Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Betsy's Finest Hour (MF) By Alexis Siefert (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

   * This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com), where it appeared illustrated by Garv under an
exclusivity period for six months.

   This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by adults.  It
is also my work.  Although I receive no compensation other than your
comments, it is still my work.  Please respect this and do not repost it
somewhere else without talking to me first about it.  If you are not
allowed to read works with sexual content, either due to your age or by
virtue of the laws in the geographical location in which you reside, please
do not continue.

   Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

   ~~~~

   Betsy's Finest Hour (MF)

   We all have to die someday.  I knew that, but this isn't what I had
expected.  I wasn't supposed to end up in the streets, naked and
unidentifiable.  They were behind me.  They hadn't made their "official"
move yet, but I knew it was coming.  I could almost feel their hands on my
skin and their bodies between my legs.  I involuntarily shuddered with
revulsion and fought to keep panicky tears from starting.  I knew that if I
started crying now I'd never stop.  Panic is like that.  Fear is like that.

   The worst part of it all was the sudden realization that I was about to
become a cliché.  I had this instant Polaroid-mental image of how the scene
would play out, and it was straight out of a late-night rerun of Law and
Order.  "Who is she?" "Who knows?  Just some whore, I guess."

   I hadn't been on the streets long, just plenty long enough to hear talk
about this girl who was beaten, that girl who was knifed, such-and-such a
girl who OD'd.  After a few minutes of silence, the conversation would just
drift away to other topics.  It didn't seem to matter much.

   The idea that I, Betsy Powell, would be reduced to an anonymous
statistic finally shook me out of the fear that had frozen me in place, and
I turned and headed back quickly to the all-night diner I had just left.  I
waitressed there part-time, working for tips and picking up whatever shifts
Joe offered.  I knew he'd let me sit at the counter and wait out my
stalkers.

   I knew all three of them from their rowdy visits to the diner-just a
gaggle of street-toughs without enough brains between them to open a soda
can.  Together they fed on each other's quests for delinquency, rising to
new highs of violent behavior when they were together and able to convince
themselves of their "gang" status.  I had fucked up earlier in the day. 
One of them came into the diner and insinuated how lucky I was that he was
willing to let me spread my legs for him.  I wasn't amused and said
something snide that, at the time, I thought was perfectly delightful and
biting and humorous.

   I had forgotten my audience.  My wonderful sarcastic wit was lost on
them.  And apparently they were there to remind me they were not amused. 
In short, I was fucked.

   The diner door seemed miles away as I kept one eye on the welcoming
warmth of its well-lit interior and the other eye on the shadows moving
slowly but steadily along in my peripheral vision.  It dawned on me how
quiet it was.  Normally I would expect to hear street sounds-that's what
streets did at night, they housed sounds.  Cars and horns and chatter and
the distant sounds of more cars and horns.  Right now all I could hear was
the click of my heels on the pavement.  The rest had faded into a white
noise, something in the background.

   I was mentally reviewing the lessons I learned in high school health
class about not becoming a victim when walking alone.  Walk with purpose,
but not with fear.  Don't run.  Act like you know where you're going. 
Don't run.  Don't show fear.  I was gauging the time it would take me to
get to the glass doors of the diner, and I had just about decided that my
health teacher could get bent.  I was making a run for it.

   And here's another fucking cliché, right?  No sooner did I make that
half-hitch step that leads into a run, but my heel caught on something
(there's always something, even if there's nothing.  That's what the
scriptwriters rely on, right folks?).  My hands hit the pavement at the
same time as hands grabbed me by the collar of my tee shirt and the top of
my hair.

   I heard the fabric of my shirt rip from the collar to the hem down the
back (unbelievably thinking at the time, "of course, the damn thing
couldn't rip on a seam, could it?").  Broken glass tore through the knees
of my jeans and imbedded itself into my legs and shins as I fell heavily on
all fours.

   The blood pounding through my ears muted their voices, but their intent
was clear enough.  Hands pawed at my jeans, fumbling to turn me over as I
tried to scramble away.  I knew I'd survive the group fuck (what's one
more, right?), but I was thoroughly pissed about my clothes.  I kicked up
and back with one foot until I felt my heel hit the doughy stomach of
whichever asshole had grabbed me first.

   My arms were kicked out from under me, and my body hit the ground hard.
Suddenly, I knew what it felt like to suffocate.  I heard my breath whoosh
from my lungs as a foot planted itself between my shoulder blades and
pushed.  I could feel the heel of his boot dig into my skin, and a small
rivulet of what I assumed was blood began to flow along my spine.

   I grit my teeth and sagged under the weight of the man standing above
me. Self-preservation took over, I guess, and I decided they'd be done with
me faster if I stopped fighting.  No use pissing them off any further.  I
relaxed my arms and lay flat against the concrete, concentrating on the
rough surface against my cheek instead of on thoughts of what the rest of
the evening held.

   I closed my eyes hard.  I'd be damned if, on top of everything else,
they saw me cry.  I'd be dead within a week if word got out that I cried.
It doesn't take much to get marked as the weakest in the herd.

   The asshole behind me jerked his hand backwards and it felt like my hair
