Andreas Grey The Alluvial


Every idea in the sciences are tested, tried, and measured but Earth stands alone.

The absence of love on distant planets question our abilities to conquer and pioneer our known galaxy. Back here on earth some fight love as an uncontrollable weed, trying to harness it onto a Petri dish and wait for a miracle. We know the answer, we just cannot bottle it up and send it to our moon colonies. It is always the same dilemma can we find a planet like Earth and reboot the spark of love. I travel the galaxy not searching for love but searching for steady work. Home is Queens a part of New York City overpopulated, swelling to its breaking point, it could be worst its where baseball and millionaires flourish, I fly tycoons who once lived at the end of Long Island before the ocean claimed their paradise. The Alluvial is tough, beautiful and was built for single man exploration but now she is used to carry three including myself, she has a hefty price tag and with each journey I get a little closer to paying her off.

The Alluvial is one of a kind, a combination of mining matter from Pluto, Mars, Venus, Saturn, and Jupiter moons Yes, Pluto is a planet again most of the hull on the Alluvial is from Pluto’s icy nitrogen rich frost. The properties of this frost shield it from extreme weather in space. Many years ago, Earth mining companies settled on all eight planets and mined the heck out of them. Sending its minerals to Earth, to make peace, clean energy, and life easier we all hoped then. Some of the stuff was too dangerous and what was left helped make buildings taller, communication faster and wars shorter. Over the years more discoveries sparked the SOTULP race. I’ll get into that later. Consequently, this mineral when combined with earths iron ore becomes extraordinarily indestructible. My name is Andreas Grey a career traversing through space from mining stations to moon colonies I’ve have learned that life has more to do with what makes us than what we want to be.

Author Robertson Tirado

This short novel, coming soon.




Twilight is constant I play with its warmth and dangerous chill. Nothing changes only distance I wonder in my thoughts about her. About our time before our culture rushed to change reality we could not escape it. Consequently, we had to chose a home only by lottery, fate decides our families destiny.

But I squint my eyes and look into the darkness for hope just a flicker so far away it cuts the arc of darkness like a knife. Yes, I’m holding onto a sliver of light that gives me hope.

I’m granted one more trip to see her every time I do its like love at first sight. That feeling is addictive its the motivation that drives me to scheme and cheat my way against destiny.  I plan my escape as an ancient criminal on Alcatraz Island, those stories of men traversing thick walls, hiding in shadows from armed guards and paddling shark infested waters is the foundation of our escape.

But our DNA is tracked through the stars, no black hole can hide our signal a beacon affixed to our consciousness since birth.  Our fate was already scribble before our births, big brother has aimed its lasers into our mothers womb.

The bee makes honey and the mother is in labor our machines have clocks but nature tells time. Nature is honest, pure in its rotation giving Earth a sliver of more each year as a gift. A gift that only a wise person can receive.

I look again to that distant star and know its warmth grants our invitation.

The Boy From Zarephath

Page 15: A Letter to Jonah’s Mother



“First, I miss you very much,” I wrote to my mother. “Today I am resting near the Orontes River, after a long three days of preparing for war with King Shalmaneser III. I know that you warned me of great peril in this endeavor, this conflict—but I write with complete confidence that I will reunite with you before too long. An unfortunate wave of convoys steered me to the armies of Que Cilicia. As you already must know, our King is part of an eleven king front preparing for battle with Shalmaneser III, a bully of a King, to be sure—what I’d call the Bully King of the Assyrians.

“I speak from the heart, mother, when I talk about my desire to have a wife and children one day. This journey brought along with it much loneliness and has hindered my happiness, even though I spoke to the God of Elijah during my travels. I am glad that I did, but I must tell you that it still was not enough to fill the void. Being part of this campaign to defend our home, rather than being pushed into the sea, will ensure a better life for you and for your other son, my brother.

“I am surrounded by good men, some of the bravest, some who remember the drought when I was a boy. Many question how we were able to survive it. I keep silent about our special house guest who brought about the salvation. Our rugged life here is filled with salty breezes and quiet nights. I find myself thinking of roasted vegetables and our garden filled with blue flax.

