The Real Magic in that Old Home Town

Rowan, Iowa… Not the place I was born, but the place where I got to be a stupid kid, and have the lessons of the good and god-fearing life hammered into my head hard enough to make a dent and make it stay with me for more than half a century. I got to go to grade school there. I learned to read there, especially in Miss Mennenga’s third and fourth grade class. Especially in that old copy of Treasure Island with the N.C, Wyeth illustrations in it, the one Grandma Aldrich kept in the upstairs closet in their farm house. I got to see my first naked girl there. I learned a lot of things about sex from my friends there, and none of them were true. I played 4-H softball there, and made a game-saving catch in center field… in the same game where my cousin Bob hit the game-winning home run. But those were things kids did everywhere. It didn’t make me special. There was no real magic in it.

Being a farm-kid’s kid taught me the importance of doing your chores, every day and on time. If you didn’t do them, animals could get sick, animals could die, crops could be spoiled, the chickens could get angry and petulant and peck your hands when you tried to get the eggs. Cows could get grumpy and kick the milk bucket. Cats could vow revenge if you didn’t direct a spray or two at their little faces as they lined up to watch you milk the cows. And you never knew for sure what a vengeful cat might do to you later, as cats were evil. They might jump on the keyboard during your piano recital. They might knock the turkey stuffing bowl off the top of the dryer when Mom and Grandma and several aunts were cooking Thanksgiving Dinner. And I know old black Midnight did that on purpose because he got to snatch some off the floor before it could be reached by angry aunts with brooms and dustpans. And all of it was your fault if it all led back to not doing your chores, and not doing them exactly right.

But, even though we learned responsibility and work ethic from our chores, that was not the real home-town magic either. I wasn’t technically a real farm kid. Sure, I picked up the eggs in the chicken house at Grandpa and Grandma Aldrich’s farm more than once. And I did, in fact, help with milking machines and even milking cows by hand and squirting cats in the faces at Uncle Donny’s farm. I walked beans, going up and down the rows to pull and chop weeds out of the bean fields at Uncle Larry’s farm. I drove a tractor at Great Uncle Alvin’s farm. But I didn’t have to do any of those things every single day. My mother and my father both grew up on farms. But we lived in town. So, my work ethic was probably worth only a quarter of what the work ethic of any of my friends in school was truly worth. I was a bum kid by comparison. Gary G. and Kevin K, both real farm kids and older than me, explained this to me one day behind the gymnasium with specific examples and fists.

Being a farm kid helped to forge my character. But that was really all about working hard, and nothing really to do with magic.

I truly believe the real magic to be found in Rowan, Iowa, my home town, was the fact that it was boring. It was a sleepy little town, that never had any real event… well, except maybe for a couple of monster blizzards in the 60’s and 70’s, and the Bicentennial parade and tractor pull on Main Street in 1976, and a couple of costume contests in the 1960’s held in the Fire Station where I had really worked hard on the costumes, a scarecrow one year, and an ogre the next, where I almost won a prize. But nothing that changed history or made Rowan the center of everything.

And therein lies the magic. I had to look at everything closely to find the things and strategies that would take me to the great things and places where I wanted to end up. I learned to wish upon a star from Disney movies. I learned about beauty of body and soul from the girls that I grew up with, most of them related. And I invented fantastical stories with the vivid imagination I discovered lurking in my own stupid head. I embarrassed Alicia Stewart by telling everyone that I could prove she was a Martian princess, kidnapped and brought to Earth by space pirates that only I knew how to defeat. And I learned to say funny things and make people laugh… but in ways that didn’t get me sent to the principal’s office in school. Yes, it was the magic of my own imagination. And boring Iowa farm towns made more people with magic in them than just me. John Wayne was one. Johnny Carson was one also. And have you heard of Elijah Wood? Or the painter Grant Wood? Or the actress Cloris Leachman?

Yep. We were such stuff as dreams were made on in small towns in Iowa. And that is real magic.

