Category: Flashback Fridays

Flashback Friday: Wishing for Wishes

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This story was originally posted on July 25, 2017. I like the idea of this story. I think it would be even better as a longer story with more explanation and such. (For example, how does the alligator talk to everyone? Is he a normal alligator?) Maybe someday I’ll sit down and write that story.

The alligator swam as quickly as he could.  The rainbow was fading.  “Wait,” he said.  Instead of waiting, the rainbow started to fade a little faster. Fortunately, alligators are faster in water than on land, and this rainbow ended over water.

With a final burst of speed, he dove under the water and sat on the pot of gold.  A few seconds later, a leprechaun popped into view.  It flailed its arms and legs for a moment, and then surrounded itself and the alligator and the gold in a bubble of air.

“Give me back my gold, you big lizard,” the leprechaun said.  “What would you do with gold anyway?”

“Maybe I’m turning into a dragon and need to build a hoard,” the alligator said.

The leprechaun’s mouth dropped open.  “You can do that?” he asked in a squeaky voice.

The alligator snorted.  “No, of course not.  I just want a wish.  Grant me a wish and you can have your gold back.”

The leprechaun shut his mouth and scowled.  “I won’t be granting a wish to something with teeth like that.  Keep the gold.  It will do you no good.”  The leprechaun folded its arms and disappeared with a crack.  The bubble of air disappeared with him.

The alligator waited another half hour underwater and then gave in.  Even he would need to go up to breathe eventually.  Once he left, the leprechaun would come for the gold.  He could take it with him, but what was the point?  He didn’t want the gold.  He wanted the wish.  And the leprechaun made it clear how he felt about that.

This was not the first time or the second or third time the alligator had been denied a chance for a wish.  He’d wished on the first star.  He’d found a stray campfire to blow out on his birthday.  He caught a leaf as it fell.  He held his breath as he ran through a tunnel.

Every time, a fairy popped in front of him and told him that their wishes were not for alligators and to stop wasting their time.  No one asked him what his wish was or told him how alligators could get wishes.  It just wasn’t fair.

However, alligators are stubborn, and this one wasn’t any different.  He had a wish, and he was going to find a way to get it.  It wasn’t one he could work towards on his own, so he needed to find help.  Well, he’d just keep looking.

He caught a fish and let it go.  The fish laughed at him and swam away.  He rubbed a camping lantern with his paws.  The genie popped out, grabbed the lantern and vanished.  He blew the seeds off a white puffy dandelion.  A fairy appeared, gathered all the scattered seeds and blew a raspberry at him.  “If you try this one more time, I’ll send the fairy princess to stop you.  She’ll turn you into a beetle,” the fairy said.

The alligator did not give up.  There had to be a way for alligators to get wishes.  And then one morning, he heard a faint cry for help.  He rushed towards the voice.  He found a frog cornered by a snake.  The alligator knocked the snake out of the way.

The snake looked up, and his expression went from angry and annoyed to terrified.  The alligator grinned to show all his teeth, and the snake slithered away.  “I’m doomed,” the frog said.  “I’ve gone from the frying pan into the fire.”

“Nonsense,” the alligator said.  “Did you know that you are speaking in English and not Frog?”

“I am?” the frog said.  “That would have made things a little easier, I suppose.  If I wasn’t about to be eaten.”

“You have a feel of magic around you, and you don’t talk Frog.  I’m not going to eat you,” the alligator said.  “So, tell me your story.”

“I’m an inventor.  I invented a self-flying broom.  It made the witches’ guild angry, and they turned me into a frog.  I can only become human again if a princess kisses me.  In this day and age, I think that’s a near impossibility.” The frog sighed.

“Does it have to be a human princess?” the alligator asked.

“They didn’t say,” the frog said.

“Then it doesn’t.  Follow me,” the alligator said.  He went to the meadow and picked a white, fluffy dandelion and blew.  A majestic, angry looking fairy appeared.

She glared at the alligator.  “You were warned,” she said.  She lifted her arm.

“Wait,” the alligator said.  “This human needs your help.”

The fairy princess turned and looked at the frog.  Her eyes narrowed.  “He looks like a frog, but there is magic surrounding him.  Tell me, frog, how did this happen?”

“I was cursed by witches.  I can turn back if a princess kisses me.”  His voice shook.

