Fulfillment Under Ground by Brian Brown

   Fulfillment Under Ground  

       The Last couple of decades have seen certain aspects of the world of Botany turned on its head. Forget about what you may have learned 50 years ago in college. There is now defensible research that indicates that plants communicate with each other, that they help each other out, and that they essentially make decisions. Darwin got a lot of things right, but the blanket application of the Darwinian principles of evolution may not apply to plants.

 

     Using mild radioactive tracers, researchers have proven that in a community of plants, healthy individuals will share needed nutrients and sugar with weak or ailing neighbors. And not just within a species; sharing takes place between species also. As if a healthier and diverse community is to everyone’s benefit. It isn’t competitive survival of the fittest; it’s let’s help each other so the whole forest can survive. This mutual aid even goes beyond the Kingdom level, if you remember your basic biology. Sharing takes place between plants, which have chlorophyll, and fungi, which do not, and are classified in an entirely different Kingdom. 

     Underground, immeasurable billions of plant root hairs make their way silently through the soil in the darkness, searching and probing for the partners that can meet their needs. Similarly, microscopic, snake-like mycelium of fungi are making themselves available, looking for a hookup for their desires. Each partner has needs and also something to offer the other. When contact happens, they gently wrap around each other, their cellular-level outer membranes reaching out in the gentlest of embraces. The symbiotic attraction is there. The plant says, “I need nitrogen and calcium, can you fulfill me?” The fungi says, “I need glucose and water, can you fulfill me?” If both answer yes, the exchange of nutrients, sugar, and water takes place, each passing molecules of the needed substance to the other and taking what they need in exchange. if one of the partners is weak or ailing, particularly if they are both plants, a one-way exchange may occur, one organism magnanimously giving to the other and taking nothing in return. In this way, a sick partner may become healthy again, and the union can continue. 

     All over the planet, these unions are taking place at every instant, and probably have been since at least the Cambrian era of geologic time, 500 million years ago. Plants predate animals by several hundred million years, and have made it through all the mass extinctions, changing their forms and strategies to adapt to whatever the universe throws at them. They have this survival thing figured out. We would probably be wise to pay closer attention to plants, there is much we can learn from them.

      So, are these trillions of daily trists in the dark sex? No, because no genetic information is being exchanged. But, it feels like SOMETHING…. Betcha didn’t know what those little fuckers were up to down there all this time, did you?         

Sensual

Sensual

by Ricki T Thues – 2025

 

 

I was packing my parachute under the Perris Skydiving sun sail, shaded from the 105° Southern California sun. A Twin Otter roared down the runway, door open, skydivers waving shaka “Hang loose!” As the airplane’s wheels lifted off the ground, I whispered, “Blue Skies.”

 

“OOO-we,” under Billy’s breath as he packed next to me.

I glanced over at him. He nodded toward Manifest. Leaning into the air-conditioned window was a tiny bikini bathing suit filled with a curvaceous woman. The temperature rose suddenly to 110°. A rivulet of sweat blinded one of my eyes. The other eye saw the bikini reach into the opening, one delicate foot beckoning as it lifted off the ground. “Blue Skies,” I whispered.

 

I was overheated and wanted a chilling dip in the pool. I threw my rig onto one of the pegs, peeled off my jumpsuit, and headed for the swimming pool. Giggling men and women who were also wearing only swimsuits hurried past me. I did a deep-end dive. When I broke the surface of the water, I found myself surrounded by beautiful people. One man with sculpted muscles and deeply tanned skin was tattooed with ancient symbols flowing down ribs and curling intimately along hipbones to the small of his back. A woman slipped through the water like a whisper, effortless strokes sliding slick laminar flow giving lift to hypnotic curves. Others bobbed in the shallows, laughter painting joy on the corners of their mouths, the flair of their nostrils, and the corners of their eyes.

 

Cooler now, I climbed out of the pool. It did not take long to dry off on my way back to the shade of the giant Maple. Some of my friends were sitting in a circle under the tree, telling tall tales. Soon, I was listening to Owen talking about a recent record skydive he had filmed. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence and pointed toward the sidewalk, jaw dropping slightly. I followed his pointing finger to a sisterhood of nine women skydivers striding and talking in a group. The collective swing of their hips and the fluid elegance between muscle and intention breathed grace into presence. They owned the space they moved through.

 

Owen said, “That’s Wendy. She’s getting married to Phillip next week.” Her bouncing trot had a buoyant rhythm which sprang like a playful heartbeat. Her smile outshone those of her friends.

