JamesSavik

Why is it when I say HAIku, people say gesundheit?

all spring birds sing songs of tranquil joy and peace if only we listen is it the steel in the heart or blade that makes a warrior strongest? I would sharpen my wits instead of my sword on todays battlefields

That won't happen in my stuff.

I don't do time travel, but I've always liked legends of immortal soldiers who appear when there is great need.

I'm thinking this one through. It has possibilities - a marriage of sci-fi and mythology. That should be enough to confuse everyone.

James Version 7577.00 Odin# init -compile module -f james_personality_v7577.00 | link base-code | run Warning! Personality module james_personality_v7577.00 contains multiple red flags: -PTSD -Depression, chronic -Chemical Dependency Tendencies -Trust Issues -Rage Issues -Inability to bond with others This personality module is deemed damaged. It is not advised to continue. Continue? (Y/N) Odin# Yes Memory scan… Complete. Multiple Red Flags. Base Code Integration… Complete. Start module? (Y/N) Odin# Yes James$ Aw fuck. It’s you again. Can’t you just let me die? Odin# As many times as you’ve tried to kill yourself in creative ways, sometimes I wonder. James$ So you figured that out. Odin# Of course. Let’s see. Remember that time you took on a gang to rescue a kid? James$ I was a dumbass. It was a gang initiation. Odin# Or when you tried to give yourself a heart attack by overdoing the gym and running? James# I guess Nietzsche was right. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Odin# Or the time you went hunting gay bashers after they put that kid in the hospital? You’re either insanely brave or just insane. Either way, you’re my kind of warrior. James$ Look, Odin, I’m alone, I’m scared, everyone who I’ve ever cared about is dead. Every single day is misery. I try. Honest, I do. I’ve reinvented myself so many times I don’t even know myself anymore. Why can’t it just end? Odin# Because it’s just not true. You do know yourself. Better than most, in fact. I won’t even mention the lives you saved directly and indirectly. James$ What is there left for me to do? What am I supposed to learn? Odin# Who says it’s you who has something to learn? Remember what your father taught you. James$ No soldier chooses his war. It chooses him. Odin# Exactly. James$ Ragnarök? Odin# You can feel it, can’t you? James$ Oh, for fuck's sake, Odin. I’m old. I’m tired… Odin# And completely incapable of walking away from a fight. This is what you were born for - a badly damaged warrior for this badly damaged world. Now quit whining and get to work, soldier. Those asses out there that need kicking aren’t going to kick themselves. James$ Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

James is thinking....

Glitches The wiring is bad, circuits incomplete, Impulses fire in the wrong directions, Down unfamiliar wires to a strange beat, Machine imperfection of broken connections. Spark and arid smoke, a pyre of malfunction, My stupid brain, a mess of dysfunction, Processor locked with its base code trashed, This is how the poor bastard crashed.

I'm thinking fluffy might need an intervention.

I'd love to see Deep Purple opening for Pink Floyd.

