Received: from nobody by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with local (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHZUX-0000Gi-Lc for lojban-newreal@lojban.org; Thu, 15 Dec 2016 09:06:49 -0800 Received: from [170.178.169.210] (port=60352 helo=sameoldhd.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHZUS-0000FG-Vg for lojban@lojban.org; Thu, 15 Dec 2016 09:06:48 -0800 Date: Thu, 15 Dec 2016 10:30:22 -0700 Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii Subject: Your order-conf #6358888: The best gadget ever for your-phone From: "Laurence Reese" Message-ID: <9c2c7e55fbfda4353ca10c7b6e541eeedncc2c7e55fbfda4353ca10c7b6e541eeed.63588888_lojban@lojban.org50b> To: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Mime-Version: 1 X-Spam-Score: -0.4 (/) X-Spam_score: -0.4 X-Spam_score_int: -3 X-Spam_bar: / Untitled Document Greatest Item For Christmas

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he steps protested my weight with a symphony of shudders and creaks, but they held, and what I discovered upstairscompared to the bombedout ground floor, at leastwas like a time capsule. Arranged along a hallway striped with peeling wallpaper, the rooms were in surprisingly good shape. Though one or two had been invaded by mold where a broken window had let in the rain, the rest were packed with things that seemed only a layer or two of dust away from new: a mildewed shirt tossed casually over the back of a chair, loose change skimming a nightstand. It was easy to believe that everything was just as the had left it, as if time had stopped the night they died. I went from room to room, examining their contents like an archaeologist. There were wooden toys moldering in a box; crayons on a windowsill, their colors dulled by the light of ten thousand afternoons; a dollhouse with dolls inside, lifers in an ornate prison. In a modest library, the creep of moisture had bowed the shelves into crooked smiles. I ran my finger along the balding spines, as if considering pulling one out to read. There were classics like Peter Pan and The Secret Garden, histories written by authors forgotten by history, textbooks of Latin and Greek. In the corner were corralled a few old desks. This had been their classroom, I realized, and Miss Peregrine, their teacher. I tried to open a pair of heavy doors, twisting the handle, but they were swelled shutso I took a running start and rammed them with my shoulder. They flew open with a rasping shriek and I fell facefirst into the next room. As I picked myself up and looked around, I realized that it could only have belonged to Miss Peregrine. It was like a room in Sleeping Beautys castle, with cobwebbed candles mounted in wall sconces, a mirrored vanity table topped with crystal bottles, and a giant oak bed. I pictured the last time shed been here, scrambling out from under the sheets in the middle of the night to the whine of an airraid siren, rounding up the , all groggy and grasping for coats on their way downstairs.


Were you scared I wondered. Did you hear the planes coming I began to feel unusual. I imagined I was being watched; that the were still here, preserved like the bog , inside the walls. I could feel them peering at me through cracks and knotholes. I drifted into the next room. Weak light shone through a window. Petals of powderblue wallpaper drooped toward a couple of small beds, still clad in dusty sheets. I knew, somehow, that this had been my grandfathers room. Why did you send me here What was it you needed me to see Then I noticed something beneath one of the beds and knelt down to look. It was an old suitcase. Was this yours Is it what you carried onto the train the last time you saw your mother and father, as your first life was slipping away I pulled it out and fumbled with its tattered leather straps. It opened easilybut except for a family of dead beetles, it was empty. I felt empty, too, and strangely heavy, like the planet was spinning too fast, heating up gravity, pulling me toward the floor. Suddenly exhausted, I sat on the bedhis bed, maybeand for reasons I cant quite explain, I stretched out on those filthy sheets and stared at the ceiling. What did you think about, lying here at night Did you have nightmares, too I began to cry. When your parents died, did you know it Could you feel them go I cried harder. I didnt want to, but I couldnt stop myself. I couldnt stop myself, so I thought about all the bad things and I fed it and fed it until I was crying so hard I had to gasp for breath between sobs. I thought about how my greatgrandparents had starved to death. I thought about their wasted bodies being fed to incinerators because people they didnt know hated them. I thought about how the who lived in this house had been burned up and blown apart because a pilot who didnt care pushed a button. I thought about how my grandfathers family had been taken from him, and how because of that my dad grew up feeling like he didnt have a dad, and now I had acute stress and nightmares and was sitting alone in a fallingdown house and crying hot, stupid tears all over my shirt. All because of a seventyyearold hurt that had somehow been passed down to me like some poisonous heirloom, and monsters I couldnt fight because they were all dead, beyond killing or punishing or any kind of reckoning. At least my grandfather had been able to join the army and go fight them. What could I do

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