Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See her on-line stories in the profile links.
Flax fields grew atop a rocky mountain. Never suspecting they would be trampled, the pretty blue flowers waved at trucks filled with chemicals. They expected to become fiber, fabric, clothing, paper; to end in a spark of light and heat, ascending to the sun. That is what their ancestors had done.
But they were destined to die under machines that would mine shale, producing oil that would make polyester, gas that would become electricity to power the paper of the internet. Their glory short lived, the flowers photosynthesized carbon from the atmosphere, but not enough to cool the warming earth.
Hans Christian Anderson, The Flax inspired this story.
In the closet where pillows were stored for the pandemic, stuffing lay scattered. Fabric soiled. So many had become mouse nests.
When first furloughed, the smart-looking cushions had done humorous impressions of the Nobel prize winners whose rears they recalled. Now that their padding had thinned, their numbers were also thinning. The best rotated among the dining room chairs. Not every guest could have a back support.
“Listen here,” the plumpest whispered. “A mouse ran under the Queen’s chair .”
The others cried in unison, “Where will it end?”
The door opened. Pussy Cat walked in. “I hear you’ve got problems.”
Sherlock Wolff tracked the notorious hacker, Lorelei, to the Rhine Club. Concealing himself at the back, he scoped out the exits. She sang. Too late, he noticed his cocoa turning wolfsbane blue. The arrest warrant in his hand wavered like a timepiece in a Dali painting. He found himself on stage.
Instead of serving the warrant, he was served. Instead of arresting Lorelei, she handcuffed him. Wolff’s supervisor appeared. “Good work, Detective Wolff.” He shook Lorelei’s hand.
Wolff couldn’t find his tongue.
He woke up in a Bavarian jail. The woodcutter in the next cell said, “Don’t I know you?”