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The Naked Desert

Seemingly Andy was having one of the luckiest spells of his life as a high school junior. He had inherited his great-grandfather’s 1920 LaSalle. It was a classic car that his grandfather drove in July 4th parades. And he always shared his grandfather’s deep love for the antique car. Loved it so much, in fact, that his grandfather put it in the will that the car belonged to him now. On top of that, Siena, the most beautiful girl in his class had said yes to being his steady girlfriend. She had said yes to the picnic in the Arizona desert.

But not everything was wine and roses. First of all, something had come up for Mom and Dad. At the last minute, Andy had become responsible for little sister Sally, a precocious seven-year-old. The only choices available were to cancel the picnic in the desert or to take Sally along. And he was missing the gentle wisdom of Grandpa Joe more than ever now. Owning the car was nothing next to Grandpa being gone.

But for some reason, Siena had been very understanding about having to babysit Sally on their date in the desert. Andy had some seriously racy daydreams about the date in the desert and what they could get away with, but he had thought that would come to nothing with the seven-year-old inserted into the middle of it. But Siena had asked for one concession to be okay with the arrangement.

“I will welcome the chance to get to know your little sister, but you have to promise me that if I ask you to do something on this date that you might not want to do, you will agree to do it without question.”

“What… what are you gonna ask for?”

“Oh, no. You don’t get to know that. You just have to agree and do it.”

“Um, okay? I mean, I promise I will… but don’t ask me to kill anybody.”

She laughed. “You may be surprised what you like once you try it.”

That said, he found himself bumping down the road in his classic car with Siena in the passenger seat and little Sally singing the “Let it Go!” song from Frozen in the back seat.

They found the quiet place surrounded by Saguaro cactuses where Andy had planned to picnic. It was on the ranch that had once belonged to Grandpa’s best friend, and Grandpa had said repeatedly that he courted Grandma there several times. They laid out the Indian blankets for the picnic and carried the food out from the back of the car. Sally insisted on carrying one of the watermelons even though it was half as big as she was.

“Okay, the time has come,” Siena said. “We are going to take off all our clothes and picnic here in the nude. I brought sunscreen.”

“But… but… Sally is here. We can’t… I mean… not if front of Sally!”

“You promised. Besides, we are going to practice naturism, not have sex or something.”

“I… um… what?”

“My family and I are practicing naturists. Nudists if you prefer. And since you are going to be my boyfriend, you are going to have to get used to this. Family naturism.”

Sally giggled happily as she led the way, being the first one naked.

Andy learned to like it with amazing speed once he finally overcame the initial shock. Putting sunscreen on Siena was almost as good as having her put sunscreen on him. Then Siena put sunscreen on an extra-wiggly little sister. The food actually tasted better when eaten au naturel in the wild. The hot sun and the desert wind felt better on bare skin than it did on sweat-soaked clothing. And then, full of picnic potato salad, they sat there and told each other picnic stories that were even more amazing when Siena told them about nudist people having nude picnics in nudist places. There was plenty of laughter.

Once the picnic was over, they didn’t get dressed to ride in the hot old car with no air conditioning in it. They waited to get home to leap back into their clothes.

“Thanks for that, Andy. I am grateful that you were so understanding about my family’s secret.” Siena’s grin was heart-melting.

“Yeah, um… It’s gonna be a thing, ain’t it.”

“It so is…” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek… the one on his face.

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The Secret Identity of Super-Mickey

Cartoon villains take note; Super-Mickey’s secret identity is Filbert Hazelnut. I make that revelation without worry. After all, Mickey is not really me. So, if the Messmaster, Badnose the Clown, or Daniel Quilp are going to try to apply the Mickian version of Kryptonite, not laughing at the jokes, in order to slay Super-Mickey, Filbert is immune to that. I am too for that matter. If you are a school teacher who uses humor in the classroom, you soon learn that only the smartest kids actually understand the jokes, and half of them are just too cool to laugh when the teacher wants them to. (Although they will tell you years later that they still use concrete details in their writing because you said that if you routinely whack the reader in the head with verifiable concrete examples, they will be totally stunned enough to believe you know what you are writing about. That was, you must understand, a concrete detail I just whacked you with to help you remember what it is, not to make you laugh… even though it was a joke… but you are permitted to laugh if you want to.)

The basic point of this essay is Mickey is not really me. I never went by that name as a kid.

