The Tiniest Invaders, Book One Coexistence

The Tiniest Invaders

Book One: Coexistence

Written by William Bebb

Copy editor Monty 'Danger' Hyman

Cover graphic artist Hadden Smith IV

This story is dedicated to the memory of my parents, William & Sally. Thank you for raising me to be the sick twisted man I am today.

This anthology of stories is a Hands on Productions & Publication, copyright 2013. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this anthology without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal, rude, crude, and subject to U.S. and international laws that don’t include decapitation of violators, but should. These tales are purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual real companies, products, events or people; living or dead or undead, is a coincidence. So don’t get your panties in a wad if you see a name you recognize and find it offensive; it’s just a coincidence.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

handsonpp@aol.com

You can visit the Hands On Productions & Publications website for updates and more information at www.sites.google.com/site/hoppublications

Other works of fine literature by this author include

Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park (Keck)

Zombies of All Hallows Evil (Keck)

What the Keck!? Zombies of the Caribbean (Keck)

Chronicles of the Undead, Volume One: The Emperor of Bayonne Prison

Zombies & Other Unpleasant Things

The Tiniest Invaders Book Two: The Meandering Menace

Upcoming Novels:

Chronicles of the Undead Book II; Twisto's Town (Expected by Spring 2014)

The Tiniest Invaders; Book III Conclusion (2014)

KECK Legacy (Coming eventually)

PREFACE & VARIOUS OBLIGATORY WARNINGS

Sometimes I really believe I'm a masochist. Over the last month I've revisited and done revisions to both Valley of Death Zombie Trailer Park and Zombies of All Hallows Evil, and now I'm doing cleanup work on The Tiniest Invaders Book One.

This tale started with a simple short story which consisted solely of Chapter One. Then, like a fool, I went ahead and embarked on a trilogy without intending to do so.

I've seen a great many science fiction movies and have usually felt… unsatisfied by them. The question, Why are the aliens doing the things they do? is one that always bugs me. Okay, maybe not 'always' but it usually does.

I like The Tiniest Invaders and not just because I created it.

The newly arrived aliens would be content to live in coexistence with humanity, but they quickly realize something that I myself have long suspected. A disturbingly large percentage of people are nuts. And unfortunately, humanity isn't content to destroy themselves without taking the planet down with them.

WARNING, The Tiniest Invaders is a complex tale that could easily confuse people with limited intelligence and imagination.

Don't misunderstand me. I love the characters and the story very much, but quite a bit happens and it requires a good bit of intelligence to follow the story.

You know if you're smart. At least I hope you know whether you are or not. I think it would be sad if you were one of the many people who believe that they are smart but in reality is an idiot.

Not that I have anything against idiots. Many of my best friends are idiots.

The story examines what happens when very small (Some might say tiny) aliens come to Earth and discover humanity is largely made up of stupid people who do stupid things. I like this story because I witness stupidity, to one degree or another, every day.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER_ONE, It begins with a bang

CHAPTER TWO, Sugar and spice

CHAPTER THREE, All God’s children don’t need shoes

CHAPTER FOUR, As the crow flies

CHAPTER FIVE, True grits

CHAPTER SIX, Ghost stories

CHAPTER SEVEN, Things, great small and nasty

CHAPTER EIGHT, The new confederacy & dragons

CHAPTER NINE, Perverts and pigs

CHAPTER TEN, No deliverance

CHAPTER ELEVEN, Stormy weather

CHAPTER TWELVE, Hookers & autopsies

CHAPTER THIRTEEN, Bad dreams, worse reality

CHAPTER FOURTEEN, Dust to dust and singularities

CHAPTER FIFTEEN, Birmingham Blues

Closing thoughts & thanks

CHAPTER ONE: So it begins with a bang

The television played softly as Charles sat in the big, somewhat stained but nonetheless extremely comfortable, recliner with his eyes closed. His mind drifted away from the host of irritations that had marked his day which he spent working the cash register in the exciting world of Big Jimmy's Gas & More store. He was in the beginning of an extremely exciting dream about the two cheerleaders who came in from the high school down the block earlier that day. In the dream the young ladies were wearing cheer-leading outfits that would never meet the approval of the local school board and were much too short to be anything more than what they were: A middle aged man's best kind of dream. Unfortunately, just as the perky cheerleaders were bending over examining some items on the bottom shelf he was rudely interrupted.

A high pitched yet masculine scream echoed from somewhere in the house and he was once again thrust into a world sadly devoid of scantily clad cheerleaders and back into his living room where the television showed two politicians discussing how each were more liberal than the other. Jumping to his aching feet, he half stumbled half ran toward the screaming. He grabbed his baseball bat from the umbrella stand while stumbling down the hallway. Please be some dumb bastard trying to break in. Maybe a crack head or someone else I can beat to a pulp. Charles was thinking about the burglar who broke in a week earlier and stole several relatively inexpensive but hard to replace items. The fact he didn't have insurance that would cover the losses, fed his anger as he hurried down the hall.