“When I return, I will make time to discover my father’s shipbuilding talents for myself. Some of it was passed on to me, and of that I am pleased and proud. Our hearts are aligned, mother, and my faith is aligned with your example. This is the reason I have no fear in this strange land. There are things that I have never seen. There is an abundance of manpower that accomplishes so much in so little time. Relying upon your examples keeps me focused. This letter is not meant to cause you more anxiety. I urge you to read between the lines. This letter is intended to strengthen you spirit while your older son presses forth and your younger one remains safe and happy.”

Copyright © 2019

Thank you for reading, published book coming soon. Visit Robertson Tirado on YouTube.

Book available: The Boy From Zarephath

The Last Ice Cream Truck


On a corner of a small town that just over 850 mostly elderly people call home sits a middle-aged man named CARLO inside his ice cream truck. It is a sunny afternoon. He is bored and alone. Six-year-old SOPHIA stands nearby, silently for a while. but then she stirs CARLO out of his daydream with a soft voice that can almost be mistaken for a gentle breeze.


Hi. Do you have vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles?

CARLO lifts his head and hastily turns on the switch that plays traditional American ice cream truck music. 


What?… Who’s there?… Oh—how can I help you? 


(gentle whisper)

I said can I have a vanilla ice cream cone with sprinkles? 

CARLO grunts, nods, and begins to make the cone.


Have we met before? 


I don’t know. Maybe.

CARLO finishes making the cone and hands it to SOPHIA. 


Where are your parents? 


They went away. 


Where did they go? 


With everyone else. 


With everyone else? I don’t know what that means. How far away

do you live? 


I live just over those hills, on the other side of the valley. 


And you walked here? All by yourself?


When I was really little my mother and father used to walk everywhere. We

didn’t have a car. But in the summer we could hear the music from the ice

cream trucks. From all the way down here. 


You haven’t touched your ice cream yet. It’s melting. 


Oh no! I need another one.  


(sighs heavily)

Before I give you another one, I’ll need two dollars. One for this one and

one for the next one.


My mommy only gave me one dollar.


Fine. I’ll live with it. But where is your mother? 


I told you. She went with the others.

CARLO begins to make a new cone. 


Did you know that you’re the last ice cream truck in

the whole world. 

CARLO stops making the cone and turns toward SOPHIA. 


What? What did you say? 


It’s just you and me now. 

CARLO pokes his head out of the window of the ice cream truck. 


Where are your parents? 


In heaven. 


Heaven. Yeah, right. Are you lost? 


Maybe. Maybe not.

CARLO steps out of his truck and gently—though nervously—takes SOPHIA’s hand.


Which way did you come here?


I told you. I came down the hill, then walked between those two buildings,

then came up this hill.


Between those two building down there?


Yes. But I don’t want to go back.

CARLO stands on a big rock that’s just about the same size as a milk crate. He still holds onto SOPHIA’s hand and gently helps her up onto the rock. He calls out loudly: 


Does anyone know who this little girl belongs to?… Hello?… Listen

up… Does anyone know who this little girl belongs to?

After a moment, without having heard a response, CARLO lets go of SOPHIA’s hand and returns to his ice cream truck to make a phone call. He starts to dial. 


All the phones are dead. 

CARLO realizes there is no dial tone.


How did you know that?

CARLO hangs up. SOPHIA runs around the ice cream truck singing: 


You are the only ice cream truck in the world.

You are the only ice cream truck in the world.

You are the only ice cream truck in the world. 



Stop it. 

SOPHIA laughs.


Why are you laughing? Why? Is it because that according to you

I’m the only ice cream truck left in the world? Is that  it? Well, that’s stupid.

It’s stupid and silly.  


You’re no fun.  


I’m no fun? Well, sorry about that. But I don’t have time to be fun. All I have

time for is to prove to you that there are more people around than just me and

you. There are others. Plenty of others. We’re gonna go down the hill so I can

prove it to you.  


Are you sure you want to do that?


Why wouldn’t I? 

CARLO rolls up the window, powers down the generator, removes his apron, and exits the truck. SOPHIA grabs CARLO’s hand and leads him down the hill. After a bit of strolling, they reach the bottom, where they go to a building with a steel door that looks very menacing. 


Is this where your parents live? Maybe I know them. 


No. But they used to work here.  


Maybe if we knock on the door, someone will come out to talk to us.  


Maybe. But I think we should go back up the hill instead.  

CARLO ignores her, then notices light peeping out from all around the perimeter of the steel door. He pushes the door open, then falls to the ground in dismay.