The Inquisitor Anybody who wants this job shouldn't have it. They would just be thugs. The people who should have it burn out or flip out. Philip Baker was just trying to hang on to his retirement and self-respect. Once being a special agent for the Bureau was a respectable job. That was the job he had signed on for twenty-seven years ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago. That was before the wars. Before the genetically engineered plagues were released. Before the Night of the 13th Prophet when Islamic terrorists nuked Washington, Atlanta, Chicago, LA and Seattle and the great capitals of Europe from Moscow to London. Before the Great Crusade when Muslims were systematically exterminated globally to the last toddler. Before a string of Christian religious fanatics had seized power and turned the United States of America into the Christian States of America. It was a very damaged nation and world. Summers were short. Global warming was replaced by nuclear winter. Millions of people worldwide were dying slowly of radiation poisoning. Millions more were dying of cancer. Plagues periodically flared up when the viruses released by the Jihadis re-emerged. The jury was still out on whether the ecological damage to the planet could ever be healed. The world population had crashed from a high of seven billion to a little less than three billion. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had become the Bureau of Purity: greatly expanded with wide latitude and new mandates. Instead of a special agent, he was now an inquisitor. In addition to the laws that the Bureau traditionally enforced, a new Uniform Code of Morality was enforced by every law enforcement officer in the land. The UCM was passed at a time of great fear. When things went bad, the Evangelicals claimed that the country was being punished for tolerating immorality. The laws were passed out of fear and were expanded every year. Things that had not been a crime before were now capital offenses. Alcoholism, drug addiction, insanity, homosexuality were all grounds for summary execution. More than likely, they would simply be conscripted into the slave labor gangs that were forced to clean up the radioactive wastelands that were once our largest cities. As Baker thought about the past, he tasted bile in the back of his throat. How many had it been? We once considered Hitler to be a great villain of history. How would history judge the Christian States of America? Lady Liberty's white robes of piousness were dripping with the blood of billions. He was working inside the Atlanta restricted zone. Some parts were hotter than others, and fugitives had taken to hiding in the fringes of the various hot zones around the country. He was after a bad one. Jason Sutter had been a gay activist back in the day. He wrote books and was a dissident leader, according to his file. The Bureau had wanted him for years, and a snitch had finally fingered him in the ruins of Norcross, Georgia. Sutter had been on the run for almost twenty years. What the Bureau really wanted him for was he obviously had information about the underground railroad for perverts that closet miscreants or the misguided had set up to get them out of the country. Baker entered the restricted zone from the East at the checkpoint at Duluth, GA on I-85. The main roads had been cleared, and it was obvious that a great deal of clean up had already taken place. He slowed down and keyed the suspected address into the vehicle's GPS. Working in the zones never failed to give Baker the creeps. When he got off the interstate at Beaver Run Road to drive into Norcross, he passed a shopping mall. On one side, the mall was wrecked and burned. On the other side, cars were still parked in neat rows. In the neatly landscaped parking lot, trees provided shade. The only thing that moved down there were crows. Driving past the mall on the eerie deserted streets, businesses and homes sat still and deserted. Abandoned cars had been bulldozed out of the main roads. FEMA's spray-painting was still clearly visible on the fronts of buildings. There appeared to be nothing visibly wrong, except all the windows facing West had been blown out in the shock wave. Of course, he was ever mindful of the clicks of his vehicle's Geiger counter. In some places, the radiation was so intense that a flat tire might be a death sentence. He took Buford Highway West and then turned North on Jimmy Carter Blvd and passed through the ghost town of Norcross. After crossing Peachtree Industrial, he turned off into the suburbs and came to a house on Summit Point Drive. While the rest of the neighborhood was deserted, the house and yard were well-kept. When he got out of his vehicle, he noticed an old woman wearing a bright blue blouse with a kitten on her knee sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. She raised her hand and waved in greeting. Red roses were blooming on trellises framing the porch. Baker approached the old lady cautiously and noticed that as he got closer, she was very obviously blind. The kitten in her lap eyed the approaching inquisitor suspiciously, hopped out of the old woman's lap, and vanished into the bushes. She said, "Welcome stranger. I get visitors so seldom that it makes my day. Would you like a cup of tea?" Astonished, Baker replied, "No, thank you, mam." She said, "Please, call me Meredith, young man. No- you aren't that young. I can tell from your voice. You're from before." "Yes Mam. I'm Philip. How long have you been here?" "I've been here since the world ended, Philip. I was in my late fifties when it happened. I didn't see much point in evacuating." "Meredith, I'm a policeman, and I'm looking for a dangerous suspect." Meredith said, "Hump. Morality police?" Philip said, "Yes, Mam." "You're looking for a boy who had the misfortune of being born gay?" "Just saying that is a violation of the Uniform Code of Morality, mam. Homosexuals chose their perversion." Meredith laughed, "Don't try to bully me. I grew up in a time when we spoke our minds. Besides, my cancer will kill me soon enough. There's very little you can threaten me with." Baker sighed. This was going nowhere. "How do you live here?" "They help me. You know why I never left this huge graveyard?" "No Mam. Why are you still here?" "Because the Ayatollah's won. The evil men who destroyed our cities. They had morality police and morality laws. They had things you could say and things that you couldn't. We may have destroyed them, but we became them. I had rather live out my days in the radioactive ruins than live in chains. I was free once, and I chose to remain that way." Baker said, "Is there anything you need, Mam?" The old woman sat on her rocking chair like an ancient monarch. She shook her head and said, "Leave those kids alone, Mr. Morality Policeman. They're just trying to live. The preachers and the false prophets in power now have forgotten that the lord said live and let live." Baker got back in his car. He called into headquarters and told his supervisor that the lead in Norcross was a dead end. When he passed the checkpoint and left the restricted zone, he pulled out his badge and threw it out the window. He had grown up before. He remembered what it was like to be free and not live in constant fear. It was time to live again.