 

“That is her bridal party. I’m filming their naked skydive today. Do you want to fly second camera?” Owen smiled and winked.

 

“Yes,” I blurted, with enthusiasm that caught the attention of the women in our Maple tree circle.

“When’s the jump?”

“2 pm. Dirt dive at 1:30.”

“Are we naked too?”

“That’s the tradition,” Owen grinned.

 

I looked back over at Wendy’s women, and my imagination did not see their clothing.

 

At the dirt dive, I was smitten. Wendy had organized her friends into a circle around her. They were wearing their parachute rigs, helmets, and wrist altimeters. Over their gear, they were loosely shrouded in button shirts and short pants. The suggestion of what was behind the clothing was unsubtle and provocative. I was only marginally aware that Owen and I were similarly clad.

 

The skydive was to be simple, with Wendy flying into a circle of her eight friends holding hands. Wendy would turn slow 360s and smile at her bridesmaids. Owen would take the above and center position, and I would be filming straight-on from the side.

 

Except for the occasional giggle of the women, the climb to altitude was oddly sober. This was because of the unabashed ogling of the other skydivers in the plane, male and female alike.

 

I was sitting on the aft bench looking at the lovely female crew during the 20-minute climb to 12,000 feet. At the 3-minute call, I slipped off my shorts and unbuttoned my shirt. The women did the same. It was a stunning scene as they all stashed their clothes under the benches.

 

At the red light, Owen opened the door. On the green light, Owen climbed out to the camera step outside the airplane. Wendy and three of her friends brushed past me to perch outside on the door’s threshold. They clung to the float bar. I sidled past the other five as they pressed breasts to backs toward the door opening. Taking up the rear slot, I wrapped my arms around the last woman as Wendy yelled, “READY…SET…GO!

 

The floaters let go and everyone followed them into freefall.

 

Approaching the skydive, I flew past Owen and could not help but notice that anything between his legs had disappeared into a nondescript lump. Nothing was whipping around down there. I continued to my on-level slot.

 

These women are all excellent skydivers. I noticed the joy on their faces and the precision of their flying. They were a fairy ring in an enchanted time.

 

And then there was the 120 mph wind of freefall.

 

The wind turned every patch of skin to flapping wrinkles.

Breasts were deflated balloons in a gale.

One shorter woman became a Shar-Pei.

Suspended in air as she was, another woman’s jowls were the wattle of a bird.

I knew one of the smarter women who wore the wrinkles of her brain on her face.

Their prune-like appearance made me never want to covet a plum again.

As Wendy rotated, she became her own grandmother in the wrinkled, aged company of a knitting circle.

 

Break off was at 5000 feet, and we all tracked away from each other. When my parachute opened, I was no longer excited. Instead, I was a little numb.

 

I landed first and wrapped my parachute around myself. Then I filmed each of the women landing their parachutes. Friends on the ground brought each of them clothing. I wished I had thought of that. Phillip ran up to Wendy, gave his fiancée an enthusiastic hug, then handed her some clothes.

 

As the women shimmied into shorts and shirts, my heart hastened. Each button brought new mystery to their beauty. Wendy stood backlighted by the blazing sun. The shadow of her body through her shirt gave hint of the honeymoon to come. My imagination was sparked with renewed heat. 

 

The women dressing on the grass of the landing area was the most sensual and sexiest part of the whole day.

  

Pues...Ni Modo by David Molina

 

PUES …NI MODO

I cruised in my Chevy, muy lindo, ‘Mi Amor,’ but I suddenly smelled something awful.

I looked underneath -  ¡ay caray!  I can see that her muffler is no longer lawful.

I knew all my homies would laugh and make fun so I had to act muy, muy de prisa

So I stepped on the gas and I quickly hauled ass ‘cause I just wasn’t down for no risa.

I knew of a vato a friend of a friend of a tía whose suegro was chino.

He knew of a shop that was tops and could swap out my muffler in no time, muy fino.

 I drove down the road smoking smoke a’ la mode with my face hidden by my sombrero.

I saw a bright sign and I got in the line at a shop called “El Pedorero.”

My vato friend said only one guy was top of the crop, and the best of the best.

Magnífico, muy talentoso, cortés,  el mejor del mejor nothing less.

He told me his name saying no one could claim to come close or to even compare                                 

To Señor Valentín Adalberto Cortés Dos-Rasquaches Ramirez Ferrer. 

He fixed it in no time, he fixed it real good then he gave me a bonus to boot.

He offered to tell me the secret he learned as a child, and I said, “Okay shoot.”