was about to rip from my skull.  His face came right next to mine and his
breath was rancid and hot and stung my eyes through my clenched lids.  "No
one disses me in front of my homies, bitch," he snarled.  His voice was
barely audible, his words slurred.  They had obviously fortified their
group-bravado with a bottle or twelve of Molson's while they waited for me
to come off-shift.

   Damn.  Double damn.  I was really and truly screwed.

   Suddenly I heard, "I've just called the police."

   The voice cut through the deafening silence that had surrounded our
little tableau.  I knew that whoever it was hadn't really yelled, but to me
it sounded like he was shouting from the mountaintop.

   "Whathefuck?" I wasn't expecting it, so my chin slammed painfully down
on the pavement when the asshole let go of my hair.  I felt my lip split
against my teeth and I tasted blood but I decided that, for the moment, I
was best off staying low and silent.  Maybe they'd be too distracted by
this new crazy guy to remember that I was beneath this asshole's boot.

   One of the other assholes started posturing.  "You wanna piece of 'er,
motherfucker?  You'll have to wait until the three of us are done wit'er.
You can have whatever part's left."

   The unknown saint (he deserved saint-status in my book, if for no other
reason than he just bought me some time to teach my lungs to breathe again)
spoke again, slowly, as though he were standing in front of a group of
preschoolers.  Amazing judge of character he was.  "You...don't...  seem...
to...  be...  understanding...me.  Listen very closely."

   I opened one eye for a surreptitious peek, and damn if it wasn't another
scriptwriter's wet dream.  All I could see was the outline of a figure
standing in front of the street lamp.  He was surrounded by an aura from
the light's halogen glow.  I'm sure it was a trick of the light and the
shadows and the fact that I was looking at him from two inches off the
ground, but I swear he was eight feet tall.  Thin, but still bigger than
life.  His arm was raised, and I could make out the outline of a small
cellular phone.

   "I've just called 911," he announced.  "At this time of night, and this
close to a donut shop, I'd guess they'll be here in, oh," he paused for a
semi-dramatic glance at his wrist, "sixty-two seconds or so."

   On cue we heard the approaching sirens.  He tossed something on the
ground at the feet of the asshole with his foot on my back.  "There's my
wallet.  It's got about a hundred fifty bucks cash in it.  Now, you have a
decision to make.  You can take my money and leave, or you can kick my ass
and hope the cops don't get here before you're finished"

   I swear to God, time stopped.  I never understood what that meant
before, and I always figured that people were being ridiculously
over-dramatic when they said it, but at that moment I understood
completely.

   And suddenly it was over.  The boot was off my back, and I could hear
their footsteps retreating faster than the sirens were approaching.  I
finally caught my breath and rolled over to sit on the sidewalk.

   He stepped out from in front of the light, and I could see him more
clearly now.  I held up my arm, and he reached down to give me a hand up.
"Unless you want to have to deal with the police, I suggest we move
ourselves along.  I'm Howard."

   I grasped his forearm and felt the muscle bunch under his skin.  He
wasn't eight feet tall after all, but he had to be at least six, if not
more.  A solid eight or more inches taller than me.  And I was right-he was
thin, but not gaunt.  I suddenly remembered watching the Tour de France on
television before I left home a hundred years ago.  He reminded me of the
bicyclists, or maybe a serious runner.  All muscle and sinew.  Then again,
maybe my eyes were playing tricks.  He had just saved my ass-literally.

   The remains of my tee shirt slipped forward as I stood up.  I caught it
with my free hand and awkwardly held it over my bare breasts.  I should
have been wearing a bra, but I've noticed the immediate payoff in tips at
the diner when I let the girls loose during a shift.  Being "busty" has
occasional advantages, even if it means carrying a few extra pounds in
other places as well.  However, a couple more hungry months out here and
that wouldn't be an issue.  I realized he was staring.  Saint and savior or
not, I felt a sudden urge to regain a smidgen of dignity.  "Um, do you
mind? I'm a little indecent here."

   He had the grace to blush and refocus his eyes to the wall behind me. 
He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to me, specifically not looking at
me as he did.

   "Thanks." I turned my back and shucked off the remains of my shirt. 
Damn, it was a nice tee shirt too.  I zipped his jacket up between my
breasts and turned back to him.  "Howard, you said?  Anyone ever call you
Howie?" As conversation starters go, it was pretty lame, but I was trying
to regain my bearings, and I wasn't sure where this was going.  I figured I
was going to owe him some pretty big pay back, but I was waiting for him to
make the first suggestion.

   He laughed, but it was a creepy, depressed sound.  "Not in a while."

   Ah-ha.  Girlfriend or wife left him or done him wrong somehow.  Men are
so transparent sometimes.  I felt a sudden, overwhelming need to take some
control back over the situation.

   "Well, Howie, can I buy you a cup of coffee for your troubles?"

   He looked down at me.  "Shouldn't you go home?  You'll want to have
someone look at your lip, I think."

   I shrugged, and was immediately reminded by a screaming back muscle that
I had just spent some serious time on the ground with a foot between my
shoulder blades.  I grit my teeth for a minute, waiting out a sudden wave
of nausea.  My knees started to buckle and my vision blurred and I felt
myself begin to shake.  I grabbed his arm to steady myself.

   He wrapped his arm under my shoulders, and we started walking.  Well, he
started walking.  I more or less stumbled along under his arm.  "You're
right," I heard him say through the fog.  "You need some coffee."

   ~~~~~~~~~~