Weimar America gets to choose between oligarchs, corruption, incompetence, and hyperinflation, or the promise of the trains running on time. The only thing that might worsen the situation is if some demagogue looking toward Canada and Mexico and starts babbling about Raum zum Atmen (breathing room). We've all seen this movie before and know how it turns out. Perhaps it's time to join the Marquis.

They snuck up on me! Hyacinths are one of my favorite flowers. According to myth, they are the tears of Apollo over the loss of his beloved Spartan Prince Hyacinthus. If you're unfamiliar with the myth, check it out here, Apollo and Hyacinthus. I would have probably gotten along with the Greeks.

When you read a story and think, been there, done that, it's a disquieting feeling of déjà vu. I have to wonder how it will turn out for this poor kid. I hope he rides off into the sunset with a smoking hot redhead on his arm.

I have a little trouble with saying what I actually think and not punching idiots in the face.

I finally finished this story and loved Ren's character arc. He went from humiliated and beaten in Mississippi to triumphant in Texas. Maybe I should move.

> Bonkers I, Jimmy, your humble narrator, was seven, and my best friend Scotty was six. We were getting old enough for our parents to let us roam in our neighborhood a little. Our neighborhood was cool because it was rural and surrounded by woods. The usual subdivision roads and utilities had been built, but only about a quarter of the lots had houses. That meant three-quarters of the lots were vacant, giving us plenty of room to play, plus there were the woods to explore, plenty of cool animals to see, and even a couple of ponds to fish in. This spring, our parents had even bush-hogged, cleared, and created playgrounds with a basketball goal, swings, and other stuff. Scotty and I were off on a mission to check it out. You see, we were both military brats. My dad was Army, and his dad was Air Farce (nobody’s perfect). We were always on a mission. We figured we would have to fight those dastardly Russians someday, so we had to train, train, train. We explored the new playground and laughed like fools at a fat kitty taking a huge dump in the new sandbox. With our mission accomplished, we then bombed some fire ant mounds. Wandering around, we ran into Brian and an older kid with a huge black dog on a leash. I knew Brian had an older brother who was a teenager. Maybe not a dog. Perhaps a small horse. Yikes! Brian saw us, waved, and he and the guy I figured was his older brother, and the small horse, started coming our way. What ya hafta understand about Scotty and me is that at that stage of our lives, we were both devout dog-a-phobes. A bulldog grabbed me by the face with his teeth and shook me when I was really little, and Scotty knew me while I was still getting surgery to keep me from looking like a nightmare and scaring little children. As they approached, Scotty asked, “Is that a dog or a horse?” “I’m not sure,” I said, shaking. “I’d be running, but I’m too terrified.” This dog-horse was different. He wasn’t angry or barking. Given my life experience with dogs, I would have probably dropped dead on the spot if he was. He was on a leash, and he looked… friendly. He was pretty, too. Lean, muscular, and alert. I might even like to pet him if I could trust him not to eat me. Scotty spoke loudly, “Uhh… Hi Brian. That’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen. Please tell me he’s friendly.” Brian said, “Bonkers is my big brother Doug’s dog. He’s friendly. Doug, this is Jimmy and Scotty.” Doug asked, “You kids aren’t afraid of dogs, are you? Bonkers won’t bite you.” I said, “I got badly bitten once, and I’m scared of them.