I was always called Michael, sometimes Mike (though they were usually talking about the Other Mike when anybody said Mike in school back then… circa 1963 to 1969). In high school I was given the nickname Superchicken after the Saturday Morning cartoon on the George of the Jungle Show. In college I was given the rhyming nickname Spike by my college freshman roommate because he ludicrously thought I was the opposite of a Spike, like calling a huge football player Tiny Tim, or a midget Big Bad John.

When I started teaching school, they called me Gilligan because I was thin and they wanted to pretend I was a hopeless stumbling fool (Which I was at times my first two years, just as all beginner teachers are.) My classroom became known as Gilligan’s Island on the day in third period when I made the comment, “Gilligan is lucky enough to be the only really eligible bachelor on the same island with Ginger the movie star and cute little Mary Ann. I would find out later that same day that three eighth grade girls in that very class had huge crushes on me and were fighting over which one was Mary Ann and which one was Ginger and, unsurprisingly, which one was the other girl.

And, of course, Rudolfo Hernandez tried to get everybody to call me Batman because I bought a used Ford Torino with fins on the back. But to promote the nickname, Rudy came to class wearing a Halloween Batman mask and afterwords had to learn to live with being called Battyman himself. (I wish i could take credit for calling him that first, but I am sure I did not. I distinctly remember it coming from a girl in his class that made fun of him for every stupid thing he did because she apparently adored him. I just reinforced it about a thousand times.)

Mickey is a name that I have only ever been called by me myself. It was a name I signed some of my cartoons with (using The Little Fool, Le Petit Fou, Leah Cim Reyeb, and Dr. Seebreez on the rest.) It also became the name I use to refer to myself on this blog when I talk about myself in the third person like a crazy person.

I have given myself other pseudo-pen-names in my writing. Googol Marou, as the only first-person narrator of the AeroQuest series, speaks with my voice as the primary storyteller in the tale. In Norwall, the fictionalized version of Rowan, Iowa in most of my other books, Branch McMillan, the writer-character, is actually me. (Like Charles Dickens switched his initials to write the semi-autobiographical David Copperfield, I created that one by switching the M and the B.

Of course, the many me-characters in my fiction books are also basically me. Superchicken is me. Milt Morgan is a combination of me and the Other Mike. Brent Clarke is the football-player me combined with two other football teammates. Certain parts of Todd Niland’s story are really about things that happened to me, and things I was afraid of at his age.

In some ways Tim Kellogg and Dorin Dobbs are me too, though both of those characters are actually based on my eldest son. It is possible, I suppose, that you could consider my actual son to be a me-character too, as people do live on through their own children.

But, while Mickey might be me more than I care to admit, Super-Mickey’s secret identity is definitely Filbert Hazelnut.

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When Readers Respond

I recently got my very first unsolicited review on a book I had written when Mr. Ted Bun, one of the leaders of the nudist writer group on Twitter gave me a five star review on Recipes for Gingerbread Children.

I was grateful and reviewed one of his books on Twitter in return.

But it was totally unsolicited. I didn’t even know any of my book promotions had penetrated such an odd corner of the internet. The story does have nudists in it, but that is not what the book is really about. Mr. Bun acknowledged that much in his review, and still liked it and called it well-written.

My first Amazon book promotion, offering the Kindle version of Snow Babies for free, produced the same kind of fruit. I started by sending a paperback copy to the girl I grew up with that I named the main character after. Valerie read the book to her grandchildren and then sent me this message;

Valerie– Hi Michael! I wanted to let you know that I finished reading your book a couple of days ago, and that I thought it was really good! You used so many colorful descriptions of the characters, that I felt like I could really picture the whole scene! I also enjoyed how you used several people’s names and surrounding towns from our past that brought back good memories. It kept my interest and made me excited to keep reading to see how things turned out! I appreciated how you ended it, too! Thanks again, so much for sharing it with me. I plan to share it with a friend of mine to read and then return to me! Do the Rowan and Belmond libraries have copies of your books? I would be happy to talk to the Belmond library about it, if you haven’t already! I will spread the word, and keep writing! Val

Me– I donated a couple of books to Rowan and one to Belmond.  But I have written a lot more since

They don’t have Snow Babies.   I am so glad you liked the book.  It is one of the best things I have ever written.