   We went back to the diner where I work and sat at a booth against the
back wall.  Neither of us seemed to feel the need to sit by the window.  I,
for one, had seen enough of the street lately, and I didn't need to watch
the world stand still outside the glass.  He had gently, but firmly,
steered me away from the barstools near the order window and helped me ease
onto the padded seat.  The vinyl creaked as I sat, and I leaned heavily
back.  The short walk to the shop had cleared my head, and the worst of the
shakes seemed to have passed.

   I could hear the radio from behind the counter.  When it was slow in the
diner, Joe kept it tuned to a big band station, although he'd make
concessions if enough customers wanted to hear something else.  Ever the
businessman, he was.  People didn't complain much though.  Joe's was a
place to relax, and the strains of Jimmy Dorsey seemed to help.

   I absently traced lines in the crackled tabletop, and for the millionth
time I wondered briefly what school diner designers went to.  It was all
such an indefinite pastel.  As if someone had taken all paint left over
from doing baby nurseries and mixed it to come up with this
lime-cream-rose-baby blue shade.  I wasn't quite sure how to start the
conversation.  What does one say?  The arrival of steaming roasted bean
juice broke the silence.  Oh, the wonders of coffee.

   Joe gave me a paternalistic look as he filled our cups.  One of the few
things Joe could be counted on was to always have fresh coffee on hand. 
This time of night I'm sure he was losing money on each cup.  Business
always seemed to lull around midnight and stayed dead until the bars closed
at two.  I asked him once why he bothered to stay open that late.  He
insisted there was always someone who needed good coffee, and, if they were
out that late, they probably needed it more than most.  Since that time,
I've parked myself on his barstool more than once, nursing a bottomless
cup. Joe was polite enough never to ask, although I'm sure he realized on
those nights that I was there because whatever plans I had for sleeping
arrangements had fallen through.  It's not that I'm too hoity to plant
myself and my sleeping bag behind a bush in the park, but sometimes sleep
just doesn't seem worth the hassle.

   I wrapped my fingers gratefully around my mug, and looked up at him.

   "Aw, shit, Betsy." He handed me a towel and a glass of ice.  He gave
Howard a glance, unable to completely hide his contempt.  I knew he thought
that Howie was a John I had brought in.  "If you needed the money, you
could have asked."