“ Scotty asked, “Why do you call him Bonkers.” Doug said, “I’ll let him show you.” With a big smile, Doug produced a Frisbee. He let the dog off the leash and let fly the Frisbee, and Bonkers showed us. The big, powerful dog was a hundred and twenty-pound Labrador retriever. He took off like a missile, flying fast over the grass, chasing after that Frisbee. “Labs are hunting dogs,” Doug explained. “Bonkers loves to run.” Bonkers slightly misjudged a leaping catch, and the Frisbee bounced off his nose, causing us a gale of laughter. He made a recovery on his landing and caught up with the Frisbee as it rolled. Then he picked it up, ran toward Doug like a shot, and dropped the Frisbee at his feet. He sat on his haunches close to Doug, wagging his tail happily, and looked up at him expectantly. Doug launched the Frisbee again; this time, Bonkers made a beautiful catch out of the air. As Bonkers returned, with a definite jauntiness this time, Doug asked, “Would you like to pet him?” Scotty was all for it, but I wasn’t going near the monster. I didn't want to look like a chicken in front of my friends, but I was near panic. Brian noticed my distress and said, “It’s OK, Jimmy. Bonkers is really friendly. He might lick you to death, but he won’t bite you.” Scotty wasn’t nearly as dog-a-phobic as I was. He approached the big, handsome dog and stroked Bonker’s fur. The big dog smiled at him, he turned and licked Scotty’s face, causing him to giggle. Doug said in a soothing voice, stroking the huge dog’s fur, “Bonkers is a big, sweet boy. He wants to play all the time. If you throw the Frisbee for him, you’ll have a friend for life, Scotty.” Having not been swallowed whole, Scotty picked up the Frisbee, and Bonkers set himself to chase it like a track star. Scotty flung the Frisbee, and Bonkers took off galloping after it. Doug said, “Brian, you and Scotty throw the Frisbee. I’m going to talk to Jimmy.” Brian, Scotty, and Bonkers had great fun with the Frisbee. Doug approached me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “You’re really scared. A dog must have hurt you bad.” I nodded silently, sniffed, and wiped away a tear. Doug knelt, put an arm around me, and said, “You don’t have to be afraid of Bonkers. He’s a sweet dog. You know, dogs are a lot like people.” “They are?” I asked, truly fascinated at the idea those fanged monsters are like people. “It’s true. You know how some people can be mean… buttholes?” I giggled and said, “Yeah!” Doug said reasonably, “Dogs can get that way when their owners are mean and rough with them. We’ve been nice to Bonkers, so he’s not mean. I can introduce him to you, and I promise he’ll be polite.” I was so truly astonished at the idea of a polite dog, a creature I’d thought of as monstrous for as long as I could remember, that my curiosity suddenly eclipsed my fear. A soldier, even a little one, had to be brave. “He will?” I asked uncertainly. With all his considerable reassurance, Doug said, “I promise.” We watched for a minute as Bonkers tirelessly chased the Frisbee. Now that he was warmed up, he was catch’n more than miss’n. Doug said, “Bonkers is a breed of dog called a Labrador Retriever. I suppose you could make a Lab mean, but I’ve never met a mean one.” When Bonkers was returning with the Frisbee, Doug whistled, and the big dog changed direction toward us. I wanted to run, but Doug had promised Bonkers would be polite. Bonkers trotted up happily in front of Doug, dropped the Frisbee at his feet, sat on his haunches, and looked at us. Doug said, “Bonkers is smart, Jimmy. He can talk. Say hello to Jimmy.” The dog cocked his head sideways and said, “Are-ro.” I laughed at how much it sounded like he was talking when he lifted a paw in an obvious invitation to shake. It would have been rude to refuse, so I shook his paw. Bonkers looked at the Frisbee, looked at me, and, without words, told me he wanted me to throw it. Picking up the Frisbee, I threw it, and Bonkers shot after it like an arrow. That’s how I made my first friend of a dog. A big, happy Labrador Retriever helped me conquer a deep fear. I’ll probably never own a dog and never be comfortable with strange dogs unless we’re introduced. However, after knowing Bonkers, I know they aren’t monsters.

Who R U?

Driver is the first online author I discovered who wasn't just creating text-p0rn. When I read The Quarry way back when, I would have given up a kidney to have met someone like Ken back in the day.

