Sugar and Spice...Chapter One

 

SUGAR AND SPICE

 

D-L NELSON 

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
And all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of.

***

Chapter One

October 15 Wednesday Afternoon After Lunch

Howard James Private School (HJPS)

Cambridge, Massachusetts 

 

WHEN MARGAUX FOURNIER heard the voices of her four enemies outside the Howard James Private School fourth-sixth grade bathroom, she rushed into the last cubicle. She sat on the toilet and hugged her legs to her chest thus preventing her enemies from seeing her feet under the door.

How she hated being in this school with their cliques and bullies, especially those four. They did everything together, even making the toilets into a pee-a-thon.

Margaux wanted to be back home in Basel, Switzerland at her old school with her three best friends. Only that wasn’t home anymore. Her parents said Cambridge, Massachusetts in America now was her home.

She should be proud of her father because of his promotion. He would be in charge of all his bank’s activities in New England. She guessed she was.

Here, from her first day of school two months ago, she had been the target of those bitches who had just slammed the stall doors.

They made fun of her Irish accent. Nanny Maeve had taught her English. Nanny only retired when her father’s bank had transferred him from Basel to Cambridge. Her mother spoke Swiss German to Margaux. Her father spoke French to her.

Margaux wished Nanny Maeve had come with them. She would have understood what she was going through. The Irish woman had been Margaux’s mother’s Nanny and was kept on even after she was no longer needed as a nanny because she was too old to find another job. Margaux hoped she was happy living with her sister in Dublin.

In Basel the school day was in German with two hours of French. Margaux could speak and understand English with no trouble, but she had no idea how to write it. Her mother bought her English books to read. Margaux loved to read, but she found the spelling of English funny, erratic and stupid. Die Rechtschreibung ist lustig, irratisch, dumm.

“That’s because English stole many of their words from other languages,” her mother said. Once the family had settled, they decided to only speak English to help Margaux adjust. She didn’t tell them that her real problem was that her four enemies teased her about her accent.

“You all know what you have to do tomorrow?” Amanda asked.

Margaux thought she could identify each of their voices. Amanda was the easiest because she did most of the harassing with the others nodding.

“I’ll bring the gloves and apron,” Gloria Masters said.

One by one four toilets flushed as Margaux’s enemies finished.

“I’m writing the note,” Emma Jackson said. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Clay will be surprised when the knife goes across his neck,” Gloria said. Stall doors slammed.

Water ran.

Hand dryers blew.

“That’ll teach him. We better get back to class.” Amanda again.

Margaux knew she was missing class, but what should she do? Clay wasn’t quite her friend, but once he told Amanda to leave her alone. Another time he’d pulled Amanda away from Margaux when she’d been pushed against a locker.

Kids don’t kill kids, Margaux thought. But what if she was wrong? Maybe it was just a game the four bitches were playing. She went back to class.

***

“Margaux. Margaux! Are you paying attention?”

“I’m sorry, Ms Rower. Can you repeat the question?”

“What are the state capitals of Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas and California.”

“Montgomery, Juneau, Phoenix . . . I don’t know the rest.”

“It might be better if you spent less time staring out the window,” Ms Rower said.

Her four enemies’ hands went up.

“Montgomery, Juneau, Phoenix, Little Rock, Sacramento,” Amanda didn’t wait for the teacher to call on her. When the teacher turned her back for a moment, Amanda whispered “Dummy,” to Margaux.

Although Margaux tried to concentrate, all she could think of was Clay with his neck cut. Who could she tell? Warn Clay? He wouldn’t believe her.

Ms Rower? Her teacher was always correcting Margaux’s accent.

After the final bell rang and the class ran to put on jackets and join their waiting parents, Margaux stayed at her desk.

“Is there something you want, Margaux?”

“No, Mam.”

Everyone had left the locker area. Checking to see if the four bitches were waiting to ambush her. They weren’t. She walked to the door.

The headmistress’s office was on the way. If she didn’t tell anyone and Clay died, she knew she’d feel guilty worse than she had when she broke her mother’s favorite vase and blamed it on the cleaning woman. When the cleaning woman denied it, Margaux’s mother had fired her. Two years later, Margaux still felt guilty. How would she feel if Clay died, a real death, not like people who died in video games.

Opening the door, she saw the secretary, whose name she didn’t know, packing up for the day.

“I need to see the headmistress,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I need to see the headmistress. It’s really, really important."