What is this place? It looks like Times Square in New York City. How can

that be? I was there once. There are thousands of people in Times Square.

Where are all the people? Where are they?

(turns to Sophia, trembling).

Why did you bring me here? 


You wanted to come. You wanted to open this door.

Don’t you remember?

CARLO looks at SOPHIA. There is a look of recognition in his eyes.   


I know you. Twenty years ago, maybe. When I was a boy. But how

could you still be a little girl? How could you be here? 

CARLO seems lost in his memory. From the ice cream truck comes a voice:


You already died, when you lied

Slippers on your feet

Robe on your back

Trying to catch up to what you lack

Music was tears

Cold nights in the black hole

The only hope was the twinkling specks on those white clouds.

She stood on the corner waiting for you

But you never listened

Even unconscious the music still plays.


CARLO comes out of his memory trance and addresses SOPHIA. 


What’s your name? 





Sophia! I loved a girl name Sofia when I was seven year old… Are you…

You can’t… It’s impossible… Are you Sophia?


©Robertson Tirado copyright 2018

This short screenplay is exclusively written for independent directors, a $250 licensing  fee grants up to 10 filmmakers the rights to visualize this story. Contact Robertson Tirado for payment and certificate.


Landscape poster Noah


BRUCE is hiding between large rocks as he uses a knife to cut away his ankle bracelet. In February the weather is mild in California and the sea breeze feels good on his thirty-five-year-old face. Just up the hill, Bruce’s Ford Mustang is parked. First he removes a thin metal plate in his boot that shielded the signal of the ankle bracelet that is made of circuitry that blinds the indicator to law enforcement. After removing the ankle bracelet, Bruce smashes it on the rocks and buries it in the sand.



Bruce walks to his car, opens the door and sits inside. Inside the car is a picture of his son Noah. He touches the photo and looks into the rearview mirror.



Bruce turns on the radio. There is an announcement warning people not to travel to the desert.





Larry Hillson



ANNOUNCEMENT (voice over)

The following is a message from homeland security: it is advised that anyone within a five-mile radius of San Francisco refrain from traveling to the desert. There is an electrical storm that can potentially cause blindness or even death. Stay tuned for updates on your local media outlet, or on the web. Thank you for your attention.


            (to himself)

I’ve lost everything; I was educated to make things better for humanity, but have made things dangerous instead.

Bruce is driving up the west coast of California, heading north, with the Pacific Ocean in view. He spends most of the time talking to himself, with a bad conscience looming over him. He rubs his head and picks up his cellular phone.

Page 1 of 33

Noah script copyright 2017



 All good men ride skateboards neon


When I sleep it is dark. Sometimes I dream, sometimes I don’t. But when I glide on my skateboard I dream in the daylight each and every time. It’s easy to do. The thoughts that swirl through my head while I’m skating are countless. ‘How far can I go without money?’ Is one of the most common ones.

     My name is Sid Menaham, and I like to say that I live on the board. On the board life is grand, life is good. I tell my little sister about my adventures. Now she wants to ride with me but she’s too young. From time to time she sits on the classic ‘Penny’ and push her while she navigates the board like a sled. The wheels are getting uneven and need repair, so I sell Hacky Sacks and lithium batteries. Dad helps, but mom gets worried. Mom says I ride too much.

I have a few skater friends. We meet on Sundays at the Four Wheel dealership, where my mother used to work. Four Wheel closed two years ago but still has the smoothest asphalt and the grandest staircase. Even though I have known Willie, Kevin, and Steven since we were kids, I still don’t really know anything about them. Most of the time we talk about movies. Now I want to share my story with you. It must be told because it’s true that all good men ride skateboards. I’m going to tell you why.

 I was sixteen when I began to see shadows moving. The first time it happened was when I was climbing in the Catskills with a few friends. We were city kids wearing the wrong foot gear for a mountain hike. Kevin and Willie’s parents took the lead while the four of us lingered behind. It was early October, the time of year when the weather is unpredictable, the sun still strong, the leaves slippery. But friends help each other, regardless of the weather and the conditions outside. We spotted a challenging rock formation, and one the adults yelled, “I’m familiar with this climb!” So we ventured up. I followed Kevin because wherever he put his foot, I would be able to put mine. It was safer that way. Wearing skate sneakers with their flat soles made climbing difficult. As active as I am, that rock formation tested my patience. Maybe I was just too much of a city boy; the nature thing wore me out. I saw the rest of the group make it to the top, and Willie’s dad leaned over the rocky cornice and shouted, “You are slightly off the path. Don’t slip.” Of course, at that age I still had a problem listening to grownups, so under my breath I said, “Whatever.” I looked up and it got quiet, as if the group had moved on without me. I shouldn’t have stood close to Kevin. I was at the point where an opening in the gray, jaggered rock split in half, with enough room to take a break. I wedge myself into it. Looking down, I realized we must have been at least three stories up.