Valerie– You can be proud of your hard work! Next time I’m in the library, I will take Snow Babies with me and show them. I know they like to support local authors! 🙂

Me– Thank you for the help. I really appreciate it.

Then I find this tweet on Twitter from a fellow author who responded to my book promotion week.

She read Snow Babies and loved it and shared this review with me before she posted it on Amazon.

Headline: This book has a potential to become a classic

The story takes you to Norwall, a secluded midwestern town where people are expecting a snow blizzard to arrive in couple of hours. Among strangers coming to the town during the blizzard are four very special boys, a hobo, a bus driver, a drunken old lady, a stupid salesman, a couple of newly-weds and a lady following the four boys. Each of them, as well as the local people, has their own interesting story and their stories start to intertwine while the town gets buried in snow.

Some from the locals and the newcomers start to see white naked kids in the snow. In the course of events, they learn that those white kids are so called “snow babies”. According to what people say, those who see snow babies, are supposed to die during the blizzard.

The author has a talent for depicting situations in an impressive manner, so they can be humorous and touching at the same time.  His mature narrative style enables you to learn deeply but in a light way about individual characters and understand their motives. Interesting are the hobo´s droppings of philosophical reflections and life wisdoms from Walt Whitman’s book. Simultaneously, in connection with snow babies, the author keeps you in suspense until the end. The story is not predictable, and the ending left me smiling and absorbed in thought. 

I honestly fell in love with this book from the first page. It is like a fresh breeze compared to a number of today’s books written in similar patterns.

*****

I am amazed that people are beginning to read my books and like them… even love them. I wasn’t expecting that to happen until after I was dead. It is a good feeling that took me by surprise.

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Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons, Part 3

Putting on the Danjer Suits

Suki, as a Nebulon herself, led the way out of the spaceship into the oral cavity of the great space whale. Cissy, an Earther humanoid, and Friday, a Lupin child, both came tentatively after, fully aware that they were probably the reasons why there was an air of suspicion and dislike among the Clan Vorranac Nebulons. Crocodile Guy wisely stayed invisible and inside the spaceship, an option open to him alone as an artificially intelligent hologram made of light and computer data.

So, are you going to welcome us? Cissy saved a large number of our clan brothers and sisters from Lupin pirates. And the Lupin child was saved and adopted by her as well. (This is translated from the Nebulonin Language to save you from having to learn Nebulonin.)” Suki glared angrily at the completely expressionless Nebulon warriors.

The xenomorphs must be put into Danjer suits immediately,” said the lead warrior with no significant expression on his blue face.

“He says that we must dress you in Danjer suits immediately. It is for your protection.”

“Explain, please,” Cissy said.

“You see these two special organs that all Nebulons have?” Suki said, pointing to the two red spots on her otherwise blue cheeks. “These special skin organs allow the absorption and dispersing of exotic radiations that are part of a space whale’s internal functions. Without them, living inside a space whale can kill you. Danjer suits will prevent that from happening to the two of you so you don’t die.”

“Well, that does seem important.” Cissy smiled at Suki. A smile that would later seem inappropriate.

The three crewmen of the Happy Luck followed the warriors into a smaller enclosure.

“Paskuah sah fonatouh auol tanac.” The lead warrior pointed at a bench with three piles of quivering sludge on it, one blue, one gold, and one pink.

“He says we should disrobe and put these on.” Suki smiled as she picked up the blue sludge. In her hand, it transformed into a reasonable facsimile of a space suit.

“Euw, dat is ay-live!” Friday said with her muzzle curled up in a snarl.

“It is a living creature. It functions as a space suit. It feeds on the dirt, sweat, and oil from your body, automatically keeps you clean, and provides force fields, proper pressure levels, and an atmosphere for you to breath. It also processes and protects you from radiation.” Suki demonstrated how easily it went on her body and turned into what looked like a high-tech space suit. It was alive, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at it.

Cissy shucked off the suit she had been wearing. She stood there naked for a few moments, staring at the golden quivering mass. She knew that some of the warriors had to be males, watching her with who knows what in their hearts. But she wasn’t sure about the whole thing.