 

 

 

 

 

My First(and only) 2026 Resolution

 

The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. so we could wake up and watch the ball descend in Times Square. Here in France we're six hours ahead of New York.

I put on my gold, fuzzy bathrobe, snuggled under my thick penguin blanket on the couch eager to watch the preliminaries and the event.

What a waste of time.

Among other inanities three, allegedly mature men, made dirty jokes. I'm not against dirty jokes, but they have to be funny. I didn't find anything funny about them asking their preferences between things like oral sex and a hamburger. 

A singer, although beautiful and with a beautiful body, did a bump and ground number worthy of a pole dancer in a strip joint, although she did keep her beautiful costume on. Another woman, dressed for the cold, sang Imagine although the audio left something to be desired. 

Camera shots of a fun-loving crowd who were suckered into wearing a publicity hat for a gym chain. Thousands and thousands in the crowd seemed to be watching/recording the event on their phones instead of participating in the event or relating to those they were with, although there were kisses once it was 2026.  

The countdown began. I didn't see the ball didn't descend. The Internet says it will be done twice, the second time for the 250th anniversary of the U.S.

I went back to bed. I've looked for videos of the ball dropping on the internet. I haven't found them yet.

 I thought of Roman Bread and Circuses.

My resolution?

Memo to myself. Don't ever watch again. Take the dog to the beach for zoomies to start 2026, not a resolution, a lifestyle.

Happy and a healthy New Year to everyone reading this! 

 

 

Our 100th Prompt . New Year's Eve

 

It's hard to believe that over 100 times Julia, Rick and I have done a weekly Free Write, sometimes together in a cozy cafe, sometimes in different countries. However, I trust Julia and numbers.

Happy New Year to all those who have read our Free Writes, the production of 10 minutes of writing, no stopping, no correcting.

It's interesting to compare what each of us has produced, some similar, some totally different but still within the prompt.  This time: fiction, memory, philosophical.

This last prompt of 2025 - New Year's Eve

D-L's Free Write 

Shirley knew she could still change her mind. She watched her husband, Brad, talk to his brother, Tom. 

She knew they were talking about the Boston Bruins as they did every New Year's Eve. 

Her sister-in-law Chrissy was showing yet more photos of her grandchildren. Shirley's son and daughter were off skiing as they had every New Year's Eve for the last three years.

Her bags were packed and hidden. The airline ticket for Japan was hidden.

The language school where she had worked for the last ten years wanted her to open a branch of the school in Tokyo. They had made sure to bring her Japanese to fluency.

"Stupid," Brad had said as Shirley studied the language.

He was a good man, had been a good father.

He lacked imagination. He hadn't wanted to go to Paris when her company had offered two free trips. "Too many Frenchmen. What'll I eat?"

His food tastes were simple. Read boring. Nothing yellow. Almost no fruits.

The divorce lawyer told her that none of those things were legal reasons for a divorce.

He would be hurt. She regretted that.

The two couples watched the ball descend in Times Square. The CNN announcers disappeared as Brad turned off the TV and her in-laws struggled into their coats for the one-block walk home.

As Brad turned off the lights, Shirley knew what she had to do. "We have to talk, Brad." 

Rick's Free Write

Garrett had never really established a New Year’s Eve tradition that lasted more than a couple of years.

When he was a kid, his parents would let him stay up to watch the Times Square ball drop with Dick Clark on TV, but he usually fell asleep around 1030 and was carried up to bed.

When he was married, he and his (X) wife would go to a movie with his brother- and sister-in-law. But then they moved to Texas. And even after Garrett and Melanie moved to Dallas too, the couples did not revive the tradition. The in-laws had gotten strange – something to do with his mother, but they were caught in the wake.

After he divorced and moved to France, Garrett and his new partner would join a large group of Anglophones for NYE, everyone bringing some nibblies or dessert. Some of the group would drive a few miles to a nearby tourist town, then take a train back to the village (a 5-minute journey). But Garrett begged off, heading home by around 1030.

There was still a ball drop, but now it was 6 am the next day, so they’d watch the fireworks from Sydney and Singapore before bed and set the alarm to get up and watch New York.

The biggest excitement now is trying to calm the dog during the local fireworks. 

Julia's Free Write

Out with the old, in with the new. I’m sure we’ve all heard that one. Sometimes associated with a change in our lives, sometimes with a relationship, sometimes with a major move.