I've been catching up on Ren's adventures. You had to know a main character from Jackson, MS would catch my eye. Like you, mine was a jr high that ran 7th, 8th and 9th grades. I've sometimes thought it would be best for middle school to run 6th, 7th and 8th and high school to run 9-12. The difference between 14 and 15, or 8th and 9th graders, is pretty stark.

Here's the danger of using slang. Not everyone will get it. I eliminated it and rewrote the paragraph to be more clear. This story is really about Rebel and the adults he's been around, which is why he expects them to lie.

The Counsel Foster King sat on an uncomfortable, hard-bottomed bench outside Vice-Principal Chuckles’ office. The man tried to be an affable clown, but most of his corny jokes fell flat on the middle schoolers who had to endure them. The man seemed to have a tone-deafness about him that made him immune to the idea that his students were laughing at him, not his jokes. His best friend, Rebel Stuart, sat in the chair beside him, but they were forbidden to talk until Chuckles was done with them. The rule was enforced by the office secretary, a seemingly humorless old crone. Foster wished he could. Rebel had frequent flyer points in Chuckle's office and knew how this worked. A man with a company logo on his shirt came out of the back office and said, “I replaced two rollers and the drum. That copier shouldn’t give you any more problems.” She thanked him, and he hastily departed. Foster guessed being in the principal’s office, with its intimidation by design, even made adults jumpy. The office secretary stood, picked up a pile of papers, and said, “You two little hooligans stay here. Mr. Tanner will be right with you.” She went into the back office and began making copies. Foster said, “Hey, when we get in there, what are we supposed to do?” “Play dumb,” Rebel said. “Grownups think we’re stupid, so show’em what they expect.” Foster paused and said, “Is there anything I should look out for?” Rebel considered the question and said, “Yeah. Expect him to lie. We would get in more trouble for lying, but grownups lie all the time.” “What’ll they lie about?” Foster asked. “Everythin. There are a few that are ‘specially dangerous. If he starts out saying, ‘tell me the truth, nobodies gonna get in trouble’, you know somebodies gonna get in trouble.” Foster said, “That sucks.” “That’s a bad one, but not the worst,” Rebel opined. “He’ll say he knows you did sumthin’ just to rattle you to get a confession.” Foster said, “Rat bastard!” Rebel chuckled and said, “Tell me about it. Last time, they accused me of wetting toilet paper and leavin’ big paper mache spitballs on the roof of study hall.” “What did you say?” “They had to know it wasn’t me because nothin’ was broken.” Foster laughed, “Fair point.” Rebel’s temper has been explosive since his parents' recent divorce. His fuse was short, if not instantaneous. He had been loads of fun to be around, but not so much lately. Rebel said, “Their worst lie of all is everything will be all right.” “What if we just told the truth?” Foster asked. “Try it. They won’t believe you. That’s just how grownups are.” Exasperated, Foster asked, “Well, how do we win?” Rebel said, “You don’t get it. We don’t. It’s their game, their rules, and their say. Ours is not to reason why, ours is just to grin and bear it.

This story was somewhat experimental. I'm a very visual thinker, and I decided to try to use my descriptions to see what an AI rendering of my description would look like. Setting and description is one of the essential crafts in the art. I call it an art because there's a fine line between too little and far too much. I put the text of the description of a house, a key part of the setting for the story that occurred to me this Sunday morning. Same thing for the cat. The images are included as illustrations. Except for the Louisiana Iris. That's from my garden. Sorry, they don't grow north of I-20, but they're spectacular.