“Oh, very well.  I never did like witches, so I wouldn’t mind spoiling their plans,” the fairy princess said.  She blew a kiss at the frog, and in a swirl of light he became human again.  “There,” she said.  “Now their spells won’t work on you.”

Then the fairy princess turned and glared at the alligator again.  “As for you, knock it off.”  She disappeared in a clap of thunder.

“What was that about?” the inventor asked.

“The fairies refuse to give wishes to alligators,” the alligator said.  “It isn’t fair.”

“What is your wish?” the inventor asked.

“I want to fly,” the alligator said.

“So that it’s easier to catch and eat things?” the inventor asked.

“No.  So I can fly.  I mostly eat fish, and flying wouldn’t make it any easier to catch them,” the alligator said.

“Well then,” the inventor said.  “I think I can help you.”

A few months later, the alligator was darting around in a rocket-propelled suit.  It was as amazing as he’d always dreamed it would be.

Flashback Friday: Buckets of Fun

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This story was originally posted on May 4, 2017. This is the first of a series about Grandpa and his tall tales and the vaguely scary baby Carrie. They’re a lot of fun to write. I hope they’re fun to read, too.

“Wouldn’t you like to ride that roller coaster?” Jim asked as they drove past the fair. “It looks amazing.”

“I’m sure it would be buckets of fun,” Grandpa said.

“Fun doesn’t come in buckets, Grandpa,” Lynn said. “That’s silly.”

“It did when I was younger,” Grandpa said.

“Oh good, a Grandpa story,” Jim said. He shook his brother’s arm. “Neil, wake up.   Grandpa is going to tell a story.”

Three sets of eyes turned to watch the back of Grandpa’s head. “Is everyone ready?” he asked.

“Carrie’s asleep,” Lynn said. “But she’s too little to really understand what we’re talking about anyways.”

“Don’t wake up Carrie,” Jim said. “She’s really grumpy when she doesn’t get enough sleep. It’s kind of scary.”

“Go ahead and start the story, Grandpa,” Neil said. “Please.”

“All right then,” Grandpa said. “Long ago, when I was a lad and the earth was young…”

“You make it sound like you’re as old as dinosaurs,” Lynn said. “That really can’t be true. People don’t live that long.”

“Well, sadly, I’m even older than dirt,” Grandpa said.

“How can you be older than dirt?” Neil asked.

“When I was young, the earth was still covered in packing peanuts, just the way they sent it from the factory. The dirt came later when everyone got busy and fell behind on washing up,” Grandpa said.

“Where did the dirt come from?” Jim asked.

“Out of nowhere, like it always does,” Grandpa said.

“Dirt is mostly made up of minerals and decayed things,” Lynn said. “And no one is older than dirt.”

“Let Grandpa tell the story, Lynn. We still haven’t heard about the buckets,” Jim said.

“Fine,” Lynn said. “But it’s not a true story.”

“Stories don’t have to be about things that really happened to be true,” Neil said.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Lynn said.

“Shall I continue?” Grandpa asked.

“Yes,” Jim said. “Please do.”

“So, when I was a lad, no one liked to do anything. We all sat around and looked at each other when we weren’t out poking through the packing peanuts for something to eat. I once spent ten years digging a hole in a rock with my big toe for something to do.”

“And then what happened?” Neil asked.

“And then someone found the fountain of youth,” Grandpa said.

“Is that how you lived so long?” Jim asked.

“No, the fountain of youth doesn’t make you old.” Grandpa said. “Of course not. The fountain of youth made things fun.”

“How did that work?” Lynn asked.

“Well,” Grandpa said. “Fun used to be dispensed twice a month in buckets. You would pour it over the activities that needed it the most.   Eventually it soaked in and people liked doing strange things like being scared or sitting around listening to noises.”

“People don’t like doing things like that,” Lynn said.

“Sure they do,” Grandpa said. “They ride roller coasters and go to haunted houses and tell scary stories. They put together strange contraptions made of metal and wood and people sit around and listen to the sounds they make. They call it music.”

“I guess when you say it like that,” Lynn said.

“Where are the buckets now, Grandpa?” Jim asked.

“They don’t need them anymore,” Grandpa said. “People know how to have fun.”

“Where is the fountain of youth?” Neil asked.