Friday was only wearing her Lupin fur, so when she picked up the pink mass, it quickly swooped onto her small body and fairly sizzled as it changed. It turned into a rather cute outfit that fit a Lupin child perfectly. “I iz purtee nowz!” Friday giggled. “Ann it teekulls!”

So, Cissy put the golden one on too. And it swiftly turned into an admirable starship uniform worthy of a captain. She also felt surprisingly pleased.

Then the lead warrior said, “Now we will go before the Prince to decide who lives and who dies. (Translated for you again so you don’t have to work at it… free of charge.)”

“What did he say, Suki?”

“Well, um… it needs a lot of context.”

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Look Homeward, Fallen Angel

Planning on making a trip back to Iowa becomes daunting as I get older and un-wiser. But I have to go home nonetheless. My octogenarian parents are both now gone. They rest next to each other in the Rowan Cemetery. I am now a third owner of the farmhouse and forty acres. My two sisters and I inherited it to be the fourth generation living on the farm. I am basically planning to go back there to die there. I have six incurable diseases (diabetes, osteoarthritis, COPD, psoriasis, hypertension, and chronic allergies… geez, it is hard to remember them all). And I am a cancer survivor. Whichever way the wind is blowing at any moment may completely alter my future.

Rowan, Main Street, with the water tower in the background.

The saying from the author Thomas Wolfe, the author I alluded to in the title, is, “You can’t go home again.”

In many ways that is an inescapable wisdom. I will go back to my boyhood home of Rowan, Iowa. And it will not be the home I knew. Most of the people I knew there as a boy are long gone… to the graveyard west of town, or to Minnesota, or California, or places distant and unknown to me.

And it is not just the people. The buildings have changed. None of the businesses are the same except for the Post Office and the Library. And the Library is in a different building than it was.

Morning mists beyond the cottonwood tree near Grandpa Aldrich’s farm place.

But the memories persist. I know where I am when I am there. It is the center of the universe as I once knew it. And the only reason I can’t go home again is because I carry my home with me wherever I go. And, as fallen angels go, sometimes they simply pick themselves up and fly towards home.

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Being Ignored

I have never been an attention-seeker. In the Elysian Fields of modern society, I have never really been the honeybee. I have always been the flower. I had a reputation in high school for being the quiet nerd who ends up surprising you immensely in speech class, at the science fair, or at the art show. I was the one they all turned to when everybody in the conversation had already had their chance to strut and pontificate and say dumb things, and they were finally ready to get the solution to the problem being discussed, or the best suggestion on where to begin to find it.

When I became the teacher of the class instead of the student, I had to make major changes. I had to go from being patient, quiet, and shy to being the fearless presenter, forceful, sharp as an imparter of knowledge, and able to be easily understood, even by the kids whom you couldn’t legally call stupid, but were less than smart, and not in a pleasant Forrest Gump sort of way.

Shyness is only ever overcome by determination and practice. The standard advice given is to picture your audience naked so that you are not intimidated by them. But if your audience is seventh graders, you have to be extra careful about that. They are metaphorically naked all the time, ready at a moment’s notice to explode out of any metaphorical clothing they have learned to wear to cover the things that they wish to keep to themselves about themselves. And while you want them to open up and talk to you, you don’t want the emotional nakedness of having them sobbing in front of the entire class, or throwing things at you in the throes of a mega-tantrum over their love-life and the resulting soap operas of betrayal and revenge. And you definitely don’t want any literal nakedness in your classroom. (Please put your sweat pants back on, Keesha. Those shorts are not within the limits of the dress code.) Calling attention to yourself and what you have to say, because you are being paid to do so, is a critical, yet tricky thing to do. You want them looking at you, and actually thinking about what you are saying (preferably without imagining you naked, which they will do at any sort of unintentional slip or accidental prompting.) The ones who ignore you are a problem that has to be remedied individually and can eat up the majority of your teaching time.

I trained myself to be fairly good at commanding the attention of the room.

