Pondering Cthulhu: An Essay

Still a lot of personal stuff going on, and it’s not getting any better, but here’s something I’ve been working on for the last little while. Thanks for checking in.


So I think a lot about evil.

Surprise surprise, no?

How many people do you think were truly evil? You’ve probably got quite a few in mind; I know I do most of the time.

The problem is, how many of them thought that they were evil?

Probably not very many. I’ve already addressed this in a couple of my stories, and I think that most people are just muddling through, doing the best they can with what they have available to them at any given time.

This is true for the foot soldiers in some of the most evil regimes in history.

This is probably true for many of the leaders.

Some things that we think are evil, especially from the distant past, or cultures otherwise quite removed from our own, seem unconscionable. To our predominantly white, predominantly Judeo-Christian-Islamic lifestyles, they seem utterly barbaric.

In “The Mission”, the indigenous people are seen as barbarians for killing all children after their first two.

Then Jeremy Irons’ character explains that they do this because the parents can only carry two, and when they have to flee, any further offspring will be left behind for the slavers.

A fate worse than death?

Some people disagree on what is evil.

We now recognize slavery as evil, but the southern plantation owners were not only convinced of the African slaves’ inherent inferiority, but they had the Bible backing them up, with its passages setting forth the rules for slaves from within the nation of Israel, and the separate rules which justified slaughtering those outside the fold, not merely enslaving them.

The Southerners thought they were living in accordance with the dictates of a benevolent God.

Some Christians believe that preventing marriage equality is a step towards saving gay people from eternal damnation.

Even now, there are things that we take for granted that I believe will be viewed as abominations by future generations.

Had a good steak lately?

I have, and I’ll probably do so again in the near future, but I assume that in fifty or a hundred years, the consumption of higher vertebrates will be viewed with distaste. Hell, it’ll probably be illegal.

Does it bother me that I’ll be seen as an unrepentant barbarian? A little, but I’m too conditioned to being a predator to lose much sleep over it.

I’m sure cows see it differently.

Imagine being bred, born, and raised solely to die for the nourishment of others. What if cows have an understanding of what’s going to happen to them, what if, like the rabbits in Watership Down, they’ve taught themselves and their young never to speak of it?

Are you vegetarian? Vegan?

Did you know that mice sing songs of courtship to each other?

Do you know that harvesting combines slaughter them in their thousands?

But what if you were to become food for other beings, beings of a higher order than you? In “The Laundry Files” series, there are beings known as “infovores”, beings who served as the basis for the legend of the Frost Giants, who will bring eternal winter to the earth.

Frost Giants who bring eternal winter by draining all the energy from the universe, which is merely one amongst the multiverse.

An entire universe, drained and destroyed, to feed one of these infovores.

I like these books.

But do the Frost Giants think that they’re evil when they consume an entire universe, billions upon billions of stars, countless intelligent species leaving no trace at all of their existence as their entire reality winks out?

Do you hear the death cries of the yeast in the bread as you bake it?

You may not live by bread alone, and you’re going to end up killing something to survive.

Are you evil?

Is Cthulhu evil? Xe is often portrayed as using humanity, as using reality, for food.

Is it good for us?


But is it evil? How can a cow or a stalk of wheat or a yeast cell hope to understand a human being and its need for food? Can a single celled animal understand Mozart? Do cows look up at the stars and realize that there are other worlds circling some of them, and that there may be other cows on those worlds?

So are we evil, or are those deaths justified by Mozart and the Opportunity Rover and the Big Mac?

We have our wars. we train young men to drop fire on people, but their commanders won’t allow them to write “fuck” on their aeroplanes, because it’s obscene. We fight for territory or oil or water or God. I’m a citizen of the most powerful empire ever to leave its bloody boot prints on the necks of the people of the world, and I like my lifestyle. If things were reversed, would all those people we’ve murdered in the name of Uncle Sam treat me and mine any better?

I doubt it.

We’re proud of our killing, aren’t we? I don’t mean the medals and the parades and the statues in the park, I mean the real mass killings.

The extinctions.

“What the hell do you mean? I’m not proud of causing extinctions!”

Oh yes you are. Not that you had much to do with it, personally, but you still think it’s a good thing.

Put your Greenpeace flag away. I know you vaguely mourn the dodo and the passenger pigeon.