Having my back against the split opening, the view opened up, and I suddenly understood why people travel here to enjoy nature. As I turned around, I grasped the flat horizontal ledge over my head, which is more or less a ‘victory stone’ to the top. I heard a sound coming from the darkness within the split in the rock. The shadowy crevices opened up. I turned to look, lowering my body to take a peek. I saw stars as a watery reflection from the star-lit sky. I pushed my body closer in an attempt to understand the surreal sight. Willie’s dad startled me, despite the softness of his tone. “Are you all right Sid?” he asked. I looked up to him, and all I could say was, “Yes, I had to pee.”

            “It’s okay, Sid. Are you done? Do you need any help?”

            “I’m done. I’ll be right up.”

            That was the first time of many that the shadows came alive.

As I rode alone, glancing at the roads for peril, I was cognizant of the fact that even a pebble could be a disaster on the board. But at the same time I was thinking about pretty girls and ways to get some money for snacks. Money was always on my mind. Even my newspaper route was a tough way to earn cash because the company almost always insisted that they hadn’t been paid by all the subscribers to whom I delivered the papers.

On one of those early delivery mornings, it was still dark but my skateboard gripped the morning dew. With half a bag left to deliver, one of my wheels went over a cigarette lighter on the ground. I thought I could handle the shaky wheels, but I couldn’t. I landed on both hands, my face inches from a manhole cover. Before I could stand up, I noticed tiny beams of light poking up through the small holes on the manhole cover. I crouched a little closer. There were men down there walking with what I assumed were flashlights in the darkness. All layers of New York City, from the subterranean tunnels to the topmost skyscraper floors, are bustling with people. Even homeless people, which is something I don’t like to see.

I leaped back on my board and followed each light poking from each manhole cover. I counted twelve, then thirteen, as I continued to push along. The lights became harder to see as the sun started rising.

Eighteen manhole covers! I could barely keep up, but the last one found me in a parking lot, in a place I had never been before. It was an industrial area, and trucks were loading goods on the other side of a dead-end street. I must have been out of my mind because school started in an half an hour. I jumped for one last glance, and even before I landed on my feet a vehicle—obviously an expensive one—stopped in front of me. A man got out and yelled at me. What I didn’t realize was that I was in a strip club parking lot. Frightened, I jumped on my skateboard and made my way out of there quickly. Just then, I caught sight of one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my young life. It was just a two-second glance, but the vision was unforgettable. I didn’t know much about strip clubs, but I knew it was no place for a girl her age. It was clear that I had to share this with Kevin or Willie. Or maybe not. Should I keep this one to myself? That’s the decision I struggled with.

            What a morning.

When everyone but you gets to go to the movies because you’re fired from delivering newspapers, you feel like a loser. What’s a kid to do when everyone is out on a Friday night skating? I packed my pockets with Little Debbie’s for energy, and an iPod loaded with classic Depeche Mode tunes. But I just wasn’t able to stop thinking about the other day, the lights, the strip club. I had a lamp on my board to avoid cigarette lighters and pebbles, and my parents didn’t know that I had lost my job and that I wasn’t at the movies. Still, my grades were good. That’s what was important to them.

            What a day yesterday had been. It was the day that changed my life.

Following those manhole covers, I counted eighteen of them. The area was bustling with even more fancy cars, security people, and valet parking… I decided to go back another night.

            “Hey kid, come over here,” said a man delivering heavy metal canisters.

            “Who me?” I asked.

            “Yes, you. What are doing around here?”

As he was talking, I took a glance inside the building. It was dark. The walls vibrated with music I didn’t like. Sitting on a stool was that girl—the girl of my dreams. She looked at me and said hello.

            “Are you okay?” I asked.

            “Do you work here?”

            Suddenly someone else spoke.

            “Hey kid, don’t talk to her. You’ll be in big trouble.”