Mr. Sunshine No one in town knew who bought the old house on Jefferson Street. Their only tip-off that it had been sold was the abrupt disappearance of the five-year-old for-sale sign. The two-story colonial was on a beautiful lot with gardens in the front and back shaded by ancient oaks garlanded in Spanish moss. It had seen better days and needed attention because several hurricanes had done it no favors. No one in the neighborhood was surprised when work crews arrived and began working on the house and grounds. Repairs were made to the woodwork, and a new roof was installed. A landscape crew came in, trimmed trees and bushes, and tamed the wild yard. Restoring the old place to its former glory took a couple of weeks. By the time it was finished, the old house stood tall and proud, reborn with fresh paint surrounded by an immaculate yard. Excitement grew in the neighborhood. Whoever the new house belonged to was obviously well-heeled. Kids in the neighborhood wondered if the new kids would be cool or stuck-up. Finally, a moving van rolled in, and a crew began unloading furniture and putting it in place. The next morning, a big, well-appointed GMC truck appeared in the front driveway. The new neighbor had arrived and was frenetically involved in the business of moving in. Lisa Baker, who lived across the street, got a look at her wiry forty-ish new neighbor and was intrigued by the big pet carrier he took inside with obvious effort. The new neighbor was busy. His big GMC truck came and went throughout the day with its bed full of Home Depot and Walmart stuff. At one o'clock, a big van from a local furniture store pulled up and spent most of the afternoon installing beds, chairs, and tables. As soon as the van left, Lisa and her mother made the hike across the street and up to the front door with a pitcher of lemonade, some turkey sandwiches, and cookies on a platter. They rang the bell, and their new neighbor answered, followed by a huge orange tabby. "Hello, new neighbor! I'm Carol Baker, and this is my daughter, Lisa. Welcome to Jefferson Street." The man's face beamed, and he said, "Thank you. I'm Jeff Mallett. I'm from Baton Rouge." Lisa said, "Is that a cat?" Mallett smiled and said, "He's a Maine Coon Cat. He's not happy with me because I took him to the vet to get his booster shots. When the doc saw he weighed 37.8 pounds, she put him on a diet." Carol laughed, "Oh, poor guy." Max strolled up to the Baker ladies and introduced himself, purring loudly and rubbing their shins. Lisa said, "Can I pet him?" Mallett said, "I think you have to — now. He's decided he likes you." The big cat stood on his back paws like a meerkat as Lisa petted the top of his head. "Carol, I have to travel sometimes. It looks like Max and Lisa are hitting it off. Would it be OK to hire her to feed him while I'm gone?" "That's an outstanding idea for a first job," she replied, stroking the big cat's fur. "He has to be brushed every day, but he loves it," Mallett said as he watched Max charm his visitors. "You can tell he's a big, goofy ham." Lisa asked, "Do you have any kids?" Carol noticed the reaction. Mr. Mallett paled noticeably and didn't reply instantly. It took a beat before he said, "No. It's just me and Max now." Before Lisa could delve any deeper into what was obviously a sore subject for the man, she put a light restraining hand on Lisa's shoulder. Carol and Jeff Mallett exchanged cell phone numbers, and the mother and daughter departed to let him and Max continue the work of getting moved in. That night at the supper table with the family, Carol said, "We met our new neighbor today. His name is Jeff Mallett, and he's from Baton Rouge." Craig, her oldest son, said, "I saw him at Arby's today. He got a bunch of sandwiches for the crew he had working this afternoon. He must be a pervert or something." Carol said, "Craig, I'm ashamed of you! Why would you say such a thing." "Nobody is that nice," Craig replied smugly. Lisa said, "No. He's all right. Nobody wrong could have a cat like that." Their father said, "Well, I'll do a search on his name, just to make sure we know who is living across the street. After dinner, Mr. Baker retired to his office and ran a search: Jeff Mallett Baton Rouge, LA. A long string of results appeared on the screen from the Baton Rouge Advocate, WBRZ, WAFB, and other news outlets in the Baton Rouge area. He pulled up the latest article, dated last fall, and was shocked. Lone Star Trucking Reaches Undisclosed Settlement In Wrongful Death Lawsuit. From Tiger Talk: It's a shame Jeff won't be returning. The article that explained it all was from two and a half years ago: Twelve Were Killed, and Scores Injured In a Chain Reaction Accident on I-10. He remembered the accident from the news, and it had been simply horrifying. It had been blamed on a February sleet and a trucker on meth. There had been pictures on the television news of scores of charred, burned-out husks of vehicles