I know you’re worried about the snow leopard and the polar bear.

And I know if you’re under about forty-five, you don’t have a rough circle on your upper arm, but if you’re older than about fifty-five, you do.

And that’s because that’s the smudged point in time when we declared smallpox extinct.

And we’re within striking distance of making malaria and the hookworm extinct, and if we do, we’re going to break out the confetti and make it snow in Times Square again.

But would it turn your hair white overnight if you found out that Cthulhu was a scientist, working to cure Earth of the disease of humanity?


Depending on your enviro-politics, you might do what you could to help out.


We don’t have to agree with them, but if we found out the Old Ones were feeding on us, or on our environment, we’d probably get it.

And if they were trying to get rid of us to protect either themselves or our environment, we’d probably get it (and some of us might fly the black-on-black banner that reads “Goodlife” in the right light, the kind of light that can’t be seen by human eyes or scientific sensors).

Nope, I think Cthulhu is the sensitive type.

I think xe has an eye for beauty that xyr fellows do not, and xe is preparing for xyr debut.

When the stars are right.

Jack Nicholson’s Joker said “I keep making art until somebody dies.”

Cthulhu, on the other hand, will keep making art until everyone dies.

But it will be art.

So when xyr unimaginable technology has prepared the medium, and the colors you can’t see come flowing through the gaps you cannot comprehend, when your soul flares out like a moth in a blast furnace, in that last moment as you and everyone you know and everyone you’ll never meet dies…

…because one man’s death may be a tragedy, and the death of millions a statistic, but if everyone is to die at once, with no one left to observe it, it never happened…

…may you take a certain solace, however brief, in knowing that something of you may remain.

And that something will be beautiful.

I’m not in any way affiliated with the creators of this video or any of their competitors, and truth be told, I hope to buy a sculpture like this someday.

Does that make me evil?

Delayed Update

Right, this last week has been a difficult one, and I’ve got a lot of work to do to get ready for next week, so today’s update is going to be delayed for some time. I know both my regular readers will be crushed to hear it, but I promise to have new stuff up as soon as possible.




image credit By Nuno Silva – Foi criado por mim, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5756259


There was a monster in her room, but Becka wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

Daddy had taught her about monsters; he’d read her the stories about the hobbitses. Hobbitses were like people, but small, like her. He’d tickled her and called her his little hobbitses, his precious, and let her wear his magic ring so he couldn’t see her, but then he’d had to go away to a rock. He put on his special clothes and said he’d be back but then he never came back and Mommy cried and cried. Becka had checked behind the rock at the end of the driveway, past the sidewalk, where Mommy said she shouldn’t go, and even snuck into Missus Johnson’s yard, but Daddy wasn’t at any of those rocks. Maybe he was in the park?

A TRIANGLE has got THREE sides, not like a square, and Mommy had pointed to the blue triangle with the white stars and said that Daddy wasn’t coming home, Daddy was the triangle now, but the triangle didn’t have Daddy’s magic ring. Mommy kept that in the treasure chest by her bed.

After Daddy left, the monster came. At first, Becka didn’t know there was a monster; it would sneak up in the night, and in the morning her jammies would be off, but one night she’d heard the monster, telling her that she was a good little girl, tickling her, but not like Daddy had. Sometimes the monster wrestled with her, held her, scared her, made her hurt. She told Mommy about the monster, the monster with a voice like her new Unka Roy, but Mommy had gotten angry and called her a liar and slapped her, and she cried and remembered before Daddy went away.

Becka had been quiet, like a hobbitses, snuck into Mommy’s room and gotten Daddy’s magic ring so nobody could see her, then found what she needed in the back closet, where Mommy had put Daddy’s things that had come back even though he hadn’t. She hid under the covers, wearing Daddy’s magic ring so the monster couldn’t see her, and when the monster came that night, she grabbed it with one hand, the other tiny hand barely able to grasp K-A-B-A-R, that spells STING, and cut and threw the thing that came off across the room, shouting “BAD monster, leave me alone!” and Unka Roy was laying on the floor curled up and making funny noises and Mommy ran in and turned the light on and screamed and screamed.

There was a monster in her room, but Becka wasn’t afraid of it anymore.


Another political post.


“Life … is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

There’s no one to vote for.