   I felt my cheeks burn as I put together a makeshift ice pack and dabbed
at my lip.  "It wasn't like that Joe." Not this time, I silently added. 
Unfortunately, Joe was all-too-aware of my occasional desperate attempt at
cash acquisition.  Every once in a while I'd had to resort to a quick $20
blowjob to keep myself in such luxuries as food and clothes.  Quarter-a-cup
coffee tips only bought a girl so much finery.  Up to now I hadn't had to
go any further into the street life, but times were getting desperate, and
I didn't like the picture of the future I was seeing for myself.

   Introductions were apparently in order.

   "Joe, this is Howard.  Howard, Joe.  Joe owns this place.  Joe, Howard
saved my bacon tonight, but in the process he sacrificed his wallet to the
gods of street thuggery.  I'm supposed to be buying him coffee.  But,
um..." I suddenly realized that I no longer had my purse.  I must have lost
it when the jackass knocked me down.

   Joe nodded.  "No sweat, Betsy.  You can owe me.  Nice to meetcha,
Howard." A quick nod, and Joe left us to resume our awkward silences.

   "I...," I started.

   "Um...," he began.

   Good.  That's always good for a laugh and an icebreaker.  I started
over. "Look, Howard.  I don't know what possessed you to step in like that,
but it was brilliant-you were brilliant.  I was dead meat out there.  I
have no idea how I'll ever pay you back."

   He had the decency to look offended, or shocked, or both.  "There's no
need to pay me back, Betsy."

   "No.  I pay my debts.  We'll have to work something out." I was fully
aware, and embarrassed, at the implication I was making.  Well, old habits
and all that.

   He nodded.  "Fine.  Until then, talk to me.  Do you live around here?"

   I contemplated my answer.  Honesty didn't really seem to be the best
policy here.  "Yeah.  Not far.  Just around the corner." It was almost
true. I kept a locker at the bus terminal around the corner.  One dollar a
week, as long as I only opened it once every seven days.

   Something dark passed behind his eyes.  "Bullshit, Betsy.  There's
nothing but abandoned buildings and businesses and the bus depot around
this block.  If you're going to start out by lying to me, let's just say
'nice to meetcha' and we'll go our separate ways." He started to stand. 
"Keep the jacket.  I'll get another one."

   Fuck.  Some woman really screwed him over, and I couldn't stand the
contempt in his voice.  "Wait.  Howard.  Please.  Sit down.  Let's start
over."

   He stopped and sat back into the booth.  "Fine.  How old are you,
Betsy."

   I took a deep breath.  "Twenty-two." His eyebrows shot up.  "Okay, okay.
Eighteen." I was feeling on the spot and decided to turn it around a bit.

   "Not to question my good fortune, Howard, but what the hell were you
doing wandering out here this late at night?" I realized I was dreading the
answer.  There were only a few reasons that a guy walked the streets in
this area late at night, and very few of them were conducive to us forming
a friendship beyond a "pay-for-your-time" one.

   "Roaming.  Nothing in particular."

   Hm.  Non-committal and vague.  Time for a more direct tack.  "Well,
Howard.  I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you've got that 'deer in
the headlights' look.  Who was she and what the hell did she do to you?"

   There was a hard silence between us.  Somewhere in the diner Jimmy
Dorsey finished his song and Frankie Carle took over with a semi-slow
waltzish something.

   Howard's eyes clouded over again.  He seemed to think for a minute, then
abruptly stood.  Shit.  I went too far.

   He held out his hand.  "Can you dance?"

   The darkness lifted, and I smiled.  "Why Howie, I thought you'd never
ask."