In a whisper I asked her if she needed any help. “I’ll be outside,” I said, and she nodded. Slowly, I backed away and hid across the street in the shadows, sitting on my board. I fell asleep and didn’t awake until morning. I knew my parents would be livid. What, I wondered, should I tell them? “Shit, I’m grounded,” I mumbled to myself.

I texted my mom to tell her I was okay. Then I looked at the parking lot. It had been swept clean as if nothing happened the night before. I counted nineteen manhole covers. There was nothing to see but silent industry. I jumped down and sat on a manhole cover pondering life. Then I heard men chatting below, so I put my eye near the round hole on the cold metal disc. A man looked straight at me. It startled me. I climbed back up the wall in a hurry.

            “Vicky, come back,” I heard a man shout.

            He was talking to her—to that girl, to the most beautiful girl in the world.

            “Help!” she yelled.

            “Grab my hand,” I said desperately.

            I pulled her up as the man who was yelling came closer.

            “Don’t get involved, kid,” he said menacingly.

            “You better listen to him, or he’ll kill you,” Vicky urged.

            “How old are you?”


I started to swing my skateboard at the man as he attempted to climb the container. I told Vicky to jump. The man grabbed the end of my skateboard and clawed his way over to us. More men were coming behind us over the wall, out of the manhole. They looked not of this world. There were three of them, two of whom launched the third into the air. Vicky and I were transfixed by the sight. The man attacking Vicky put his fat ring-studded hands around her neck. I started to stumble off the ledge and fell backward into the arms of other men who suddenly surfaced below. This startled the attacker, but it also made his hands get tighter around Vicky’s neck

            “Do something, someone,” I yelled to the men below. A weapon of some sort was discharged. The attacker was down. We all thought he was dead. Vicky was the first to check, and after she did she turned to the rest of us and said,

            “My uncle deserves it. Thank you. Whoever you are, thank you.”

            “Hey kids, are you ready?” said the tallest of the men who had came to our rescue.

            “Ready for what?” Vicky asked.

            “To save the Milky Way”

One of the men was taller than the other two, and he was the one the others looked to. His name, as I heard one of the shorter ones say, was Stallion.

            “The shadow is closing,” Stallion said.

            “I know the shadows,” I replied.

            “Is it far from here?” Vicki asked Stallion.

          “Yes,” he replied, “very far from here, but with good people who will never harm you or Sid.”

            “I’m ready to go,” she grinned confidently.

            “What about my mom, dad and sister?” I asked.

            “Once you say you will go, your mom will give birth to another Sid Menaham.”

I collapsed, trying to maintain my dignity, and looked up to Vicky as the towering soldiers cast their shadows on me with tenderness.

            “Yes, I’ll go.”

            “I like this kid,” Stallion smiled.

We entered the sewer. Vicky gently put her hands into mine, while I also held onto my board. At that moment I thought about my mother, and as if they read my mind, one of the men touched his head lamp and out of it came a hologram showing my mom giving birth to a son. My dad was there, too. He was young. I knew then that if these guys had the technology and inner powers to do something like that, then everything would be all right. Stallion opened a hatch a few meters from where we had entered. Stallion told us they were in a  battle for control over the sun, a battle to protect dark matter from reaching all the planets that sustained life.

We went through the hatch. On the other side was a beautiful park-like expanse where young children waved at us from a hill. They all had skateboards in their raised hands, and behind them was a skate park where other children were soaring into the sky. Indeed, it was more than a skate park; it was a mountain where people of all different ages coasted down slopes, each one with a backpack on which were affixed what appeared to be solar panels. It seemed to me that the panels were powering the boards. What genius! What ingenuity!

Suddenly I noticed that one of my rescuers had what looked like little skateboards attached to each of his feet, although the wheels never touched the ground. While I observed this exciting and amazing new environment, I felt like I, too, was floating on air. Only later on did I discover that the entire place was covered in unusual, oversized grains of sand that acted as airborne lubricants between the hard ground below and the floating souls above.

 We passed the mountain and then entered another great doorway that delivered us into an arena where hundreds of people sat in seats that had upward-facing mirrors attached to them.

            “Why all the mirrors?” I asked Stallion.

            “They block the view of our enemy,” he explained.

We stood still while waiting for instructions, and were then handed uniforms made of a denim-like material (though it wasn’t the denim I was used to). Finally, we were escorted to another section where we were asked our names.