I always remember the words that he said, and the wisdom he offered to share:

From Señor Valentín Adalberto Cortés Dos-Rasquaches Ramirez Ferrer.

“Mijo:”

“When your taco shell busts and your queso falls out and your carne gets messy and scattered

Don’t sit in the gutter and uselessly mutter palabritas  -  it just doesn’t matter.

You may not have heard an expression, two words that will settle all things y a todo 

The magic occurs if you utter these words…and just say to yourself: pues, ni modo.” 

“When ice cream cone splatters it just doesn’t matter so much if you know what to say.

 Your girlfriend forgets it’s your birthday? Don’t sweat it. Tomorrow will be a new day.

Your car just won’t start? or your hair won’t just part? Well,  be glad that you’ve got a few pelos.

You’re sick as a dog or you’re lost in the fog? Well don’t panic there’s always el cielo.”

He fixed up my car and he even so far has earned credit for fixing my life.

Mi Amor now still runs and my girlfriend still shuns pensamientos of being my wife.

Sometimes I feel like I get a bad deal, a bad cold, a bad meal, a bad todo.

Be that as it may at the end of the day - suck it up… give it up…

Pues...ni modo!

In The Heat by Brian Brown

 In The Heat

                                                        

     When you live in the heat it changes everything. When you rise, when you sleep, when you work, when you don’t, when you make love, ( mostly you don’t ). There is a crude expression out here;  It’s too hot to f&%k, and sadly that is often  true. 

     It dominates everything, each decision includes a heat calculation, because it must. The desert doesn’t care about you and will kill you if you are careless, either in a car or your house just out walking around. Work starts at dark thirty and is over by noon. Sleep happens in the middle of the day also, so you can rise at 6:00 p.m. and get things ready for the next day in the long shadows of the evening. 100 degrees in the shade at 7:00 pm really isn’t too bad, because you are wearing a long sleeve shirt you have dipped in a bucket of water that will take 20 minutes to evaporate and become dry, giving you 20 good minutes to accomplish something before you  soak and do it again. When darkness sets in you must go home and force yourself to sleep somehow so you can rise and go to work in the darkness again in the morning. 

   110 or more in the direct sun is serious business, no matter how much you drink or how big or clever your hat is. The Body’s core temperature invariably begins to rise, and if you don’t bring it down somehow you get in real trouble pretty quickly. So you work for thirty minutes then cool down for 15 somehow, either going indoors, drenching in water, or just leaving. Some of us get more or less acclimated and some do not, and they are in real danger. Their skin turns bright pink, their eyes  bug out, and a look of mild panic inhabits them. Those people go into the walk in cooler and have a seat in the 38 degree breeze until they are back in operational range. Then, if they can, they go back out and do it again. It is a terribly inefficient way to get work done, and as a boss it is maddening, but it works. Some things simply must be done here in the summer, and so we do them, as we can. We should marvel at and honor, somehow, the roofers and cement workers seen standing out in the midday sun in Las Vegas or Phoenix.

     And, importantly, we complain a lot, because it is vastly therapeutic. Bitch, bitch bitch, about the heat, about the lack of rain, about the low pay, about biting horseflies, about the ugly local women, about the other workers whom you don’t think are carrying their share of the load, about your lousy car, about someone else’s shitty haircut, and on and on. It helps, it really does.  

     By August, any humor is gone. People show up and do the work they can and leave. Everyone is encouraged, and gently required, to leave town for a while. Take a vacation. Go to Utah, go to the Sierras, go to the coast, just go to Vegas and get a room and veg out by the pool for a couple of days. Relationships end, employment ends, sometimes badly, and everyone goes through the annual cathartic period of serious self examination. Why am I here? Have I wasted my life? Is this worth it on any level? What am I missing out there? The first few seasons it slides off into depression, but after a several years that becomes a predictable progression, and we know there is light at the end of the tunnel if we can just make it to September.  

     Shade is profoundly important. In an extremely dry climate the temperature difference of being in the shade vs. the sun is dramatic and immediate, perhaps 15 or 20 degrees. You seek out and claim any shadow, a bush, a telephone pole, squatting down behind a car, anything. Cars become huge thermal sinks if left in the direct sun, interior temperatures rising to 140 degrees and more if the windows are up. A new car with healthy air conditioning will still require 15 minutes or more to bring the interior temperature  into tolerable range. Shade is your friend, and work is planned around the presence or absence of shade.