   ~~~~~~

   There wasn't a lot of room on the floor between the tables and stools,
but we made do.  Besides, for a slow dance you don't need a lot of room. 
He held me close, but not too close.  We moved in silence for a few
minutes, his hand on my back seamlessly shifting me from beat to beat and
from space to space.  The difference in our heights could have made dancing
awkward.  He seemed to compensate just fine.

   "Cindy."

   At first I thought that maybe I was hearing things.  His voice was
quiet, almost as though he wasn't really talking to me.

   "Excuse me?" I resisted the urge to crack wise about calling me by
another woman's name.

   "Her name was Cindy."

   Ah-ha.  Now we were getting somewhere.  "And?" I prompted.

   He paused for a few beats and let the music guide us around the middle
tables.  On the next major downbeat he continued.  "And not much.  Her name
was Cindy.  We lived together.  We loved each other."

   This seemed to stop him, and for the first time he stepped out of time.
He recovered and twirled me just in time to avoid smacking into the coat
tree by the door.

   "To be honest, I loved her.  I'm not sure what she ever felt for me.  I
would have married her.  I tried to marry her.  She just never agreed to
it." His voice had taken an ugly, bitter edge.  Man, this chick really cut
into him.  I'd lay money on her going off with his best friend, or maybe
his best friend's wife.

   So, I did what I do best, I resorted to a feeble attempt at wit. 
"Apparently you never danced her around a two-bit coffee joint then.  No
girl could resist this."

   "No, I guess I didn't." He pulled back a bit and held me at arm's
length. "You know, you look a bit like her." That seemed to close the
subject for him.  He moved on.  "Your turn, little girl.  Why aren't you
somewhere rushing a sorority and driving frat boys mad with lust?  And
where does an eighteen-year-old girl on her own learn to dance?"

   I did a quick assessment of my possible responses.  I decided I could
venture a vague semblance of the truth.  "Once I got out of high school,
college just didn't seem to be an option.  It was time for me to clear out
of the house and head out on my own, I guess.  I knew I couldn't make it as
a country girl-turned-country-housewife."

   He nodded.  "How long have you been on your own, Betsy?"

   "Long enough, Howard, to learn to take care of myself." I hated what
that implied, but he probably already thought the worst of me.

   He thought for a moment, then seemed to accept that answer.  "And the
dancing?"

   "My step-father taught me."

   "That must have been nice.  Usually you hear about how horrible things
are between step-parents and children."

   I shrugged and decided that some things were best left unsaid.  It was
none of his business that the step-monster had decided that another form of
'dancing' was more appropriate.  I could feel my back and shoulders stiffen
at the thought, and, damn it, I was starting to cry.  Fuck.

   He must have sensed it, because he stopped dancing and once again pulled
back to look at me.  I couldn't meet his eyes.

   "I see." And I suspected he understood.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have
brought it up." He pulled me close, and I found myself with my cheek buried
in his shirt.  He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and I suddenly
couldn't stop crying.

   We stayed like that for ages, swaying to the music from the radio, not
dancing, not talking, just absorbing each other.

   I was cried out in a matter of minutes, a quick torrent that passed as
fast as it had come on.  The song changed and we picked up the pace to
match it.

   I was almost painfully aware of his hand on my back.  His fingers traced
the outline of my shoulder blades as we moved.  His other hand entwined my
fingers and pulled me into his rhythm.  I was suddenly aware of the lack of
space between our bodies.  The borrowed jacket was heavy against my bare
skin and the rough lining scraped over my breasts as we danced.  The
friction was suddenly warming me from inside out.  I felt a tingle
beginning somewhere deep in my stomach.

   Apparently I wasn't the only one.  Because of the difference in our
heights, his crotch was at the bottom of my ribcage and I could feel a
distinctive hardening under his jeans.  I couldn't help myself.  I held
tighter against him and I could feel him pulse beneath the fabric.

   His arms clenched around me, grinding me against his body.  My nipples,
hard from the friction of his jacket, were crushed under the pressure.  The
air around us was suddenly thick with desire and tension and unspoken
promise, and I found myself having difficulty breathing.

   Images flashed through my mind, and I knew what I wanted to do.  I
wanted, no needed to spend the night with him somewhere significantly less
public.  And if I didn't get him out of here quickly I was going to
completely alienate my only source of legitimate income by falling to my
knees and dragging Howard's jeans down to his ankles.  I figured the
vinyl-covered, duct-tape-patched coffee booth wasn't the best place to