“I forgot,” Grandpa said. “Old people forget things all the time, you know.”

“Grandpa, you aren’t really that old,” Lynn said.

“How old are you, Grandpa?” Jim asked.

“Oh look,” Grandpa said. “We’re home. Everybody out. I’ll wake Carrie.” He never did answer the question.

Flashback Friday: His First and Last Solo

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This story was first posted on July 26, 2017. I once attended an orchestra concert at an elementary school where someone’s bow went flying during one of the pieces. It was definitely a highlight of the concert. It was for me, anyway.

Gerard started playing the violin when he was three years old.  He had two lessons, and then quit because he hated to practice.  He picked it up again when he was ten and didn’t mind practicing so much.  It helped that he didn’t really practice all that often, of course.

Perhaps for that reason, he continued taking violin lessons for the next seven years.  By then, he was good enough that it was fun to practice.  He could play famous songs and sound somewhat good.  So, he continued to play and practice and practice and play.

After years of effort, he managed to earn a spot in the city orchestra.  This was very motivating.  Gerard began to practice like he never had before.  And, one day, after years and years of work, he worked his way up to fourth chair violin.

Gerard had to practice constantly to keep his place, but he was proud of his position on the orchestra.  He sat on the front row, nearly facing the conductor, and sometimes he felt like the star of the orchestra.

And then, one day, they had a potluck sectional practice.  All the violin players brought food from home to share after the practice.  They usually practiced and practiced and were corrected and corrected.  Then they went home.

But today, they ate potato salad and potato chips and deviled eggs and talked about the weather.  Well, Gerard talked about the weather anyway.  Some of the rest talked politics, and then most of the violinists were so angry that the meeting ended quickly.  People just picked up their dishes and left.

Gerard, who hadn’t eaten anything but a few of the potato chips he’d brought, went home and made himself a ham sandwich with extra mustard.  Then he practiced his violin, because it turned out that he had a little bit of free time, and he never, ever, ever was going back to the second row of violins.

That evening, the phone rang.  More than half of the violin section had food poisoning, and that included the first three violins.  Gerard was going to be first violin for the benefit concert.  “Was it the potato salad?” Gerard asked.

“Why do you ask?” the conductor asked.  “Did you bring the potato salad?”

“No.  I brought potato chips.  I just thought that it was always the potato salad on TV, isn’t it?”  Gerard said.   Now he was feeling a little nervous.  If the police came to question him, how would he prove that he didn’t bring the potato salad?

Who brought the potato salad?  Did they poison everyone on purpose?  Would they come after him next now that he was temporary first chair?  He hadn’t realized that accepting the position would make him such a target.

Gerard didn’t want to think about it, so he practiced even more.  After all, he’d be playing as first chair violin in two days, and this time he had a solo.  Gerard wasn’t sure if he was more happy or terrified.

The day of the concert came.  Gerard didn’t like his new seat on the end of the row where everyone could stare at him.  He tried to block all that out and play his best.  Everything started out okay.  And then, four pages before his solo, at the end of a difficult run, his bow somehow flew out of his hand and disappeared somewhere behind him.

Gerard turned around in his chair.  Everyone was playing as though nothing had happened and there hadn’t been a flying violin bow anywhere.  He looked under his seat through the maze of feet.    There it was.  Three rows back.

He looked at the score and flipped forward two pages to where the orchestra was currently playing.  There just wasn’t time.  He turned and poked the seventh chair violinist sitting next to him.  The man frowned and kept playing.

Gerard took a deep breath and started to tickle the violinist.  The man paused and Gerard’s hand darted out and stole his bow.  It was just in time.  Gerard felt all eyes on him as he played his solo.

The moment he was done, the bow was snatched out of his hands, and the scowling seventh chair violinist started playing again.   Face burning with embarrassment, Gerard stood and walked back three rows.

He tried to carefully navigate the cramped spaces between chairs and stands.  He only knocked over one music stand.  He caught it before it hit the floor, but the music went everywhere.  Ignoring the whispered insults, he dove for his bow and hurried back to his seat.  The show must go on, and all that.

In the end, even though he hoped no one noticed his slight mishap, it ended up being all anyone wanted to talk about.  Even a year later, people kept coming up to tell him that it had been their favorite concert.  And the seventh chair violinist was still glaring at him and offering to serve him some potato salad.

