Friday, April 21, 2017

Show Us Your Taxes POTUS! The March in New York City.

Bryant Park on April 15, 2017
Tax Day. 

The light shining on us!
To Whom are you beholden to, Trump?  RUSSIA???

The only president EVER who wouldn't show the public his taxes. Is 45 being blackmailed by Russia?  

We the People Stand up and demand to see what criminal mischief this non-majority so-called president is hiding that the GOP wants to keep hidden too.  Obviously, or the Republicans in the House would demand the same. WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR DEMOCRACY? 

Overcast and dreary

The Flip Side

Some people think protestors are unemployed or have all the time in the world.  
Here's a quote  I LOVE from my son's school. "If you want something done ask a busy person."    

Don't tell me anything about Soros or how he pays protestors--you'll sound like my dad, who has dementia and has found solace in conspiracy theories. I prefer the truth. 

I live for Truth.  I will FIGHT for the truth. And for others to live FREE.  It's my duty. 

My grandfather fought in WW2, my father in Vietnam. Protesting is patriotic. It's my duty. 

My mother is an immigrant. 

And immigrants have made America Great. We need to keep it up!  

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

One Star Review of the Afterlife by K.L. Hallam

Something a little different.
It's not a YA or MG fiction. I found this today and had a laugh.

 One Star Review of the Afterlife. 

The crack of a windshield, cold damp leaves. Lights. Rolling wheels.
Someone whispers, “You’re going to be Okay.”
Who the hell is that?  Sure doesn’t sound like Arthur?
Up and down, my back arches. There’s no air. Blinking lights, aren’t they pretty, following like pearls on a string?
Up, up and away. 

I open my eyes.
Where am I now? No one is around. Then someone pushes past me—hey! I shout. Don’t be so rude. But they don’t hear me.
“Are you going up or down?”  A string of lights waves behind the blob without a face.
Where is Arthur?

I turn where the lights trail and catch a glimpse of my surroundings. Blank white.
“Mrs. Joan Ruckwin, please come forward.” I hear in the opposite direction.

There’s no one anywhere near me-–except that voice, a cavernous, reverberating voice, telling me to come forward. But there’s no forward. And where is back?
 I spin until I’m a dancer on the top of a music box and stop.  

 “Mrs. Joan Ruckwin, there may have been a mistake?” It’s not a God it’s the voice of my fifth-grade math teacher addressing me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.  “Where am I?” I don’t see anything. “A mistake?” Arthur? He was in the car with me. He’s not here.  He must be alive. “You’re right, there’s been a huge mistake. I don’t belong here. I belong with my husband and he needs me.”

“Everything’s transparent,” my fifth-grade teacher answers.
“Well, get me down. I want off.”
“Look inside this,” I’m told.
I see Arthur. Arthur is not in the hospital.  He’s laughing and having fun, with—with another woman?

I step back. “Why are you showing this to me? “

Suppose I suspected it.  We watch Arthur drinking bubbly with another woman.
I turn away. “I don’t need to see any more.”

“You still want to go back?”

“Wait, so this isn’t hell, cause it’s not too shabby.”

“A midway point before total departure.”

Before I have another thought, swirls of compression land me onto the table with Mr. Ruckwin, and his new, soon to be, Mrs. from what it appears, admiring her new ring.

“Oh, hello, dear. I know you weren’t expecting me."

The woman spits up wine. My dear husband coughs, gasping until it overtakes him, and into a frenzy; coughing and choking with no one to give them the Heimlich maneuver.  
Such a pity. 

 written in 2015