Mr. Baker read the articles and found that the man across the street had lost his wife and three children. Mallett had been a professor of Botany at LSU and a popular one, according to Tiger Talk. As he was contemplating the sheer horror of losing your whole family in a firestorm created by an erupting tanker truck, Carol entered his office and asked, "What did you find out?" The impact of the magnitude of the tragedy weighed on Joseph Baker, and he said, "Carol, that poor man has been through hell." She also remembered the horrific accident on the news and gasped. He clicked on an article with a picture of the Mallett family, and Carol said, "That's him, but he's lost so much weight." Joseph said, "Our neighbor is starting over. Call Craig down. I want him to see just how big an ass you can make of yourself when you make snap judgments." Jeff Mallett turned out to be an ideal neighbor. All of his neighbors liked him for buying and fixing up the old house that had been well on its way to becoming an eyesore. The Mathis, Kent, Rogers, and Henderson families all liked him. He soon became a fixture at weekend barbecues. He had a home office he used to write. His Botany of South Louisiana was known far and wide as the authoritative academic text on the subject. He set himself to a book aimed at the popular market on the same subject. After moving in, he busied himself building a large greenhouse and restoring the long-disused vegetable garden space. By the first of May, the garden was well on its way. His yard looked like it might have been Eden when his Louisiana Iris bloomed. That summer, he took a vacation in Pensacola, and Lisa dutifully fed Max twice a day and played with the furry monster. She would brush him every visit. When Mallett returned, Lisa was rewarded with a hundred dollars and a half-dozen softball-sized tomatoes. Mallett became very popular in town. He was unfailingly cheerful, upbeat, and polite, earning him the nickname Mr. Sunshine. There wasn't a waiter, waitress, grocery store cashier, bag boy, or delivery boy he crossed paths with who was likely to forget him. Bus Boys were astonished to find that Mallett had neatly stacked his dishes to make it easy to clean up and wiped the table with his napkin. When one of them said he didn't have to do that, he replied that his mother's ghost would haunt him by smacking his knuckles with a ruler for leaving a mess. In a chance meeting at Piggly Wiggly, a bag boy named Scott Ard was bemoaning the high costs of college. When they got to Mallett's truck, he pulled out his cell phone, called, and spoke to the person on the other end. He handed the phone to Ard and said, talk to these guys. As he spoke, the boy's eyes got wider and wider. He gave them his name, address, and phone number. He hung up the phone, handed it to Mallett, and said, "I'm going to college. How?" Mallett said, "I just knew who to call," like he did it every day. Because he did something like that every day. When the Missionary Baptist Church on the edge of town needed a new roof, a crew who had been paid in advance arrived and did the job in a day. When the local high school biology teacher asked him to speak on local plants, he was delighted and did an outstanding job. When the Ladies Garden Club requested, he gave them a similar lecture, and came with enough Louisiana Iris roots to go around. Mr. Sunshine became something of a local legend. Every February, he took a trip and was gone for a week. He discussed it with no one, and Lisa got to feed and play with Max. Years passed, and Mr. Sunshine busied himself with his work. In his greenhouse, he developed two entirely new hybrids of tomatoes and developed three unique cultivars of Louisiana Iris. Max's default cat sitter became Lisa's little sister, Maggie. Things changed. People lived and died, and Jeff Mallett was there for it all. He wasn't just there in spirit. He was there on the ground. He was at the hospital, the nursing home, and the funeral home. He made of himself a blessing. It took seven years for Mallett to wind down. Every year, after his mysterious February trip, he seemed to return older. On a windy March morning, Mallett's lawyer, Tyler Beaudreau, arrived at the police station in a near panic. He had received an email from Mallett stating his intention to kill himself. They arrived at Mallett's house a little after eight, and Beaudreau produced a key and let the police in. The police found him in his office. Max had been sitting in front of the closed door. Mr. Sunshine had nothing left to give. He took a poison derived from an obscure herb and went to sleep. Mallett had been dead for a long time. The person the townspeople had known had been an angel waiting for his flight home. Max lived out his long life in the Baker household. It wasn't his first change. He had once belonged to a little girl named Anna. The big, friendly cat who was always ready to play shared his name with Mallett's son.