Gerard knew that everyone else thought that was a joke.  But Gerard wasn’t so sure.  He was pretty sure he saw mayonnaise packets in the man’s violin case once.

Flashback Friday: Another New Invention

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This story was first posted on June 20, 2017. I wrote three stories about Charles and Esther. This is the second one. I like all three, but this one is my favorite.

Charles grinned as he strode out of his laboratory. “Esther, I’ve done it again,” he said.

Esther looked up from her book. “Another new invention, Charles?” she asked.   “What does this one do?”

“This one is the best one yet. The world will never be the same,” Charles said. “Follow me as I reveal the answer to one of life’s greatest mysteries.”

Esther followed Charles out to the yard. It was evening and the hens had already gone to their coop to roost.   Charles opened the door with a flourish. The hens scolded him sleepily.

Charles pulled something out of his pocket. It looked like a flat microphone, or maybe a metal lollipop.   He held it in front of his mouth.   “Ok, ladies, I have a question,” he said.

The hens perked up and looked at him. It was disconcerting to see their silent unwavering attention. Charles smiled. “What is the most common flavor to you? What does everything taste like?”

He held out the microphone. Flappy, the most bossy of the chickens, leaned forward. “Corn. Everything tastes like corn,” she said.

Esther looked at Charles. “That’s amazing. A chicken translator. Ask it why it crossed the road.”

Charles frowned. “It’s a universal translator, and our chickens have never even seen the road.   Why would I ask them that?”

Esther laughed. “It’s a classic question. Just ask.”

“Fine.” Charles held up the translator.   “Why did you cross the road?”

He held out the translator and Flappy leaned forward again. “What’s a road?” she asked.

“Never mind,” Charles said. He looked at Esther. “See?”

Esther sighed. “How disappointing. I was sure they’d say to get to the other side. So, why were you asking about flavors?”

“I’m trying to discover the foundational taste. Everyone says everything tastes like chicken, but now we know that to chickens everything tastes like corn. What’s the next step?” Charles turned and strode away. Esther hurried to catch up.

Charles hurried to the kitchen and began opening and closing cupboards.   “What are you looking for?” Esther asked.

“Where do you keep the corn?” he asked.

“In the freezer,” Esther said.

Charles rummaged through the freezer and found a plastic bag filled with corn. “Aha!” he said. He held up his translator.

“They can’t talk to you,” Esther said.

“Why not?” Charles asked.

“They’re dead,” Esther said.

Charles dropped the bag of corn. He backed up looking horrified. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been feeding me dead things all this time?” he asked.

“You don’t really want to eat things that are still alive do you?” Esther asked.

“Good point,” Charles said. “You have the soul of a philosopher, Esther.” He picked up the corn, gave it a pat, and returned it to the freezer.   “So, where will I find living corn?”

“In a garden or field, I imagine,” she said.

“Esther, we’re going on a drive,” Charles said.

They drove around and finally found a field of corn just outside city limits.   It was nearly dark out. Esther sighed and followed Charles to the field.   “Charles, the corn will still be quite small,” she said. “Even if corn can talk, which I doubt, this corn may be too young.”

“Nonsense,” Charles said. “Help me look for an intelligent looking ear of corn.”

Esther pointed to a small ear nearby. “This one looks good,” she said.

Charles rushed over and held up the translator. “What is the most common flavor to you? What does everything taste like?” he asked.

After a moment, a small high-pitched voice replied, “What does taste mean?”

Charles smiled and put the translator back in his pocket. “There you have it, Esther. Corn is the foundational taste. I’d always wondered.” He started walking to the car. “I wonder what I should invent next.”

Flashback Friday: The Rose Prince

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This story was originally posted on May 11, 2017. I like this story. It’s one I can imagine telling as a bedtime story and then turning it into a series of stories as the characters have further adventures. That’s the kind of story my kids like best.

One day, Princess Matilda cut through a rarely used courtyard in the older part of the castle. She was late to archery practice, so she was taking the shortcut.   Most people didn’t use the short cut, because there was a tall fence with spikes along the top at the end of the courtyard.

However, Princess Matilda wasn’t most people, and she knew the trick to climbing the fence. There were chips in a few of the stones in the wall of the castle next to the fence. If she ran straight at the wall and jumped, she could use the chipped spots as toeholds. If she climbed quickly enough and turned and jumped just right, she could sail right over the fence.