I think the first political conversation I remember hearing was between my mom and dad. We were driving from the Yankee Doodle restaurant, a local burger place, to Radio Shack in my dad’s old blue Dodge Dart.

Dad had a blue Dart, and Mom had a white one.

They also had the same birthday.

I grew up thinking that people whose parents were distinctly different were kind of weird.

But anyway, we’d just had dinner, and we were off to Radio Shack. We’d go there pretty often, since my dad owned a TRS-80, the first commercially available home computer. Yeah, the Apple was “released” earlier, and Dad thought about it, but it would be another year before it was really available, and I guess he didn’t want to wait.

And he and my mom were talking about Reagan, the man running for president against Jimmy Carter. The didn’t like him much, I remember Mom saying he was way too old, and Dad saying that perhaps the best thing they could hope for was for him to die in office and leave the job to the vice president, but the thing that I hitched onto with my nine-year old mind was the phrase “hold your nose and vote.”

I piped up from the back seat of the rusty old Dart, asking my dad what he meant by that, and he told me that sometimes there’s no one running that you really like. Sometimes you just have to look at the guy they’re running against, and decide which one will be less bad. That both of them smell, but once you’ve figured out which one smells worse, you just have to hold your nose and vote for the other guy.

The best etymology for the phrase that I can find is the idea of a “clothespin vote”, which apparently dates back to 1954, so I’m sure everyone is familiar with the idea. William Safire defines it as a mark of maturity, realizing and accepting that you can’t always get what you want in a candidate.

But I’m done.

Yes, I know. Politics is the art of the possible, deals need to be cut, promises need to be broken, and we need to elect the people that we trust to make the best deals possible, to have promises that are pawns to be sacrificed, and promises that are the hills that they will live and die on, in some cases literally.

But I’ve spent my whole life voting against. Over the years, my perceptions and ideologies have changed, so I can’t defend all the votes that I’ve cast, but I have almost always voted against, not for. Obama’s first term probably qualifies as an exception, but the combination of George W. Bush’s presidency and the selection of Gov. Sarah Palin as Sen. McCain’s running mate would have given practically anyone the Democrats nominated my “against” vote.

The current election campaign is to the point that most everyone who isn’t a diehard supporter of Mr. Trump would probably agree to vote for Gov. Romney just to keep the man from Manhattan out of the Oval Office.

And if push came to shove, I think that group would include Sec. Clinton.

And I’m tired. I’m tired of voting against, and I don’t really believe that anyone who I can be persuaded to vote for can do any good anymore. I’ve got liberal friends who have grown to absolutely loathe Pres. Obama for his support of Wall Street and his escalation of the drone war against the world, to name the two biggies, but I just don’t know anymore. I still think that he’s a good man doing his best at an impossible job, and there’s the problem.

I don’t think there’s anyone I could vote for who would do any better.

Back when I was a jarhead, I wrote a little comic bit about the company gunny’s chair. In my unit, the company gunny was the guy who was in charge of bringing the bad news from the officers to the troops. He was the guy who’d tell you you had to work late, or on Saturday, or that you were going to be punished for something that your idiot roommate did because, as they say, reasons. And I made up this little bit about the chair at his desk. I said that it had an invisible spike on it, a spike with barbs, coming right out of the center of the seat, that slid right up the man’s ass the first time he sat down in it. Now, Marines have a joke about getting “fucked by the Big Green Weenie” anytime the Corps inflicts something unpleasant on them, and senior Marines tend to joke about having been fucked so many times that a taxi could drive right up their assholes, with the doors open, and they wouldn’t feel it, so I supposed that when the spike slid up his ass, the new company gunny wouldn’t notice.

He’d just sit there, doing his job, passing down word from on high to the troops.

But the first time he saw that something the officers were up to was unjust, or improper, or just flat-out fucked, he’d be a good guy, and try to stand up for his men.

And that’s when he’d discover that the barbs on the spike had hooked into his tailbone.

He’d stand up all right, but his spine would be ripped out of his body through his backside, leaving nothing but a spineless, gaping asshole.

Yeah, that was the punchline.


But the reality was, being the bad guy was literally the primary job of the company gunny. If the troops liked him, he was probably not doing what he was supposed to. The promotion was a poisoned cup; take the advancement, lose the respect of your juniors.

