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Three Fifteen in the afternoon on that damned classroom clock takes forever to arrive.

Each individual click of the red second-hand takes an eon to click the minute hand towards the three.

So, what is the cause of this seventh-grade hell in Math Class?

Well, he wants to get to the bus first before someone else sits in Mazie’s seat.

Of course, he teased her relentlessly and she told him she hated him on Tuesday.

But he has hopes that he can kiss her before they get to her drop-off spot.

If she does chase him off, he can sit with Buster in the back where he’s forbidden to sit.

Buster talks about football, and they can try to predict what the Cowboys will do on Sunday.

But maybe Buster won’t be there because he needs tutoring if he’s ever going to get back on the seventh-grade team.

When he does get home, he can polish his personal pleasure pole in the bathroom.

That’s the highlight of the day, though it probably means he’ll go to Hell when he dies.

And then the final bell at long last rings, and the world is wonderful again.

From the first sweet notes of the violins suggesting the proud prow of the ship cutting through the waves,

To the cellos and the bass suggesting the roll of the deck and the power of the west wind,

To the rumble of lightning in the kettle drums…

The music tells the story… For the Ages… To the last lingering note.

The music tells the story, marks the time, and unreels the tune.

The love song is sung in a poignant voice, making you feel the heartache and pain…

And the sweetest successes of note and counter-note take you to the kiss before death.

Sopranos and tenors, altos, bassists, and harmony…

The picture gets painted with the oil paints of sound.

The music tells the story, marks the time, and unreels the tune.

You step into the spotlight in the center of the stage…

And that microphone is intimidating…

But you reach into the deepest places in your soul…

And your beating heart forces you to sing!

The music tells the story… For the Ages… To the last lingering note.

The music tells the story, marks the time, and unreels the tune.

These are third-draft pictures that explain why they are naked. The clothing and props are added in later layers. The anatomy is not only a nudist thing for me, but it gives me an accurate shape to hang clothing on.

I put him in a space suit below, one of several different versions.

I showed you this one above before. But last night my computer couldn’t figure out which picture was which and I downloaded unfinished pictures by accident.

Perhaps there’s something wrong with him…

Something makes him want to run naked in the woods.

What’s the one thing he can say that explains…?

Why the naked romping, tell me, what’s the good?

It seems he likes the freedom, no movements bound by clothes.

He seems to love the sun and the wind on his skin.

The absolute sense of glory and joy…

It defines the soul and the goodness of him.

She stood on the writing blotter in the center of my desktop.

She stretched herself up as tall as she could, three whole inches.

Looking me in the eyes she said, with a steely glare,

“So, what is this going to be? A poem or a fairytale?”

“It’s your story, Sweetie, tell it as you wish it to be.”

“I despise fairytales with their moral to the story and happy endings.

I am an elf and not a fairy. Fairies are stupid airheads with wings.

My name is Sweetie, the Candycane Elf, and this bow shoots magical sugar arrows.”

“And what does a magical sugar arrow actually do?” I carefully asked.

“It gives a Slow One diabetes,” she barked. “I hate humans.”

“So, it’s a weapon that can kill a man?” I asked even more carefully.

“Well, in small doses, it only makes the sour ones sweeter.”

She nocked a sparkly white arrow and looked at me as if accusing.

“Why exactly do you hate humans, the Ones you call Slow?”

“I used to target bickering children. I used to love my power.

I could reunite friends and repair romances, Make frowns turn to smiles.

But people have been getting harder to sweeten and renew.

They put poisons in the garden and poisons in the fields.

The air is getting toxic, and the conversations sour to spoiled.

They are forever angry and take it out on everything.

They can’t even see me when I’m glammered,

Yet they try to slay me like a pest or ugly bug.

I used to like the humans, especially the younger ones.

I loved them and they loved me, even though I wasn’t even there.

But you can only be punished by nonbelievers for so long

Before love becomes dark hatred and vengeance in my heart.”

I nodded with a sadness born of recognizing the truth,

And then I wrote down every bitter word, even some she didn’t say.