Of course this meant she had to tuck and roll to survive the fall without breaking anything, but that was part of the fun.   As long as she shook the dust and bits of grass out of her hair, no one had to know.

Halfway through the courtyard, Matilda paused.   There in a corner of the courtyard where some weeds had sprung up in cracks in the stonework, a little rosebush was growing. She would come back later. Matilda secretly loved roses. For now, she raced ahead, then turned and ran straight at the wall.

The next day she returned with tools she’d borrowed from a gardener. She cleared away the weeds and then sat by it. It looked so lonely standing by itself in the corner.   She told it a little about her day, and placed some pebbles around it in a ring. When she left, she promised to come back.

She came back often to clear away weeds or water the rosebush when it hadn’t rained in a while. She brought pretty pebbles or bits of wood that caught her eye and added them to the ring around the bush. Every time she came, she stopped to talk to the rose bush for a little while.

The rose bush grew and branched out. After several weeks, it sprouted a single bud.   Matilda began visiting more often, hoping to see what the blossom would look like once it bloomed. One day, she came to the courtyard early for archery class so that she had time to check in with her rosebush.

The flower had bloomed. It was a simple rose, but the fragrance filled the courtyard. It was lovely. Matilda leaned in closer and smelled the rose. It was wonderful. “You’re perfect!” she said. Then she kissed the soft petals.

The rosebush began to sparkle. It grew brighter and brighter until Matilda had to squint to look at it. Then there was a flash of light. Matilda blinked the stars from her vision, while holding her bow at the ready.

There was a young man standing where the rosebush had been. He was wearing glasses and his clothes were well made but practical. He was smiling. Princess Matilda frowned. “Who are you?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, when there was another flash of light from the opposite side of the courtyard. Matilda turned, bow up and arrow notched, while stepping back so that the strange man was at her side rather than her back.

A young woman dressed in black was pointing a stick at her. Matilda’s eyes narrowed.   That was no ordinary stick. The woman raised her eyebrows and scowled.   “You broke my enchantment. You had no right to do that. I shall turn you both into frogs and let my cat chase you.”

Matilda shot an arrow through the top of the woman’s tall black hat. “Put your stick down,” she said. “Or next time I wont miss.” She notched her arrow. The woman lowered her wand.

“Hide here all you want, little prince,” the woman said.   “If you ever come back home, I’ll get you.” There was another flash of light and she was gone.

“So, you’re a prince who was turned into a rose bush?” Matilda asked.

“Well, I was turned into a seed that grew into a rosebush,” the prince said. “But otherwise, yes.”

“Why did she do it? Did she steal your kingdom or something?” Matilda asked.

“I have three older brothers. As far as I know, the kingdom is fine,” the prince said. “However, that woman was responsible for killing thousands of striped gilkie birds. She used their tongues in a hair removal potion. When I submitted a proposal to the court that the birds should be protected so that they didn’t all disappear, she got angry.”

“Hair removal potion? Do people like the bald look where you’re from?” the princess asked.

“No, they don’t like leg hair,” he said.

“Weird.”

“I know, right? Besides, if she hunted until the birds were all gone, she wouldn’t be able to make her potion anyway,” the prince said.

“That makes sense,” the princess said. “Did you explain it to her?”

“Sometimes people don’t want to listen. I tried to explain how everything is interconnected and everything relies on other things for survival. If you take out a link in the chain, you could have dangerous consequences. She muttered something about how the strong survive and that I’d see that nature wasn’t gentle.”

“Then she turned you into a seed?” Matilda asked.

“And tossed me into the wind,” the prince said.

“So, what’s your name,” Matilda asked.

“Frank. I’m sorry I hadn’t introduced myself, I feel like I know you so well after all your visits,” Frank said.

“Then I guess it’s my turn to get to know you better,” Matilda said. She smiled.   “I know something already.”

“What?”

“You still smell like roses. It’s nice.” She laughed as Frank tried sniffing his arm.

“I do?” he asked.

“Yes. Would you like to come in for sandwiches?” Matilda asked.

“Don’t you have archery class?” Frank asked.