That’s middle management in the Marine Corps, but the American presidency is the One Ring of Sauron. As long as we want to use twenty-five percent of the world’s resources, have a thousand bases ringing the world, and feel that we should have more say in every country’s affairs than not only their neighbors, but their own citizens, anyone who become President of the United States will either be corrupted or destroyed by the simple fact of holding the job. No matter how clean the campaign, no matter how honest the candidate, they’re going to lose, be it in the primaries, the general election, or the Oval Office itself. The country is already an oligarchy, there’s no way anyone will be allowed to force through real change, no matter how sincere they are or how many small donors they get.

There’s no more hope, I’m done.


Four Gallons


Japanese Type 98 shin-gunto. Source: Wikipedia

This is a true story that I always thought was funny.

Then I looked up the casualty figures.


When I was growing up, my dad had a Japanese katana* hanging over the fireplace. He’d take it down from time to time and pull it from its metal scabbard, the curved steel blade shiny and smooth with gun oil, except near the tip, where there was a dark blemish that no amount of oiling or polishing would remove. Dad told me that my grandfather, who had served in the Navy during WWII, had captured it in the Pacific.

He said the stain was probably blood.

Grandpa had been a Lt. Commander, captaining a destroyer escort, and when we went to visit him, he’d tell, in between pulls from his whiskey and drags from the foul little cigars he chain-smoked, stories of the war. The stories were often long, rambling, and didn’t include any fighting, but it’s not only the combat vets who face PTSD. He was just twenty-seven years old when he’d been placed in charge of 198 officers and men in the largest naval conflict the world has even seen, and the faces of his brother officers who hadn’t made it back came up through the mists of time and alcoholism more often than I could understand at twelve years old.

One day I asked him about the sword.

“Captured it on Saipan,” he said, “We were escorting the gyrenes coming in, and I went in once it was over.” He ordered another drink. “I got onto the beach, and there were these dead Japs just everywhere, so I figured I’d grab myself a couple of souvenirs, but the Marines weren’t having any of it. I suppose…”

He got quiet for a while, staring off into the past, but the arrival of the waiter brought him back around, and he downed half of the fresh drink. “There were a lot of dead Americans on that beach too. Lotta good men died there. So I saw that sword laying right next to a dead Jap, and I was going to take it when this big Marine came up and stopped me. No way he was going to let some Navy officer just grab a prize that his buddies had died for.”

I was too young to imagine the scene, so I just nodded. “But anyway, I wanted that sword, so I pointed out to where my ship was.”

“’You see that ship, sergeant?’ I said. ‘That’s my ship, I’m the captain.’” He lit up another cigar. “’You gotta understand, it was hot there, real hot, and those jarheads had been fighting for ages, so I told him ‘That ship’s got an ice cream maker on board. Whaddya say I give you and your boys four gallons of ice cream in trade for letting us take a couple souvenirs off this beach?’”

He died a few years later, when I was still too young to enlist, and I hope he doesn’t mind that the sword has found its way back into the hands of a Marine, four gallons or not.

*The sword in question is not what one thinks of when the word “katana” is mentioned. It is, as far as I can determine, a Japanese Type 98 Shin-gunto, a mass produced weapon issued to non-commissioned officers as a mark of rank as much as anything else, with no markings that could be used to identify the soldier to whom it originally belonged. Had he ended his war someplace other than the Yasukuni shrine, it would have, like my grandfather’s ship, been returned to the government and melted down for scrap.


This was a difficult story to write. Although the central event is true, I knew nothing of the details surrounding it, thus any similarities to real persons or events are coincidental. I don’t think that makes it any easier.


Every night I see her. A toddler, beneath a table. Elderly, sitting on a gnarled root. In her teens, twenties, middle-aged, dancing, almost floating, barefoot, in the dappled sunlight of a silent clearing, smiling, inviting me to follow.

I long for sleep, dread sleep, doze off in class, wake up weeping, always seeing her, my little Megan, out there in the woods.

She was a quiet baby; she rarely cried, hardly ever babbled. Concerned, Beth and I had had her tested for autism. “Megan is just a very quiet little girl,” the doctor had concluded. “Be thankful, little Craig didn’t let me sleep for the first year. Colic.”

