpy woman showed him his room, but Cabot was too excited to even notice there was no private bath. Not that he would have complained; his stay was to be as temporary as possible. The Boarder's Haven merely provided convenient access to his inheritance: Geheim Manor.

25

"Why did you come here? To gloat?"

"No," he leaned against the door jamb and lit a cigarette. She pulled it out of his mouth, dropped it on the industrial tile and ground it with her heel.

"Why, then?"

He shrugged, "Because I wanted to see you."

Her eyes narrowed, "You've seen me. Now get out." She started to close the dented metal door, but he stopped it with one hand.

"And to offer you a proposition." He pulled out another cigarette and she let him light it.

"Which is what?"

"You can have back some of your old life."

She barked a single laugh and smiled with half her mouth. "Right."

"The money, at least." He smoked. She tried to read him, but couldn't. "You going to let me in?"

"No." She reached for her coat. "But I will come out. You're stinking up my hovel."

24

It was a ten-spot to rent a hygienic Pod for the night, and I was sick of sleeping in the filth of the street. You never really slept out there, anyway. Partly because you had to keep alert for thugs and cops (same difference, right?) but also because of the smell. It hadn't mattered I paid extra for a quality filtermask; I always ended up coughing and wheezing.

I chose a stationary Pod because I had a friend who had disappeared when a transit Pod went off course. Or somebody rigged it. It meant that I walked or took the train, awake, to wherever I wanted to go.

I lucked out when my ten called up one of the newer Pods. The cleaners still worked, all the lights still lit, and it smelled fresh. But what didn't, comparatively. I crawled in and the lid whooshed shut. Some people couldn't get over the coffin-like feel of them, but since when had they ever laid in a coffin, right? This was much better. I set the speakers to white noise, the cushions to extra soft, and the lights to their dimmest setting. I couldn't feel it, but the Pod should have been sliding into position among the other occupied Pods for my paid for up-to-twelve-hours. I figured I'd sleep at least nine or ten.

Not feeling the outside world in a Pod is usually a blessing. This time, it was a curse. I said my Pod should have been sliding into position; it wasn't.

23

The waitress looked tired and sad because she was. It had been a long, hot morning that was working its way into a longer and hotter afternoon. The diner's big metal fans blew the heat and smell of fry grease around the dining room without cooling anything. A single TV played cable news in the corner and it was quietly reporting about death somewhere in the world.

There were still four customers from the morning. Gus and Bob and Pat would stay right on through lunch, sitting at the counter, reading their papers or watching the news, occasionally talking to one another. The waitress refilled their coffees: regular, regular with cream, and decaf. A tough-looking trucker lady had come in at 10:30, parking her rig along the side, and ordered a late breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Extra sugar.

The waitress wore baggy khaki pants and a tank top under a thin, blue, button-up shirt. A newly smeared apron was tied around her waist. She wiped the side of her brow with the rolled-up sleeve on her upper arm as she cleaned the last table. The bell on the screen door jingled, but she didn't look up until she heard the three regulars' conversation stop and she didn't hear the sound of the newcomers taking a seat.

There were three men. Men looking for trouble. Men who had found it.

22

All the presents had been opened and the living room floor was littered with torn paper and limp ribbons. The cake was a smear of blue frosting and stale crumbs on a circle of cardboard. The balloons that hadn't been inhaled for their helium lay on the floor, shriveled. A disemboweled pinata rotted in the backyard. Scavengers had already taken the pizza crusts and dropped Doritos from under the picnic table. The pony had long since trotted away and was spotted by a motorist on the thruway who called the SPCA and brought to pasture in their enclosure with the two old goats.

21

"Open your mouth, Michael."

"Nmm umm."

"Do you want me to bring your mother in here, Michael?"

"Nmm umm."

"Then open your mouth."

"Nmm umm."

"All I want to do is count your teeth."

"Mm-mmm?"

"Yes."

"Mmm..."

"See? All I have is a little mirror on a stick."

"Mmm.... Nmm umm."

"Michael."

"NMM UMM!"

"Michael, do you know what happens if you don't let your dentist count your teeth every six months?"

"Nmm."

"Do you know anything about sharks?"

"Umm hmm."

"You know they have multiple rows of teeth, and when one falls out, they all shift around and the next row replaces it, on and on and on. A shark may have up to three thousand teeth at one time. Did you know that?"

"Nmm umm."

"Human children are the same. You will grow more and more teeth. Rows and rows of them until they fill your mouth. You won't be able to close your jaw any more. They're sharp, too. Eventually, you'll have so many sharp, pointy teeth, that you'll chew yourself to death."

"!!!"

"Why do you think there are special dentists just for children? We're here to make sure your baby shark teeth don't grow and you don't chew yourselves to bloody pieces. I file them down and I take out the extras until all my patients have regular sets of adult teeth."

