It was around 11 p.m. when Angela, back in her dorm room after a stint in the library, went through her things and discovered she didn’t have her cell phone. Playing the day back in her mind she realized she must have left it at the Schreibers’. She remembered putting it back in her pocket after she dropped it in Kai-Kai’s closet, trying to get her arms around those big feathers. She must have dropped it a second time. It was late but she had to go back. She was greeted at t

The band milled around in the track area, between the Dad’s Club stand and the end zone, waiting for the signal from Sarge to get into formation for the halftime show.  They had gotten used to the clear plastic ponchos that covered them.  It was a struggle at first, but once they were fully on down to your knees, and you got your instrument organized under it, they were not so bad.         The band was trying to relax.  But the mobile camera truck loomed over them like it was

“Yes, the grass is lush and beautiful.  It’s a fine morning.  The cold dew is disappearing in the March sunlight . . . Tell me, how did you find this bint?” “That is an oft told tale.” “Yes, but I want to hear it from the King himself.” “It was the hot August, that cursèd Oswin’s Day.” “I wonder why you continue that Saxon tradition.” “One must concede some things.  On occasion noblesse oblige has its purposes. Remember we French are still of lesser numbers here.” “The

Rebecca, an early riser, had left.  Marisol was in her bathrobe and combing her hair, sitting at the kitchen table.  “We’ve got to wait until Muffy gets here,” she said, which only increased the mystery.  As Marisol’s hands went up to comb out a kink, her bathrobe separated, giving Tami a view of her cleavage, her breasts hanging down without the support of a bra.          Marisol smiled shyly, then while still combing out the kink, scrunched her shoulders together in a vain

“This was my old boyfriend and his dog,” Marisol said in her thick hispanic accent, pushing back her black hair and adjusting her bra in front with a hefty yank.  She was standing next to her desk, trying to decide whether to put the picture in the unzipped backpack in front of her or in the trash can next to the desk.  She decided to keep it.         Sitting on Marisol’s bed, Tami looked up at her.  Marisol was a tough chick.  Maybe she had to be because of the way she was. 

I was invited on one of her tours, to visit the railway construction already mentioned, specifically the digging of a right-of-way alongside a mountain.  This was heavy blasting and excavating work, and the smoke plus heat was oppressive.  Nevertheless she graciously greeted the workmen who were obviously thrilled to meet her and touch her hand.  It is apparently not forbidden here, as it is elsewhere, to touch the monarch’s person, though of course she was initiating all the