She liked to hide. At two, she christened her favorite spot “Okeegara.” It was easy to see when she was there; she’d never fail to take her shoes off before crawling underneath the oak dining set, protected in its forest of chair legs. Talking didn’t seem to be allowed there; the first time I’d slid myself under the table, I’d gotten no further than “Hey, honey” before being cut off by a fierce little scowl, her chubby finger to her lips. “Ssshhh, Daddy. Okeegara is a quiet place.”

She loved to draw. Always the forest. The forest, and her imaginary friends ‘Dikey’ and ‘Hero,’ who lived in Okeegara, up in the trees. At three, she made up her own alphabet, strange little squiggles she pretended were their names.

When she got bigger, Okeegara moved, became a few small trees in the backyard. Megan would spend hours out there, just sitting quietly, always shoeless, in her little woodland.

Kindergarten. Parent-teacher conferences, praise for her intelligence, cautious questions about her emotional development, her “lack of interest in socializing with her peers.” Beth defending Megan, repeating the doctor’s diagnosis: “My daughter is just a quiet girl, dammit, there’s nothing wrong with her!”

We moved. I found a new job at a new school, rented an old stone farmhouse, and she was in heaven. Her private forest, once under the dining room table, then in a suburban backyard, finally became the woods, real woods, behind the new house.

The spring before she was to go to high school, I got an offer. Tenure track, finally, at a university in the city. It included an apartment downtown for the first year, to give me time to get my bearings.

The move drove her insane. She couldn’t handle the city, the noise, the concrete.

No trees.

She broke down, retreated into her room, into her bed, into herself. Stopped talking. Stopped eating.

We got help. Inpatient care, at a private facility in the country. It seemed good for her. The counselors said she was becoming more social, eating again. They recommended weekly trips to a park, a forest, “quiet time to commune with nature and recharge her batteries.”

According to the incident report, an hour before she was due to be discharged, she asked to be allowed to go out and pick some flowers for us. They found her in a small grove, fifteen minutes later. She’d fashioned the noose out of braided dental floss.

She had removed her shoes. She was thirteen.

It was too much; Beth left. The dreams began.

Four years after Megan died, I got the letter. Her junior high English class had written letters to themselves, to be mailed in time for high school graduation. We’d moved, left a forwarding address, but never told the school about her passing. Inside the envelope, labeled with her made-up alphabet, was a drawing of the forest, with Megan, Dikey, and Hero, up in the trees. But the writing…

Not made-up. Not Okeegara.

Japanese. Aokigahara. The Sea of Trees, the haunted forest beneath Mt. Fuji, eternally silent, where Daiki, Hiro, and hundreds of others have gone to die, to hang in the trees forever.

Where Megan died so many times before. Where she’s gone again.

Where she calls me now to come and join her.


Piercing Gaze


Something I made for a friend who shares a love of dolls


Have you ever wondered if you’ve been someplace, or seen a friend, for the last time? I mean, I hear all these stories about, you know, couples having an argument and he storms out, then gets hit by lightning or a drunk driver or something, and she’s plagued for the rest of her life with the knowledge that the last thing they did together was argue.

Or places you’d like to go, things you’d like to see, maybe for the first time, maybe one more time. The whole bucket list thing. I’ve never been to Europe, for example. Nothing I particularly want to see there, but it seems kind of, well, off that I’ve been around so many places, most of the US, Canada, Japan Korea China Australia freaking Istanbul. I mean, yeah, I guess Istanbul is technically Europe, but you don’t really think of it as such, do you? Anyway, yeah, Mexico, Malaysia, I’ve ridden the Trans-Siberian Railway, but I’ve never been to, like, the real Europe. Paris. Germany. The Vatican. I feel like I should go there, should start making plans, and that’s the key, you have to plan things, you’re not going to just accidentally take the wrong exit on the freeway and end up in Dusseldorf, are you? I mean, not unless you live near Dusseldorf, duh.

My point is, you have to live your life, you can’t just go stumbling about hoping that good things are going to happen. Every day before I go to work, I make sure to kiss my wife, so that if anything should happen to either of us, the other will always have that one last good memory. Every day I’m thinking about what I want to do next, how I’m going to improve myself, through study, or travel, or just new experiences.

Like, the wife and I are going scuba diving in Okinawa in two weeks. Never done it before, and it looks fun, so we’re off on a mini-vacation. I mean, it can be dangerous, there’s the slight possibility that I could drown, but at least I’ll be doing something new. Heck, I might get hit by a bus on the way to the beach, might never get to go, life can be a real bitch sometimes.