straddle his thighs, regardless of how much I wanted to feel him inside me.

   I made a quick decision.  "Howard?  Do you live around here?"

   His voice was husky.  "Not far.  Betsy, do you know what you're
offering?"

   "I'm a big girl, Howard, I know.  Do you know what you're accepting?"

   "I'm old enough to be your fa...  er...  uncle, Betsy.  Does that bother
you?"

   I shrugged.  "Should it?  Do you think I was out here doing a story for
my high school newspaper?  I'm not a child, Howie.  What's a few years
between friends?" Flippant again.  Shit.  I couldn't stop.

   It didn't seem to faze Howard.  He didn't answer, except to lead me to
the door.  I waved something non-committal to Joe about owing him for the
coffee as we left.

   Neither of us spoke as the night air hit our faces.  It was a warm night
but the air felt cool against my flesh.  I knew the warmth was artificial,
that lust and desire were warming my skin, but I unzipped the jacket a bit
more to feel the air on my chest.  Howard took a quick glance down.  I knew
he could see my tits under the open zipper, and I arched, teasing him
silently.  He said nothing, but quickened his step.

   "I'm about ten blocks this way." He was almost growling by this time,
and I had to suppress the urge to ask him to run there with me.

   A block down I knew I couldn't wait any longer.  One quick one, then we
could take the rest of the night at his place to get to know each other.  I
pulled him into an alley and fell to my knees in front of him.

   His fingers gripped my hair as I roughly pulled open the button of his
jeans and dragged the zipper down.  My fingers fumbled under his shorts to
pull his cock into the open.

   "No, Betsy.  Not here..." but his protests died quickly as I hungrily
lowered my lips to his cock.  I felt my split bottom lip crack again, but
it didn't seem to matter.  My fingers wrapped around his shaft, and I held
it tightly as I surrounded it with my mouth.  My tongue danced over its tip
and teased under the ridge.

   I felt his grip tighten against my scalp, and he let out a loud moan.  I
smiled to myself and quickened my pace.  He was close.  His balls tightened
under my fingers and blood pulsed through his cock.  My lips danced over
his shaft, drawing him deep into my throat.  I hummed with pleasure,
feeling my throat vibrate around the soft, warm tip.

   He held my head and thrust harder into my mouth, growling as he came.  I
swallowed quickly, letting him fill my throat, each thrust sending the
warmth of his cum into my belly.

   Without warning, his fingers dug painfully into my scalp, and I felt
something warm splatter on my shoulder.  I tried to pull back in protest,
but his hands were too strong and I couldn't get loose from his grip.  I
could feel him start to sag against the wall and his knees buckled under my
chest.  He sank to the ground, pulling me partially into his lap as he sat.

   I looked at him in utter confusion.  His eyes were wide and surprised.
Instead of the happy, spent expression I expected to see on his face, he
looked as though I had bitten off his cock.  A fading voice and the sounds
of receding footsteps cleared up my confusion.

   "Motherfucker," the voice yelled.  "Maybe that will teach you to
interfere when you see someone giving a bitch what she deserves."

   I brought my hand to touch the dark wetness on my skin.  When the lights
from a passing car illuminated the alleyway I could see the blood on my
hand, and on his shirt.  Frantically, I pulled up the hem of his shirt to
find a wide gash in his side.  There was an abandoned knife on the ground
next to us, covered with the sticky mess.

   I tore his jacket from my shoulders and bunched it up against the wound.
He looked at me with glazed eyes.

   "Don't, Howard.  Hold on." I was babbling, but I didn't know what else
to do.  I shouted for help, but at this time of night, in this part of
town, there was little chance of anyone hearing us.

   I shifted my weight and carefully brought him into my lap, not letting
up the pressure on the jacket.  I could feel his life seeping out between
my fingers.

   His lips were moving.  I bent close to him to hear.  "Thank you."

   "No, Howard.  Don't.  Hold on.  Please hold on."

   He shook his head weakly.  "Tell...." He gasped, and I felt a fresh
spurt of blood gush from his side.  "Tell Cindy I love her." His eyes
closed and I felt him go limp.  The blood stopped spurting and there was a
frighteningly final rattle of breath.

   I sat there in the alley, trash piled up in the corners, with silent
breezes sending wisps of smoke from the ventilation systems swirling around
us.  I sat there, naked from the waist up, and held him as he died.  I held
him, and his last words were for someone else.

   It was just such a fucking cliché.

   ~~~~~~

   edited by Neil Anthony and Ruthie

   I'd love to hear from you - please, please, please let me know what you
think.  Like most writers, I take what I do here very seriously, and I'd
appreciate any feedback, suggestions, or comments that readers are kind
enough to send.

   Alexis Ealexissiefert@yahoo.com