"!?!"

"I think I can see the lumps of your next row starting to form on your lower left."
"?!?"

"Unless you want to die, Michael, I suggest you open your mouth. Right. NOW."

"Aaaaahhhhh...."

20

In days of long ago and in the far away, there were heroes. Valiant, brave, pure of heart, trustworthy, brilliant, selfless, handsome, beautiful, perfect in form and superior in strength of all kinds.

At the time, however, they were just ordinary, plain, scared, bored, sometimes stupid, often selfish, usually self-doubting, frequently disheveled and in need of a shower, beaky-nosed, zit-riddled and sore. Heroes they were, nonetheless.

19

God, she had to pee. Lynn was sure whatever he still had to say was fascinating, but her bladder was too distracting. She had been trying to leave for the last hour, and she'd finally made it to her car door, but her boyfriend, Bob, trailed her, talking the entire time. It was too late to ask to go back into the house, and, really, all she wanted was to go home.

"Bob, it's so late. I gotta go," literally! "I had a nice time..." Lynn rolled her eyes as Bob's words rolled over hers. She seriously thought that maybe he had Asperger's Syndrome and couldn't read others' emotions or empathize with them. At all.

He reached to pull her into another too-tight hug (all his physicality was too tight or too rough--must be another aspect of the Asperger's) and she backed behind her now-open car door. "Bob," she said firmly, "it's 2:30 in the morning and I am leaving. I had a nice time, but I'm going because I have to drive and I'm tired. Bye!" Lynn swiped a peck on his cheek and slid, careful of her full bladder, into the driver's seat. Bob held onto the car door, leaning partway in, still talking.

Lynn wondered how difficult it was going to be to break up with him. He didn't seem to hear her, and she was finding it harder and harder to hear him. Her ears were tired. She put on her seat belt. She started the car. She shooed Bob from inside the door and finally managed to close it. He tapped on the window. Lynn blew a kiss, ignoring the twirling "roll down your window so we can talk" gesture, and drove away. She imagined Bob still talking as she reviewed the terrain from here to her house, wondering if there would be any place with a bathroom still open.

18

"I see...a man."

"Is he cute?" The three girls watching their friend get a psychic reading giggled.

"Shh! Don't interrupt, Denise," chided Allison, who was actually wondering the same thing.

The medium, Madame Fo, didn't seem interrupted at all. To Jessica, whose reading it was, Madame Fo seemed very far away indeed. Madame Fo continued, "This man is not good for you. You must avoid him."

Denise clicked her tongue, "Get thee to a nunnery, Jess. Or maybe to the softball team. That's rather vague, isn't it, Madame?"

Madame Fo still gazed into her crystal ball, a line creasing between her brows. "This man will hurt you." Jessica could feel the medium's struggle. Was she trying to see more clearly? Trying to find the words? Trying to concentrate over Denise's hostile posture?

"What does he look like?" Jessica breathed.

"He's...going to hurt you. He's difficult to make clear, but the intent is powerful."

Jessica could hear the candles sizzling and their flickering light was making her dizzy. "When?"

"Sssssssoooooooonnnnnn!" Madame Fo's prophecy seemed ripped from her, and the medium kicked out with her legs, knocking the table and making her crystal ball and two candles fall to the floor. The girls screamed, hands over their mouths, eyes wide in the increased darkness. At least Denise had the presence of mind to open the door and let in the light of the tiny waiting room.

17

I know it's a cliche, but seriously, Paris in the springtime really is beautiful. It's warm and sunny. Everyone seems to be carrying a bouquet of flowers and the city's famous cafes are ready and waiting with their little iron-legged tables draped with crisp white linens, waiters unobtrusive and poised to serve. I had ever been to Paris in the spring until the day I ran away from home.

It sounds like I'm some uber-smart teenager who secretly saved my babysitting money, figured out how to get a passport, and snuck off to the airport, ditching my parents and the remainder of high school just to live the life of a tragically misunderstood artist in France.

First of all, that never works; girls like that turn into tragically diseased prostitutes. Second, I'm not a teenager. I'm in my thirties, and I don't feel particularly smart. Especially alone in France. I did manage to figure out the passport thing, secretly save money and sneak off to the airport, but I was ditching my husband and the remainder of a flawed marriage to live the life of a... well, there's the thing. What am I? Tragically misunderstood, no doubt, by everyone I left behind. Except for one person. The one to whom I just sent his own one way ticket to Paris.

Hint: not my husband.

16

Jerome didn't find his grandmother fascinating. He found her old and smelly and boring. He hated visiting, but his mother always dragged him along. She even made him dress up. "What for?" he would ask. "It's not like it's church or something."