The screams came from behind the bathroom door.

If a burglar broke in there I bet he's already sorry, Charles thought, relaxing his grip on the bat.

His wife Barbara was apparently having a fit over something in there.

Charles knocked and waited. He'd learned a lot over eighteen and half years of marriage. One of the most important things being that if the bathroom door was closed and she was in there you didn't open the door without her permission regardless of screams. He learned that a long time ago and still had the scar on his forehead where she'd hit him with a scented candle to prove it.

Get your ass in here and kill this damn thing, you idiot! Barbara's non-melodious voice shrieked through the door.

He took a deep breath of air and opened the door. Avoiding looking at where she was, he saw her flabby shaking arm pointing at the wall opposite where she sat. He quickly spotted the object of Barbara's screaming fit.

A small brown roach, maybe an inch long, was in the corner where the bathroom wall joined the ceiling.

Holding his breath he reached up and plucked it off the wall. It wiggled in his tightly closed hand as he hurried out of the bathroom desperate for fresh air.

Close the damn door, you idiot. And wash yer hands when ya get rid of that nasty thing, his dearly beloved wife suggested.

He shut the door and walked to the kitchen.

Charles wasn't the squeamish type about bugs. So carrying it in his hand, while deeply disturbing to many people, didn't bother him in the slightest. He stopped and considered tossing it in the trashcan. Then thought again as he felt it energetically crawling in his closed hand. He knew he had to kill it or she'd be screaming again in a few more minutes about a roach in the kitchen. I could just squeeze it till it pops. A thoughtful look crossed his face. But then I'd have to wash my hands. He shook his head. I'll just whack it, with her magazine, and toss it in the trash.

Charles always hated washing in general and avoided it whenever possible. He never bathed unless his wife had enough of his body odor (which cologne only partially covered) and forced him into the shower.

He released the roach and rolled up the magazine. It had a picture of a sexy teenage pop music singer who would have no career at all if she weren't the sexiest thing he had seen since his recently interrupted daydream. When he was ready to whack it, the insect scurried under the microwave oven. He sighed, heard the toilet flush and knew Barbara would be coming soon. She always washed her hands.

He set aside the magazine and lifted the microwave and put it on the floor.

Good God. What a nasty mess, he thought in disgust, looking at all the sticky stuff that had congealed under the microwave. Stuck in the goo were several pennies, a couple of dimes, a pen, a receipt from a restaurant and one slowly moving roach. He surveyed the mess, heard the bathroom door open and the elephantine steps of his wife and cringed involuntarily. Her footsteps were receding. She was going into the living room.

Charles relaxed and looked for the paper towels and spray bottle of window cleaner. When he got back to the mess everything was still there except the roach. He squirted a small tidal wave of blue tinted liquid over the gooey mess. After briefly considering trying to pry out the dimes he decided against it and wiped up the nasty mess. He took the soggy paper towel across the kitchen and tossed the whole mess into the trash.

It's probably cleaner than it’s been since we moved in here, he realized after wiping the counter clean. No wonder we got roaches. She hasn't cleaned this house, really cleaned it, for- he stopped and tried to think of the last time she'd really cleaned anything. Sighing again, he put the microwave back in place and went to wash his hands. A roach is one thing but that gooey mess was just damn nasty, he thought, turning on the kitchen faucet.

As he finished washing and began drying his hands on a paper towel he felt something in his palm. He tossed the towel in the trash and looked closely at his hand. Got a damn splinter, he realized after spotting a little brown thing sticking in the palm of his hand. A tiny drop of blood oozed out around it.

Using his fingernails he tried pinching it out and felt it go in deeper. Shit, where are those damn tweezers? He mumbled, as he dug through the kitchen drawers. There's the turkey thermometer, those little metal ties used to tie loaves of bread shut, lots of grocery receipts. Why dear Lord does she save grocery receipts? He wondered, closing the drawer and walking down the hallway staring at his hand. The aroma in the bathroom still reeked of its last occupant.

Charles breathed thru his mouth again and looked for the disinfectant spray. He grabbed the can with a pine tree on its label and shook it. Nothing covers the smell of my wife's shit better than pine, he thought, and wondered if the company who made the stuff would use that in a commercial as he liberally sprayed the small room.

It's no worse than the ones you leave, Barbara said, cackling loudly from the living room where she'd taken possession of the recliner and was currently watching a shopping channel. The volume on the TV was cranked up all the way. As Charles sprayed the bathroom he could clearly hear the host informing the audience there were only a few dozen Little Angel's Collector Plates still available for only $19.99, plus shipping and handling of course.