            “Vicky Symphony.”

            “Sydney Menaham.”

The man who was taking down the names started to laugh. I asked him why he was laughing.

             “Because we had three Sydneys today,” he chuckled. “Three!”

            “Well,” I said, keeping a serious look on my face, “when you inscribe my name on my uniform, just put Sid, not Sydney.”

Vicky and I went into separate dorms, one labeled boys and the other girls. It was separated by a round courtyard with a monument fountain in the middle of a man named Ivan Rad, who I later learned had created The School of Rad. When I walked into the courtyard I met a guy named Matthew, who gave me an orientation. First we went up to what was called the Communications Needle, where he told me they searched for threats to life throughout the galaxy. Matthew said that the effective  range of defense was the solar system in which Earth and the Earth’s Sun were located.

            “What are we fighting, Matthew?” I asked.

           “Your average rogue meteor,” he  said. “Sometimes  civilizations crash  and  burn, and earth’s light brings then here.”

            “What happens when they come?”

            “Ever heard of Gandhi, Sir Isaac Newton, Einstein?”


            “I’ve met them personally,” he said plainly.

            “How old are you?” I asked.

            “I don’t know,” he said, equally without emotion of any kind.

            “How old am I?”

            “Slow down, Sid. You don’t want to unravel the galaxy with talk like this.”

            “Will I be able to see Vicky again?”

            “Yes,” he replied, looking directly at me with a interesting smirk. “Tomorrow you guys are getting married.”

Please let me know if you want Part II of this story. – Author Robertson Tirado 

Disclosure: My blog may contains affiliate links, which means I will get a small commission when you click on sites. You will not be charge for visiting affiliate sites.

Vicky Space3


Robertson Tirado Copyright 2018




In the darkness of space, stars give off light. Without that, their existence would be unknown.

Here on Earth, the existence of extraterrestrial life is still up for debate. There are too many shaky videos and blurry photos, much of it laughable. It’s the darkness. It’s always the darkness. Darkness generates so many questions. Darkness can make it hard to distinguish reality from fantasy, truth from fiction.

            One raining summer morning, when the city was at its busiest, one question was answered. Light from the sky broke through the thick, dark clouds, angling in across the vertical columns of skyscrapers. The light—it certainly wasn’t sunlight—was green. Anyone familiar with the sky knows that at 8:30 in the morning the sun is just above the tips of the skyscrapers. This light seemed more like noon light, not morning light. Everyone was rushing to work, lost in their own worlds. No one paid attention to the light. Had anyone paid attention, they might have expected colorful prism rays, or a mist to surround the shaft of light, for it hardly seemed to be an ordinary beam. It had to be from another world.  Then the light started to crackle. It sounded like a large ship easing into the dock.  That’s when people started to look. On their faces was only fear. It reminded most of them of September 11, 2001. It pulled them in, like a visual vacuum. It had the effect of a reverse wind, not pulling them forward, but pushing them back. Most had to grab onto street signs and door handles and anything else they could find. Two minutes later, it stopped. People went back to their daily lives as if it had never happened.

            “Only the meek can distinguish between a good conscience and a bad one.”

Copyright protected

Now available


The illustrious Carlina La Salle was born Carlina Adel on January 16, 1900 in Berlin, Germany.

My name wasn’t always Mrs. La Salle, or Carlina Talbout. It was Carlina Adel. In school, having a last name that started with the letter A, as in Adel, put me in front of everyone, and that was good for someone like me. When I was eleven, there were tryouts for the swimming team at my school, and I was the first person called.  I knew how to impress. Some kids would be too shy if they were first, but I used it to my advantage.  I walked slowly past the judges, kept a big smile on my face, and gracefully took a deep breath before hitting the water.  Those who stayed under water the longest always had a better chance at being selected for the team. Strangely, this is the sport—swimming—that opened my mind to a harvest of deeply hidden talents, namely singing and dancing.

“I made it! I made it!” I shouted to my mom in glee.

“I knew you would, Carlina,” mom replied.

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s staying late at the theater,” she explained. “It’s a big show, and someone has to make sure the doors are locked after rehearsal.” 

“Well,” I said, smiling to myself a little bit, “he’ll be missing your biscuits because they’re all mine now!” 

“Don’t eat them all, Carlina,” mom warned. “You won’t be able to fit into your dress for the show.” 