And, yes, most often with New Year’s Eve.

Interesting how most of the world seems to think that, somehow, this time, the New Year will bring major changes, an improvement in the many things that have gone wrong.

Somehow human nature has us hoping for better, and at no time is that hope as strong as New Year’s Eve!

Only 14 hours left, so maybe I’ll see how much of the “old” I can still eliminate before the “new” turns up.

One thing will definitely remain: our Free Writes! 

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

 

 

 

Hector's Restraining Order

 

Marianne's children thought she was crazy to sell her Victorian house in a good Cambridge, Massachusetts neighborhood to move to France.

It would be crazy to not do it, she thought. Her life to this point had been fine until her husband died six months before. Their marriage had been okay. He was a professor at Harvard, she had taught English as a second language in the Cambridge schools. They had raised Steven now 25 and Nancy now 23. Both kids were doing all right for their ages.

Marianne had loved France since she had been an exchange student outside Paris. Many summers the family had vacationed in France. She had dreamed of living in a French village and if not now, when?

She found a small house that fit her needs perfectly. Because she spoke French functionally, she went out to know the butcher, the baker, and there was a candlestick maker.

She introduced herself to her neighbors. Her next door neighbor Odile was a widow like herself. They became friends, sharing meals, movies and marche trips. Odile and many other people warned Marianne about Sophie, her neighbor to the right. 

Marianne would see Sophie in her garden or hiding behind a curtain and wave. Sophie would turn away.

The day Sophie appeared at her door, Marianne thought there might be a break through. Instead Sophie handed her two bills: one for 460 Euros to replace cement. Sophie said Marianne's cat Hector had ruined the new cement by leaving paw prints. The second bill was for 150 Euros to replace a duvet she complained Hector had peed on.

Marianne had intended to get a dog, a small one. When she went to the SPA (Animal Rescue Center) she had to walk by cages of cats to get to the dog wing.

Hector had been at the door of his cage. Marianne claimed he had hypnotized her into taking him home. His first hour he inspected his new home, declared that he would stay, decided which chair would be his rather than the bed she had bought him.

Hector also refused to use his kitty litter, preferring her garden near the rose bushes.

"Ignore Sophie. She can't prove it's Hector," Odile said.

Marianne did until she was served with a restraining order in Hector's name and a subpoena to appear at the French equivalent of small claims court.

"Fight it," Odile said.

"I will. I have no intention to sell my home over this," Marianne declared. 

Odile's brother was a lawyer and he went with Marianne to court. Hector was there in a cat carrier which rested on the Judge's desk. 

The judge spoke to the cat in a soft tone, a good sign according to Marianne's lawyer.

The Judge did a lot of eye rolling as Sophie's lawyer presented his case which included photos of the pawed cement and a wet duvet. "I'm sorry we couldn't bring the smell," Sophie testified.

Marianne's lawyer asked how Sophie knew it was Hector. She produced a small tuft of black fur. The judge held the fur near the cat carrier. It was slightly lighter than Hector's.

"Let me interrupt," the Judge said. "Did you get a DNA sample?"

"How could I? I would have nothing to compare it too."

 "Did you get a cast of the paw prints?" Marianne's lawyer asked.

"I've the photo," Sophie said.

"It's a small photo. No way can we compare it to Hector's paws."

The Judge declared Hector innocent because of insufficient proof.

The lawyer and Marianne celebrated over lunch at the bistro three doors down from the court. Over the weekend, he invited Marianne to a movie that they had discussed wanting to see.

The rest is history, as Marianne and the lawyer said on their third anniversary. 

Note: based on a true story. Names (including Hector's have been changed.) 

 

  

  

Bombing/Attack Guide Book

Trump Bombing/Attack Guide Book

 

Chapter One Excuses

Before bombing/attacking a country, it is necessary to lay the groundwork to convince people there is a good reason to do so. Repeat the excuse as many times as possible on the news channels, in print, at conferences or speaking engagements. Make sure the wording is identical. Remember Joseph Goebbels, " If you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it, and you will come to believe it yoursself.

1. National security

Convince people that it is in the National Security to do the bombing or an attack. Ignore any facts such as the country lacks weapons/army, is on the other side of the planet.

2. Religion

Say over and over Christians are in danger. Make sure that there are no statistics to back it up. Hide any information from the Bombee that there is no danger to Christians. It's a good time to dump on other religions and reaffirm that America is a Christian nation even though it is not according to the founding fathers and the first amendment of the Constitution. 