But now that I am retired, things have changed. I can still command attention in the room, which I proved to myself by being a successful substitute teacher last year. But I no longer have a captive audience that I can speak to five days a week in a classroom. Now my audience is whoever happens to see this blog and is intrigued enough by the title and pictures to read my words.

Now that I am retired and only speaking to the world at large through writing, I am ignored more than ever before. Being ignored is, perhaps, the only thing I do anymore. It is the new definition of Mickey. Mickey means, “He who must be ignored. Not partially, but wholly… and with malice.”

I put my blog posts on Facebook and Twitter where I know for a fact that there are people who know me and would read them and like them if they knew that they were there. But the malevolent algorithms on those social media sites guarantee that none of my dozens of cousins, old school friends, and former students will see them. Only the single ladies from Kazakhstan and members of the Butchers Union of Cleveland see my posts. Why is this? I do not know. Facebook and Twitter ignore me when I ask.

My books, though liked by everybody who has actually read and responded to them, are lost in a vast ocean of self-published books, most of which are not very good and give a black eye to self-published authors in general. I recently got another call from I-Universe/Penguin Books publishers about Catch a Falling Star, the one book I still have with them. They are concerned that my book, which is on their Editor’s Choice list, is not performing as well as their marketing people think it should. But to promote it, I would have to pay four hundred dollars towards the marketing campaign, even though they are already subsidizing it by fifty percent. They tell me they believe in my book. But apparently not enough to pay for 100% of the promotion.

I have decided to invest in a review service that will cost me about twenty dollars a month. But my confidence is not high. The last time I paid somebody to review a book, they reviewed a book with the same title as mine from a different author. That service still owes me money.

But the only reason it is a problem that I am being thoroughly ignored these days is that an author needs to be read to fulfill his purpose in life. Maybe pictures of pretty girls in this post will help. But, even if they don’t, well, I had their attention once upon a time. And since my purpose as a teacher is already fulfilled, perhaps that will be enough for one lifetime.

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An Illustration for Skinny-Dipping Day

Made with a photo of an antique doll, AI Mirror, and Picsart AI Photo Editor.

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Writing with Fire

The old saying goes, “If you play with fire, sooner or later you will get burned.”

But I am not playing. I am writing. With fire.

The criminal we elected president knows what I am talking about. He speaks at rallies with fire. Currently he is trying to demonize Representative Ilhan Omar and the Squad, the four freshman Congresswomen of color whom he said were unpatriotic, enemies of our democracy, and should go home to their countries filled with crime, poverty, and communism. Of course, the Congresswomen are all American Citizens. Three of them were born here. This is actually the country they are from. So, this is an example of the kind of verbal fire that needs to be put out with cold water. Preferably before some enraged Trumpist actually assassinates a member of the Squad. The fire he spews is destructive and evil.

But, truly, the way to fight fire is with fire. Firemen use a fire-break to interrupt the path of the fire. You can bulldoze or chop the wood in the way of the fire. Or you can burn it in the opposite direction. Many forest fires are ended in this way.

And I have been writing my fiction with fire. Controversial issues taken head on and given a clarity that burns brightly enough to leave burn marks on the psyche and write messages in ash on the heart of the reader. This is why beloved characters die in fictional stories and bad things happen to good people… to make a lasting scar or burn on the idea-collections in the readers’ brains.

I have in the past few novels written about sexual assault, attempted rape, murder, greed, brutality, excessive anger, and the current work-in-progress tackles suicide. And I battle these raging fires with positive fires set from empathy, community and familial love, preserverance, determination, and simple faith. I am trying to fight fire with a better fire, destructive fire replaced by zeal.

Okay. So, I’m an idiot, expressing foolish ideas with loopy metaphors. But I can make you think. And thinking is electrical fire in the brain. And I have been steadily pouring gas on that word-fire.

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Cooler Waters

The heat sets in and thoughts turn to beaches. Hotter than usual again. We need to think cool thoughts about water.

Unfortunately, there is no unfrozen water on Mars. But not Global Warming either.

Maybe the local swimming hole at the nearby river. It is a good place to see pretty girls to practice drawing.

These pictures were made with a combination of colored pencil drawings, backgrounds from Picsart AI Photo Editor, and art editing by AI Mirror.

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