"Don't sass, just button your shirt right and tuck it in neatly." His mom was a stickler for looking neat when dressed up. He was afraid that someday she might make him iron his own clothes. He was, after all, twelve now, and she was already making him learn to cook.

"What for?" he asked. "Ain't I going to have a wife?" That earned him a slap. Despite the painful start, Jerome was actually becoming quite a good cook. His grandmother, however, was not.

"What if she tries to make me eat one of her sassafras cookies? I don't like those awful cookies. Can't I tell her no?"

"No. You cannot. You will eat two to be polite, and you will not attempt to feed any to Beautiful. That dog was sick for a week. Tie your shoes."

15

You know you're in a poor neighborhood when the front yards look dumpy. The lawns are patchy. The garden plots are weedy and bordered by cement blocks, or tires, or painted rocks, or plastic dividers or railroad ties. When the people living in a poor neighborhood try to garden, there are half a dozen wood cutouts, plastic animals, plastic pots and plastic pinwheels everywhere. There are rusty, bent garden fences or even string. There are twelve weak-looking impatiens planted six inches apart. Bushes are wiry and misshapen, or overgrown and covering the windows. Mulch? What mulch?

It does NOT have to be this way. I don't care if you are poor, you don't have to put up with an ugly front yard any more. I don't care if you've never gardened before, you don't have to put up with a yard that screams, "I'm trashy!"

It is the goal of this book to show you how to make your home, no matter how modest, look fabulous. I will show you four different levels of cost: Free, Nearly Free, Budgeted Expense, and Investment. I will show you four different levels of work: Twice a Year, Once a Month, Once Every Couple Weeks, and Gardening Is My Hobby.

I will show you where so many people go wrong, and how to go "rich" instead (without having to be rich!) I will reveal to you the mystery of a weed-free garden, a decent lawn, neat edging, and beautiful flowers. Don't let the people who can afford to hire landscapers have all the glory. Use this easy-to-follow guide to make your yard the envy of the 'hood!

14

I awoke with a throbbing hangover on the battered leather couch in my office. My shirt was buttoned wrong, so I knew I must have had a good time, but for the life of me I couldn't completely remember how. I staggered to the tiny bathroom and stared at myself in the dingy mirror. Hair: dark and disheveled. Eyes: a shade of green the ladies seemed to like, highlighted right now with busted capillaries and dark baggage underneath. Face: smeared with hot pink lipstick on one cheek and in desperate need of a shave.

I scrubbed my face with soap and ran a comb though my damp mop. I brushed the horrid taste out of my mouth, too, checking to make sure I hadn't vomited somewhere in the office, but apparently I had done that at some other location. I was just re-buttoning my shirt correctly when Coralyn knocked on my office door.

"Mr. Dirkson?" Coralyn opened my door just a crack and let herself slip inside. My secretary was always polite, and discrete. "There's a client here to see you. Shall I send her in?"

"What time is it?" I managed to croak.

Coralyn handed me a coffee, straight up and hot. Good girl.

"It's 1:30," she said. "This client was already by once this morning. I asked her to come back."

"Oh. Well, okay then." I was feeling much better for the quick clean up and the coffee. "Send her in."

Coralyn smiled her toothy smile and scurried out. Before the door even closed, the woman walked in.

"Walked" is far too tame for how she moved. This woman glided. She flowed. She shimmied. She pulsed with femininity. This chick had me before "hello".

13

You awake suddenly in the darkest depths of the night. You turn to look at your alarm clock, but the familiar red glow is gone. You glance towards the hallway where you should see the nightlight from the bathroom, but that is gone, too. You blink and rub your eyes, afraid for a fleeting moment you may have gone blind, but as you strain to see into the darkness, you realize it is not truly black. Far off in the distance, you see a flickering as if from a campfire. A breeze crosses your bed, and you shiver, not just from the cold but also because the breeze has made the leaves above your head rustle, and you definitely did not have any trees in your bedroom when you went to sleep.

Looking up, you can see the darkness of a canopy of leaves and as the breeze blows, the branches part and you can see patches of a star-studded sky. As a matter of fact, there are more stars than you have ever seen before and far more than you ever see from one of your city apartment's windows.

You pat your bed, assuring yourself that it is real, and it is. Your bed, however, is no longer in your cramped bedroom; it is now sitting in the middle of a forest. You take stock of yourself. You are in your pajamas: a pair of old workout pants and a t-shirt. You carefully lean over the side of the bed and reach down to find your slippers. Your slippers sit right where you left them, only not on your bedroom floor, but on this leaf-covered forest floor. You put them on, and you stand, pulling your fuzzy robe from the end of the bed. It is here that you hesitate.

If you crawl back into bed hoping this is simply a very vivid dream, go to page 5.

If you head off through the woods towards the campfire, go to page 25.