In speeches demonize non Christian religions.

Create false fears of other religions and discourage any attempt at tolerance.

3. Drugs

Write speeches how the Bombee is running drugs that are killing Americans. Do nothing to help those already addicted. If they are "cured" than there will be no excuse to bomb boats allegedly carrying drugs to the U.S. even if it would be impossible for the boats to get that far. Never offer any proof of the drug smuggling but celebrate the "victory."

Chapter Two Resources

1, Before bombing a country, check to see what natural minerals exist. Plan to take the minerals.

2. Check to see how much oil the country to be attacked has. Plan to take over the oil. 

3. Capture oil tankers. Keep the ship. Keep the oil. 

4. Have cabinet members do television interviews and give them prepared answers to questions. Make sure they blame Biden within the first 82 seconds of an interview. If another  question is asked that doesn't fit the narrative, have the interviewee give one of the prepared answers to another question. Have those about to appear on news programs practice different ways to connect answers that has little to do with the questions.

5. Have lawyers standing by to bring suit against anyone, any news source, who contradicts or disparages the administration. Go for billions in damages.

Chapter Three Ignoring Anything Legal 

1. Ignore the Constitution.

2. Ignore Congress.

3. Ignore state laws

4. Ignore the judicial system including the Supreme Court if necessary.

5. Ignore the United Nations

6. Ignore any existing treaties -- better to declare them void.

7. Ignore international law

Chapter Four Ignoring Facts

Rearrange any inconvenient facts. The best terms to use are "Fake News" and "Witch Hunt."

Replace inconvenient facts with real "Fake News" to be repeated over and over (see Goebbels.)

Chapter Five Create Victimhood

Declare the U.S. has been a victim of other countries forever. (See Goebbels)

Chapter Six Create a False History

Make sure that none of the U.S. faults are ever taught to the next generation.

Work with "patriotic" groups to ban books and other information that might prove the correct narrative is never known. 

Erase historical negative truths.

Make believing in anything but the required narrative anti-American, fake news, a communist plot or socialism.

Use the terms "socialism" and "communism" that the average person will not understand what they mean. Make sure the public never understands.

Make sure people do not know where socialism works.

Make sure people do not learn how the U.S. compares negatively to other counties (education, health care, workers' rights etc.)

Call female reporters nasty and piggy to diminish them. 

Chapter Seven Control the Military

Remove any objectors in the top brass who feel their oath is to the Constitution and nor the president.

Make sure that the rank and file consider it their patriotic duty to fight their fellow citizens.

Chapter Eight Create Scapegoats

A scapegoat can be any group of Non-White Christians. Take turns labeling them. Example immigrants are from mental hospitals and the worse of the worst. Muslims are a good target. Make sure the statistics promoting any of these non-white or immigrant groups who contribute to American society are discouraged. Make sure their contributions are never revealed.

Chapter Nine Erase the Past

Remove the names of women and non-whites from the public record. The bigger the contribution take their names from plaques, public lists, etc.  

Note: visit https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

Handwritten note: Contact Nobel Committee about the 2026 Peace Prize-

 

 

Tea in a Bowl

The first time I drank tea from a bowl was when I lived with a French family outside of Toulouse. Earl Grey Tea made in a pot was the breakfast tea along with a fresh baguette and sometimes choclatines which was the local name for pain au chocolate.

Returning to Boston, I returned to mugs or cups and saucers for my tea.

Moving to Switzerland, I had a short story published called Shoppers. The wife couldn't adjust to the culture differences, but the husband wanted his morning tea in a bowl after they stayed with French friends who served it that way.

Later in my Third Culture Kids mystery series (TCKs have parents of one culture, move the kid to the new culture and the child becomes a hodgepodge of old and new. I claim I'm a TCK adult.) Annie, my TCK heroine drank her morning tea from a bowl.

Boy, did I argue with my editor(s) for them to leave the word bowl and not replace it with cup or mug.

 

Once I retired I spent more time in my "Nest" my studio in Argelès-sur-mer. I loved my Acapulco  bowl for my morning tea.

When I married - it took me 71 years to find my soulmate - he brings me tea in bed almost every morning. It's seldom the same tea. It might be Constant Comment imported from the States or Yorkshire Tea, a gift from a Brit friend. Sometimes the tea is flavored with vanilla or spices. Sometimes it's just tea. The aroma from the BOWL placed on my night stand is a wonderful way to start the day.