What about you, got any plans? No? Don’t worry, it’s okay because even if you’d had, well, yeah….

I could tell you that this’ll be quick, and it won’t hurt, but we’d both know I was lying, wouldn’t we?

I’m glad we had this talk.


I had really hoped to write something totally new for the site this week, and I was making a good start when I got sidetracked by something that’s threatening to turn into a novel. I may post some excerpts later on, but for now, here’s a light-hearted tale of child abuse. Believe it or not, no trigger warnings this time.


John sat at the kitchen table, flipping idly through the local paper on his tablet while Mandy busied herself at the blender getting breakfast ready. “Here you go, hon,” she said, putting the protein shake in front of him. “Um, John? What we talked about last night?”

“Mm, thanks,” he said, reaching for the tall, slightly pinkish shake without taking his eyes from the screen. “Yep, I think it could be a good idea. Doing some research right now.” He raised the glass to his lips, took a swallow, and started to cough and choke. “Ugh, oh god, no-,” putting his hand to his mouth, he shot up, overturning his chair, and rushed to the bathroom, the sound of his retching into the toilet coming clearly down the hall.

“John, what is it? Was it the shake? I know strawberry isn’t your favorite, but they were out of-”

“No, that’s not it.” He emerged from the bathroom, wiping his mouth on a small towel. “The things people will do to their….well, just look,” he said, handing her the tablet and pointing.

“Free to good home, healthy Caucasian baby boy, blond hair, eyes still blue at 6 mos., birth weight-”

“No, down at the bottom. Look,” he pointed, “right here.”

“Circumcised, poor thing, and….oh, no…..Okay Google” she said, and waited for the microphone icon to flash, “Child Protective Services, Monroe County.” As the new window opened, she looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. “The things people will do to a poor, innocent child. I hope they throw those parents and the doctor in jail for a long, long time. Vaccinated?”


In Japan, the story that inspired this is filed in the “Romance” section, which is far more disturbing than anything I could write.

Also, I should probably put some trigger warnings on this one.



He could feel water from the sodden grass of the cemetery soaking slowly into his shoes. Father Dunn, his soft voice almost drowned out by the patter of rain on umbrellas, was murmuring about the Lord’s mysterious choice to take Dolly to his bosom so early.

He twirled the flower idly in his hand. She’d been captain of the St. Mary’s Junior High Roses, the girls’ soccer team, and the local florist had donated several hundred of them for the mourners to place on her coffin. Moving his eyes upward from the polished wood casket suspended over the damp cut in the earth, his gaze met that of John Farr, the sheriff’s department’s sole detective. The deputy gave a tight smile by way of greeting, and resumed his slow scan, looking for any sign that that could reveal the identity of the person responsible for the mangled and violated corpse about to be interred.

While the adults in the crowd were wearing dark clothes and carrying black umbrellas, those of the students, in their school uniforms, were mostly of the cheap transparent variety. The Roses were easily identifiable by their blue jerseys, worn over their navy-blue blazers, and the scabbed knees which shown beneath their plaid skirts. Jenny, the assistant captain, all angles and elbows, took shelter beneath a garish yellow umbrella, incongruous. In her free hand she held another blue jersey, which she spread on the coffin as the priest neared the conclusion of the ceremony.


“May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.”

One by one, Dolly’s classmates filed past to lay their roses on the coffin. He felt a sudden pain in his thumb, and lifted his hand. A drop of blood, released by an unnoticed thorn, dripped onto the soft pink petals of the flower. Crossing himself, he set the stained blossom gently down on the jersey, next to her name. As those assembled headed slowly to the parking lot, he noticed a lone dandelion, somehow unscathed, in the grass next to the grave. It seemed out of place in the solemn scene, and he reached down, plucking it out of the ground.

“Coach H?” He hadn’t realized that he was the only one still standing there. “The girls and I are going to get some lunch. Would you join us? It’d be good for them.”

“Lunch?” His eyes moved from the bright yellow umbrella and its owner to Sister Charlotte’s concerned face. “Yes, lunch, that’s a good idea, thank you.”

His hands, of their own accord, ceased their toying, and dropped the dandelion into the grave.