There may have been a little truth to that—just a little truth—so I agreed not to eat all the biscuits, but to leave one for dad. But in truth, I can lose weight just by walking to the theater because it’s nearly a mile from my house. 

“So,” mom asked, “when is the big day?”

I asked if she was talking about the upcoming swim meet.

“No,” she said, “I’m talking about that boy, Samuel Talbout, the one who’s always so quiet.”

“He is very quiet,” I admitted.  But then I looked away so that my mom wouldn’t notice how embarrassed the topic made me feel.

“But he really likes you,” she pressed on, brushing her shoulder into me.

At that point I simply told her that I was finished with my dinner and that I would help her clean up. 

“Okay, Carlina,” mom said—but then quickly added: “He reminds me of your father.”

“Oh? Samuel? Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so,” mom smirked, as we began to clear the table.  

 The next morning the light that shone through my bedroom window was enough to wake me up, but my loudmouth friend Samantha began tapping on the glass bright and early.

“Samantha,” I asked, “how did you pass the rose bush without getting stuck by a thorn?”

“Well, Carlina, half of it is gone,” Samantha explained.

 I rushed to the window to look, and it had indeed been chopped down, probably stolen by that miserable old lady down the road. I decided that I would tell my dad, and the two of us would probably have a word with her.  The window pane had a small crack in it, and that’s how I spoke with Samantha—through that tiny little crack that let our words go back and forth with ease.  To tell the truth, they were sort of strange words, because what Samantha told me was that Samuel was drawing some unusual sketches in class, and that one of the sketches looked like just like me. 

“I think Samuel likes you, Carlina,” she said. “More nonsense in the morning,” I replied, trying not to show any kind of emotion or reaction at all.  “Samantha, please don’t come inside in my house blabbing everything you told me this morning. If you do, I’ll chase you out.”

“Okay, Carlina,” she said—and then completely changed the subject. “Do you have any biscuits?” she asked.

Let me take a moment to share mom’s recipe for Vanillekipferl biscuits—in her very own words. I’m sharing this now because I often shared it with Samantha, also in these words:

  1. A great amount of flour
  2. Just one little egg
  3. Many, many, many almonds
  4. Whipped butter
  5. Pinch me with salt
  6. Caster sugar

“Well, well, Carlina,” Samantha said, after I had repeated the ingredients to her, “I presume a guest in your house gets only the recipe, not an actual biscuit!”

“Okay, close your eyes Samantha.  Now open them. There! It’s a Vanillekipferl biscuit.”

“I love you, Carlina,” she gushed. “It’s so light! Let me eat this real slow because it’s so delicious.” Samantha enjoyed the biscuit very much. She stared off into space while she was eating. Then:

 “So, where’s your mom and dad?”

 I told her they were at The Deutsches Theatre, and that they had to go early because of the upcoming Christmas show, which always required a lot of extra work.

“It’s amazing how you have to start arranging that show so early,” Samantha said.

“They actually start rehearsals in late September,” I explained.  

Sam asked me if I had received my uniform and swimwear, both of which have the school logo on them. I told her I hadn’t, and also that I was to start a part-time job at the doll factory that evening.

“Tonight, Carlina?” she asked.

“Yes, right after school I’ll go to the train station. Near the entrance of the station is the A. C. Reine Dolls company. My dad knows the owner because he supplies dolls for some of our shows.  The company’s been very nice to me. They even gave me a week’s pay in advance so that I could buy the school uniform.  Isn’t that nice?”

“What are your job responsibilities there, Carlina?”

“I feed the hair into a machine, and the machine punches holes into the doll’s head.” 

“Disgusting!” Samantha yelled, making a funny face.

“No, it’s not disgusting. It’s actually funny to see. But you could lose your innocence watching those little arms get pulled apart at the rejection bin.”

“Lose your innocence?” she asked, looking entirely confused.

“Just let me know when you notice bags under my eyes, Samantha.”

I changed the subject by telling her that we couldn’t be late for morning exercises.  “Mrs. Engel makes us run around the school six times,” I reminded her.

“I know,” Samantha replied. “You know what I remember from last year? I remember hearing your swimming team run around the school. But it was the boys who were noisy, not the girls. The boys actually made more noise watching from the windows than you were making when you were running around the school!”

“I know. It annoyed me that the boys could see us all sweaty like that. But the workouts kept us in good shape, and our school did win.”

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