The bowl pictured at the top of the page we found at Jardinland, a chain that has lovely china dishes besides its plants, dog food, garden furniture and many other things. 

I let my morning tea cool and usually read a bit before separating myself from the duvet and mink if it's winter. I drink part of the tea from the bowl before gathering my clothes for the shower. The rest I will drink with breakfast or with my first daily writings.  

I also love my penguin mug which is in our Geneva flat. The apartment is furnished and has  a Villeroy and Boch cup and saucer. 

I discovered long ago if I see a set of dishes I love, it will be made by Villeroy and Boch. That German company has been making ceramic products since the mid 1700s. It also makes toilets. Members of the original family still work there, although it is no longer a private company.

Tea is not just a beverage for me. It carries with it a mystique, memories, comfort and more. Drinking it from a bowl or in a special cup or mug is just another level of pleasure. 

Note: Visit https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 

 
 

Living with Margaret, Louise and Eleanor

 

I met Margaret Atwood almost three decades ago. Her collection of short stories Dancing Girls was on the shelf of my anthropologist friend's used book store in Argeles-sur-mer, France. I was hooked on Atwood's writing.

After that, I read every Atwood book that was at the English library in Geneva, Switzerland. I disagreed with the under-enthused reviews of Handmaiden's Tale. It turned out I was right when the book became a television phenomena.

I can't remember which of Louise Penny's mysteries I read first, but I know as soon as I did, I secured every book she wrote (now 20) and read them in order. 

They were more than books. They were a visit to the Canadian village of Three Pines. I've made friends with Clara, Myrna, poet Ruth and her duck Rosa. I've eaten at the bistro. I watched the leaves change color and snow fall. I watched the growing romance between Jean-Guy and Annie and celebrated the birth of their children. I love their dogs and wonder will I ever know for sure if the third animal is a dog or ferret. 

My husband and I have copied the Icelandic tradition of Jolabokaflod, (Christmas Book Flood) where we give each other books on Christmas Eve, then go to bed and read them, often sharing bits of writing that we love. We've been know to nibble chocolate too.

 

His gift to me were two new Penny books and Atwood's A Memoir of Sorts which I had planned to buy in the New Year, something I hadn't mentioned to him.

Thus I've been submerged in the books, still found time to make a Christmas pancake breakfast and savor his Christmas ham dinner that he copied from his childhood. 

There was time on Christmas Eve prior to exchanging our books to visit with village friends of French, Irish, Greek, Danish and Irish nationalities over a Canadian (pot luck) dinner.

In the morning I found time to share Sherlock's pleasure in his new stuffed toy, a duck, and watch a Grinch movie before I snuck back to Three Pines and Atwood's observations.

The rain has been almost continuous and torrential. When it stops, the wind blows with a ferocity, that I suspect our dog could become a kite at the end of his leash. When we open the door and he sees the rain, he goes into reverse.

Now to Eleanor Roosevelt. I bought the three volume biography of her life on my Kindle written by Blanch Wiessen Cook. I was half way through volume two on Christmas Eve day. Eleanor is now resting on my night stand. I will release her when I finish my Christmas Eve books.

Don't worry, I do have many other books in the ready, but these days of submerging myself when the weather outside is frightful, is another gift.

  

 

 

Christmas Chocolates Past and Present

 

I can define periods in my life by Christmas Chocolate. 

As a child, each Christmas we had a Whitman box. Sometimes it was a sampler, other years it was a tin with various scenes. During those years, I'd love to have been able to walk on those streets, visit the houses, be there...

My brother and I could take turns selecting a chocolate, but after biting into it, if we didn't like it, we didn't get a second choice. My kind-heated grandmother, however, cut all the chocolates in two so we could make wise decisions. Maybe it was a lesson in checking the facts.

 

For the past dozen years I have had an Advent calendar box, bought from Auer Chocolate. Each year, it is a treat to escape the late November chill and walk into the Auer store in Geneva, Switzerland. The aroma of chocolate is heavenly as I pick out the 24 black chocolates to put in the little boxes. 

No need to cut the chocolates out of fear not liking the filling. I know every one will satisfy us. We do cut them in two so Rick and I can share the savor of each one.