“Oh, you’re right. Sandwiches can wait. Come cheer me on,” Matilda said. She stooped to pick up the black hat and pulled the arrow out of it. “Do you think she’ll come back for this?”

“I guess it depends on whether she needs it back or not,” Frank said.

“You’re probably right,” Matilda said. She stuffed it into her quiver. “Well, let’s go. I hate being late.”

Flashback Friday: A Terrible Headache

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This story was originally posted on June 17, 2017. I had been having a lot of bad headaches, but there wasn’t an obvious cause. Could there be any good causes for a terrible headache?

It hadn’t taken long to change out of the little cloth gown and leave it in a pile on the crinkled paper covering the exam table. Now, Marcie waited in the exam room, staring at the posters on the wall.   The picture of the inside of the eye was a little creepy. She turned and read through the poster on the importance of sunscreen.

Marcie pulled out her purse and started flipping through her receipts.   It’s too bad that phones couldn’t be used inside the building. If she could turn on her phone, then she could look at Facebook or check her email. She shoved the receipts back inside her purse and shoved her thumbs into the center of her forehead.

She’d had this headache for weeks now, and it was only getting worse.   Aspirin wasn’t taking the pain away anymore. She couldn’t focus for very long, couldn’t really think. However, she was afraid to go to the doctor and hear the results. Her Google searches seemed to prove that these weren’t migraines. Something was very wrong.

The doctor had confirmed her worries when he sent her right away for further testing. It had all happened so fast. That was the part that made her worried the most. Surely, she wouldn’t need to be tested so quickly if it wasn’t something terrible.

She looked up when someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” she said.

The doctor opened the door, carrying a folder. He smiled and sat down. “I’ve had a chance to look at your results. I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

Marcie took a deep breath. Should she ask for the bad news and get it over with? No, then she’d not be able to appreciate the good news. “Good news first.”

“It’s not a brain tumor or an aneurysm. In fact, it’s not really anything abnormal at all,” the doctor said.

“But I already had my eyes checked. It wasn’t that,” Marcie said. What else could it be?

“No, I imagine you have great eyesight, right?” the doctor asked.

“I’ve never had any problems with my eyes.” Marcie glanced at the eye poster and looked away quickly. “My eyesight is better than normal.”

“Do people tell you that you have a soothing voice?” the doctor asked.

“I was the narrator in all our school plays,” Marcie said.

“And is the pink stripe in your hair natural?”

“How did you know?” Marcie asked. “What does it mean? Doctor, what is the bad news?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d really call it bad news. It depends on how you look at it.” the doctor tapped the folder on his knee.

Marcie frowned. “Just tell me.”

“Well, it turns out that you are transforming into a unicorn,” the doctor said.

“What?”

The doctor opened the folder and pulled out some black and white images.   He clipped them to the wall and pointed with his pencil. “If you look here, at the middle of your forehead, you can see the horn bud developing.   I’d say that you have another three weeks until it surfaces. At that point, the transformation will be much more rapid. Do you have any trouble digesting meat?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Marcie said. “I have no idea. Doctor, unicorns aren’t real. Even if they were, people wouldn’t change into them.”

“Of course they would. It happens all the time.   It’s just that when it happens, their records are erased and everyone forgets about them.” the doctor tapped his pencil on the lumpy bright spot on the image.

“Then how do you know about them? It just doesn’t make any sense,” Marcie said.

“Doctors are allowed to know, in order to help their patients. We swear an oath only to reveal the information to unicorns. I am never able to remember specific patients afterwards though,” he said.

“What will happen with my apartment? My job? My family?”   Marcie asked.

“I don’t know. The unicorns take care of all that. At least, that’s what I think happens.”

“So what do I do?” Marcie asked.

“I really don’t know,” the doctor said. “But here, take this with you.” He handed her the file folder. “We most likely won’t remember you tomorrow, so it won’t do us any good.”

“But my headaches…”

“I can’t write prescriptions for a patient that won’t be in my system tomorrow,” the doctor said. “Ask the unicorns.” He stood up.

“You’re leaving?”

The doctor held out a hand and Marcie took it. He shook her hand gently. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck,” he said. And then he left.

Marcie picked up her purse and her folder. That wasn’t how she’d expected this to go at all. She juggled everything into one hand so that she could push a thumb into to the center of her forehead. Her head hurt.