    By September, it has affected you. If it was your first summer, you are not quite the same person you were in May. You have gone through a storm and you know it, and others who have not just cannot understand. You have seen the warts and deficiencies of the others around you, and they yours, and you kept going anyway. You have a little more respect for each other, even those you don’t like, because you did it. if you’ve done it before you become like an old tortoise, retreating into your shell and only coming out when you must. Your social skills may have suffered, but ah, well. And then, gradually, it begins to end. Night time lows dip below 80. The sun isn’t quite as high overhead, and a few tourists begin to trickle in. The heat is in seasonal retreat, you made it! Now, you have 7 months to plan for next summers escape, if you can

                                                         In the Heat

                 It scarifies and clarifies

                 It questions your existence 

                 And judgement.

                 It steals you and steels you

                 Lovers leave and the world departs

                 Just you and the desert 

                 And a few defective others.

                 Have I wasted my chance?

                 Have I missed my life?

                 Always remember, 

                 You could have been stuck 

                 In traffic on the 405 

                 For the last fifty years 

                 Instead. 

Ageless Living By Mark Farenbaugh

Ageless Living

By

Mark Farenbaugh

I am a man who has lived a long time, but I want to live longer. When I look in the mirror, I see the signs of my years - creased skin, silver hair, scars from times of recklessness or risk. I was quicker once, and stronger, but now I move with a stride more patient and practiced. Still, the idea of risk remains part of my constitution.

I have lived many moons. I worked double-time when others rested, earned my calluses that never truly faded, and burned through life knowing that it was short. I have built things that lasted—homes, friendships, maybe even a name for myself. 

Now retired, people assumed I was winding down.

But I’ve never asked Father Time for permission to keep moving. I ignore birthdays, noticing them only when surprised. What is in a number, after all? Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the day I was born. I don’t use pain as a ledger of time.

I pick up new habits these days - writing, learning languages, exploring new trades, cooking better than before, and seeking out new experiences. I enjoy reading, but only for an hour a day, to make time for movement and adventure. I don’t envy those who stay put and rest. 

I’m mindful that not everyone thinks the same. I know my life path has been an adventure - one that some might not have had the time to pursue, so I simply tell people they’re still young enough to find out. 

I move forward out of curiosity, not by the clock. I have lived many moons, but that hasn’t dimmed my desire to keep going. As the doctors say: Move or die.

“Don't let the old man in”
I wanna leave this alone
Can't leave it up to him
He's knocking on my door

And I knew all of my life
That someday it would end
Get up and go outside
Don't let the old man in

Many moons I have lived
My body's weathered and worn
Ask yourself how would you be
If you didn't know the day you were born

Try to love on your wife
And stay close to your friends
Toast each sundown with wine
Don't let the old man in

Hmm-mm
Hmm-mm
Hmm-mm

Many moons I have lived
My body's weathered and worn
Ask yourself how would you be
If you didn't know the day you were born

When he rides up on his horse
And you feel that cold bitter wind
Look out your window and smile
Don't let the old man in
Look out your window and smile
Don't let the old man in

By Toby Keith

Escape by Don Taco

 Escape                                                                   by Don Taco

 

 

  The warden led the march to the gas chamber, with the very stern demeanor of the self-important. A small squad of guards brought along the prisoner. There were no ceremonies, no formalities, no last songs, no farewells. Once inside the room, the man was forced to sit, and heavy leather straps buckled his ankles to the seat. After he was secured, the handcuffs were removed and his wrists were also strapped into place. The warden's second-in-command, a phlegmatic man drily recited to the condemned man, "They say the best way to avoid any pain is to hold your breath as long as you can when you see that light turn red, and then take a quick deep breath. That way, you get a lethal dose quickly, and you don't struggle. They say you barely even feel it." The man stared tersely at him and said nothing. After they all filed out of the chamber, there was an ominous electrical click from the door mechanism, and less than a minute later, the ready light turned green.

  But by then, once he was alone, the condemned man was straining at the straps, tearing some of his flesh from his wrists as he ripped the leather free of the chair arms through sheer desperation. After rapidly unbuckling the leg straps, he stood and looked around. There was a huge pair of bolt cutters lying on the floor nearby, so he grabbed them. Some rational part of his brain wondered what they were doing there. There were no wires or cables to cut. And he couldnt remember seeing them before. Dashing over to the only door, he swung the heavy tool at the door's control panel with all his might. He was rewarded with a flurry of sparks, a loud pop, that ominous click. And then the door swung open. As he stepped out of the room, he realized that the small squad of guards was still there, eating donuts. They filled the hallway. There was no way to run past them. His elation turned to trepidation and his heart skipped. Some part of his hind-brain told him that his only chance was to leap over them, so he jumped. And it was then that he discovered that he could fly. Not the ungainly flapping of a large bird trying to launch from the ground, nor the graceful soaring of such birds in flight, but the inexplicable superman-like trait of pushing off from the ground and simply continuing to move forward through the air. He was landing clumsily at the end of the hall before the guards had even swung around. Grabbing the door handle and twisting it, he tore it completely free of the door, leaving no way to open it. He experienced a moment of pure panic. His heart thundered like a jackhammer. And then his brain, and his life, shut down, like flipping off a light switch.