Rick and I follow the Icelandic transition of giving each other books on Christmas Eve, then go to bed and read them as we eat chocolate. This year our wonderful landlords, gave us a different kind of chocolate. They were delicious, but we have some left for today and tomorrow.

As for books, I now have all the Louise Penny series. Three Pines is my favorite Canadian village, but I can't be too hungry when I read them because of all the food mentioned.

He also gave me the new book of Margaret Atwood's essays. I will post this and then curl up and read.

What a wonderful holiday. To all my readers, happy holidays including good wishes for 2026, 27, 28 and beyond. 

Note: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 

 

Free Write 99 The Messy Desk

 

 

Our 99th Tuesday Free Write together. What a pleasure it has been. I would also say there have been almost as many cups of tea, espresso and hot chocolate drunk. Each of the writers have their favorite brew. 

There have been some groans as we discover the prompt, but we still pick up our pens and write for ten minutes. We share. 

Sometimes we are in different countries and bless the internet so we can continue. This week's prompt was inspired by a photo of Albert Einstein's desk.

Rick's Free Write

This is not my desk.

It could be.

What looks like disorder is not. Not to me. I know, pretty much, where to find a certain piece of paper. Or book. Or pipe (under a paper most times. Even though I don’t smoke.)

I worked with a similar soul at a university publisher in South Carolina. George said his stacks of books and papers was not a filing system, it was a ‘piling system.’

In the rare times when I get (formally) ‘organized,’ everything in folders, all neatly aligned in a filing cabinet, I can’t find anything!

My ‘system’ tracks with the way I write. I like to assemble all my research notes, interview transcripts, URL links, etc. and totally immerse myself in the topic.

This requires everything to be on the desk within reach.

At the end of the project, I may collect the documents and file them away. Or not.

My wife is the polar opposite. OCD, at least for papers within sight. She has almost given up on reforming me, conceding my desk will always resemble a war zone.

By the way, my computer is much the same. Multiple tabs always open. File folders in semi-organized order. (At least the computer alphabetizes everything.)

Slob or Genius? Ask Albert.

 D-L's Free Write

"Honey, while you're up can you get the data spread sheet from my desk?" Jim asked.

Julie sighed as she looked at the desk, not that she could see the desk under the piles of paper. 

"It's near my phone."

"I can't see your phone." She moved some of papers.

"Don't move anything."

Julie didn't say anything. At first There were several Excel spread sheets. "Does it have a title?"

"No, but it's next to the article on data collection."

From Julie's position at Jim's desk, she could see into her office area and her desk was visible. On it was a laptop, one blue folder and a card with a list written in ink. She did that in case of a power shortage. All her files were backed up three times.

Jim let out a long sigh, stood up and walked over to the desk. His hand reached out and picked up the spread sheet he wanted. "See. It's right here. I don't understand why you couldn't find it."

Julie said nothing, but chanted her mantra under her breath. "He's a good man. I love him. Desk maintenance is not a reason for a divorce" over and over again.  

Julia's Free Write

His desk, as usual, was submerged in papers and stuff. Over the years, he had learned though that if he tidied it, he couldn’t find a thing thereafter.

Amongst the papers were other objects, objects not necessarily found on a modern (read younger) person’s desk.

But even if he tried to not smoke, the pipe was comforting. The jar contained not tobacco, but his current favorite sweets – hiding there so that his secretary wouldn’t make remarks.

An old-fashioned clip board held the most important bits of his current task. One photo, curling at the edges was all he had in the way of clues.

“Life”* on the bottom of the frame was in direct apposition to his tasks: find the murderer.

Sherlock Holmes he wasn’t, but then again, his mom wasn’t really expecting him to explain the dead butterfly. His white shoes weren’t pristine anymore.

Notes:

*The word life was cut out of the prompt. 

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

 

A Solid Gold Battleship

 

 

Trump announced he wanted a new battleship or ships named for him of course. 

Specs for the first ship include:

• 800 feet in length
• 30,000 to 40,000 tons displacement
• Twelve new nuclear capable missile launch capacity

Potential issues:

Who will build it?

Overcoming other ship building issues of the past.

Can the rail gun be resurrected?

Crew management issues? 

Wouldn't smaller and more be better than one ship?

Is it needed at all? 

 There are many better places $15 billion can be spent aren't there. 

What happened to waste, fraud and abuse? 

Will Trump tart it up covering the battleship with gold as he has done with the White House? 

Or worse is he planning an unnecessary war?