“Where in the hell are you when I need you, you sneaky wench?”  

He paced, he growled, he threw his pen at the wall.  (Yes, he still wrote with a fountain pen.)

“Damn muse,” he muttered.

The muse, a tiny ethereal redhead, set perched on the top of the bookcase and peered down.  She flicked a dismissive hand.  

“And what have you done for me lately? Hmm?”

She continued.  

When was the last ti...

If only the world had showed me a little more mercy, these people would not all be dead.

But they are. Here is how it all came to happen.

Not surprisingly,it started the day I was born. My mother was hoping for someone else - perhaps a little blond girl. I was not a little blond girl. But even with that it might have worked out. My mother could have decided that a son was nice -was wort...