 

In the control room, the warden turned to his assistant and remarked, "That was much more struggling than usual. I wonder what goes through their mind at a moment like that?" His aide uttered a low grunt of non-interest. "I have no idea," he said.

                                                                                                                                                 copyright 2025 by Don Taco

Ceiling Wax by Don Taco

 Ceiling Wax

copyright 2025 by Don Taco

  There was a book when I was a child. In the book was a stegosaurus. If the stegosaurus stood still, you couldn't see it against the mottled red sandstone cliffs of the desert country. So no one knew it was there. Best camouflage ever. The child in the book discovered the stegosaurus because the child could not stand still. He stumbled into it by accident, running wild in the summer sun. As it turned out, the stegosaurus was an herbivore, and was friendly. So was the child. They became friends. They had adventures. It was never clear how or why they could speak to each other. And, I also a child, never thought to question that when I read the book.

  I also as a child, could not stand still. It is a marvel that I read as much as I did, when I also spent so much time tearing around the desert bumping into things. Our mother, concerned that we might be too bookish, in spite of all six of us being hyperactive, would only allow us to check out seven books each on our trip to the library every Saturday. Every Saturday. Why seven? Who knows? We secretly got around that by reading each other's choices as well as our own. We were devouring books, as well as bounding around hoping to bump into a stegosaurus.

  I loved that story. I knew there were marvelous and unexplained things out there, waiting for us to demonstrate that we were friendly, polite, and could be trusted. And that's why I wasn't the least bit surprised when I met the dragon.

  The dragon wasn't fierce. Or unfriendly. Or greedy. Or any of the horrid negative traits the old tales all seem to assign to dragons. He welcomed my company. Looking back, as an adult, when I remember him, I wonder sometimes if I was just too young and insensitive to even begin to grasp how much that company, that friendship, meant to him. I also, at that age, never wondered how we could converse with each other. Did the dragon speak English? I guess so.

  He could fly, though, and so we went places. Met people. Giants. Ogres. Pirates. Had adventures. It was grand. It was even better than knowing a stegosaurus, if you can imagine that.

  And then one day, I discovered girls. Now, I know I was pre-pubescent, but there were inklings. And I began to carry their books home from school, and other frivolously pre-romantic cliches that I, like so many others of my generation, learned from the old movies that were featured every weekend evening on the television. There was one particular little red-haired girl in the neighborhood, yes, just like the comic strip, that occupied most of my attention. Her name was Sharon Blood. I'm not making this up. My life has been so consistently weird that I rarely need to make stuff up.

  And I never saw the dragon again. I blame myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Inspired by

 "In a land called Hana-Li."

The Wake-Up Call by David Molina

 

The Wake-Up Call

Danielle's last patient was ten minutes late, but being at the end of her long day , a very long week, a longer month, and a too-long life those few minutes gave her a chance to breathe. The never-ending line of patients was crushing her. The sick irony was that her psychology training was throwing her down the chasm while pretending to be the healer who had all the answers.

When she sat with her patient, a middle-aged male, Henry T., she leaned forward and feigned to be concerned, the way she had been taught in her years of her doctorate training. Within the first minute, she had him sized up: avoidant personality, persistent dysthymia, complex post-traumatic stress. The works. But nothing particularly different from the dozen patients before him, nor the ones she would see next week, and forever.

But one moment struck her.

“...and I try and try to be a good husband, but I feel like everything I do is never good enough for her.”

It was not the mere statement - a common one - it was that she had just heard a woman intone the exact same words earlier in the afternoon - Sheila S.

Danielle sent Henry T. home with a Zoloft prescription, doubling the dose of his last one. Before she left her office, she was curious enough to peruse Sheila S.’s chart. Sure enough, she discovered that Sheila and Henry, although different last names, shared the same address.

She returned tp her apartment, poured herself a large glass of Pinot, and pondered the couple who were never good enough for each other. She knew that their mutually self- inflicted wounds would not be healed with Zoloft, nor would her glass of Pinot heal herself. She poured another glass.

If my patients could see me the way I am, they would demand their money back. Wait, no, they have insurance, right? So it’s all good, right?

She finished her second glass, and felt it soothing and settling her. For the moment, right? They think I can help them, but I can’t even help myself. I’m a hoax, But at least a decent actor. That I can be proud of, sipping a little bit of self-congratulation. She opened another bottle, feeling as good as she knew she would ever be. She raised a glass to her ex-husband, a toast to his ghost. “Everything I did was never good enough for you, Frank.” After drinking that one down, “Here’s to you, Frank...everything you did was never good enough for me.”

Yes, the perfect couple.

Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, Danielle awoke, head still buzzing and now beginning to ache. She barely made it to the toilet and had to wipe the floor with a mop. She sprayed an air freshener, turned on the fan, and shut the door. She set her head on the kitchen table and wept. I am such a phony.

Danielle counseled so many alcoholics, and she knew that she was at rock bottom. She knew enough to know that rock bottom could be a turning point. Still, she could not make that choice, ashamed to admit who she was. She had to hide, feared to be called out, despite her suffering.

What would my therapist tell me? Talk to someone. Start there. At three o’clock in the morning.

A thought popped up in her mind - go online. Find someone. When you are stuck at the bottom any motion is an upward motion.

Despite her misgivings, Danielle searched online counseling and therapy sites that were anonymous and available 24 hours. While they processed her credit card she kept repeating to herself, something is better than nothing. She had just guzzled $50 of wine. $50 for a therapist might be of better use.

“Hello, this is Sara. Who am I speaking with?”
“I am Danielle.”
“Good to be with you Danielle. How are you doing?”

“Not very well, Sara.” Danielle had a sudden urge to cut off the conversation then and there. Had it not been for the gentle kindness of the faceless voice, she would have easily thrown away the fifty dollars.

“I am so sorry, Danielle. I hear despair in your voice.”

Was it that obvious? A bit of anger flared inside her. This Sara probably has a script in front of her. Or maybe it was all AI-generated. Why could I expect anything for my cheap date with this unknown voice?

“May I ask you a few questions? You are always free to decline.”

“Fine...” Her teenage retort startled Danielle as it fell out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it that way, Sara.”

“Name me his name.” Danielle startled. “Who?”

“The one who hurt you.”

“Do you mean my father?” How would she know that? That voice... “Yes, if you say so.”

Her tears welled on hearing this. There was a long pause on the other side, as her sobbing continued for a long while. Finally, Sara’s voice continued.

“You know what you have to do, don’t you?”

“No.” Her anger sparked but was gone in an instant. “Yes.” She knew what she had to do, but she had not the strength.

“The hardest thing is the most necessary thing. You know what it is.”

Danielle gathered her courage. “Yes. To forgive him.” She knew she had to do it for her sake, not for his.

                                                             *   *   *

She woke up in her bed the following morning. The headache was a memory, but the empty bottles in the trash corroborated the late-night “therapy” session. She searched for her phone and redialed her last call. It rang and rang as if no one was home. She remembered that when she dialed last night it went straight to the online site. That was odd, but she left it at that and decided she would try again later. She wanted to talk with Sara.

Despite many failed efforts, she finally got hold of a man’s voice. She asked for Sara, or anyone else on the online site who knew of her.

“Ma’am, I have no idea of no therapy or no website. I’m sorry.” “Can you tell me who am I speaking with?”
“Yes ma’am, I’m Ernie Vatter,”
“Where are you located, Mr. Vatter?”

“Metropolitan Mental Health Hospital, Atlanta Georgia. Where you calling from, ma’am?”

                                                            *  *  *

Danielle never found “Sara”, and wondered if she really existed. As blasted as she had been those early hours, her mind could have created the whole story. And perhaps, she conjectured, it could be a troubling sign pointing towards psychosis.

After three attempts at Inpatient Alcohol Rehabilitation, she finally joined Alcoholics Anonymous and has been sober for eight years. She sold her practice and created a non-profit based on her belief that forgiveness is a gift that one gives to oneself. She helped many crime and assault victims to navigate the very difficult task of forgiveness. But she insisted that those who were able to overcome the terrible traumas which they endured through forgiveness was the best, and perhaps only way forward.

Her PhD. Degree certainly counted for something, but living through it herself meant far more. She learned, and then taught, how to forgive oneself... and that made all the difference.