He opened the medicine cabinet and pawed through the contents. There was enough foil wrapped suppositories to last even the most constipated person at least five years. There was also a small box of adhesive bandages, an empty bottle of aspirin, a mostly empty tube of hemorrhoid cream, and behind a small glass bottle of iodine a rusty pair of tweezers. He found them stuck in another small pool of congealed goop and had to pry them loose. After turning the hot water faucet on he washed off the tweezers.

Charles flipped on the light over the bathroom sink and stood poised to pull out the splinter, but stopped. He stared at his hand and the splinter in a combination of confusion and disbelief.

In the sickly flickering glow of florescent light he wasn't sure he was really seeing something odd or not. He stepped into the hallway and looked again. The color around the splinter had gone from its normal peachy hue to dull dark gray all around the splinter to about the a size of a dime. The fuck? He thought, while trying to grip the splinter with the tweezers.

Never accused of being a graceful or even mildly coordinated man he fiddled and prodded at the splinter for several minutes. He grew more frustrated and mildly alarmed as the gray color around the splinter grew in size.

Gotcha, he grunted and pulled out the almost a quarter of an inch long splinter. No blood oozed out of the tiny hole as he stared at the splinter still held in the tweezers. His eyes opened wider as the small brown splinter slowly wiggled back and forth in the tweezers grip. Just flush the damn thing. Squirt some iodine on yer hand and go try to stop Barbara from ordering some stupid collectors plates. The thought was very persuasive as he heard her punching in the phone number from the living room and muttering to herself, Ooh that's too cute the way the puppy is sitting up.

He held the moving splinter in the tweezers and looked at his hand with the growing dull gray patch of skin as revelation hit. It's some kind of poison shit. Great.

After carrying the slowly waving splinter back to the kitchen, he got a small plastic sandwich bag and dropped it in. Charles prodded his discolored palm and was alarmed at how cool and numb it had grown. There wasn't even a tingle, but the discolored area was spreading into his fingers and was creeping around to the other side of his hand. The skin where the splinter had been was as black as his socks and the color faded up to the original gray in the slowly spreading area on his hand.

He hurried back to the bathroom and poured the whole bottle of iodine on his hand wherever it was turning those frightening gray and black colors. Charles tried to wiggle his affected fingers but they wouldn't move. They felt dead.

Breathing harder and scared he went to the living room and listened as Barbara recited the credit card number to the courteous operator who was standing by ready to take her order.

Barbara honey, I need to use the phone. I think something- Charles started to say before she glared up at him.

Hang on one sec honey, my idiot husband is whining bout something, she interrupted, fixed him with the look, and waited for him to say something else. The look she gave him made the prospect of his hand falling off seem rather unimportant. Her eyes narrowed, her crooked discolored teeth were bared back, and her breathing had started that unmistakable gearing up sound she made when she was about to start yelling.

He backed up and looked down sheepishly. Uh, never mind honey. It will be okay. You go ahead and get your- He pointed at the TV where there was an extreme close-up of a plate. The plate had a painting of a puppy, all brown with bushy hair and a pointy tail. The puppy was standing on its hind legs and its front paws were reaching up at several red, yellow, and blue butterflies. It was the most vomit inducing thing Charles had ever seen.

You gonna shut up and not be a horse's ass while I'm on the phone? It was phrased like a question, yet carried with it the undeniable tone of an order.

Charles nodded and walked out of the living room and back to the kitchen.

I'll get the bag and take the splinter to the hospital, he thought, nodding as he grabbed his car keys and started reaching for the bag and stopped. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the counter unable to believe what he was seeing.

Three roaches, identical to the one from earlier, were sitting near the bag and one of the bugs was shooting what appeared to be a brilliantly bright laser beam at it. He faintly smelled burning plastic and saw the bag slowly being burnt open by the light coming from the bug. His hand forgotten, he watched as the bug that had been firing the laser walked quickly in thru the hole it had made.

The other two roaches turned around and angled themselves so they were facing him. The bug that had gone into the bag lowered itself down and then a small bright light winked on near the bottom. Several tiny things came out of it and moved over to the slowly waving splinter.

He ran to his desk and tried to open the drawers with his numb hand, found it impossible and used his other one until he found his magnifying glass he used for building model cars. Or, as Barbara believed, he used while sniffing glue as he built model cars.

When he got back to the kitchen the one roach was still in the bag and the splinter was slowly moving back toward the bug surrounded by dozens of small moving figures. Another bug (or whatever the hell they were) was still sitting outside the bag pointing at him. He wondered briefly where the third one might be but had to see what the Hell was going on down there and lowered the magnifying glass.

Sweat covered his body in a thin sour smelling nimbus as he stared at the tiny moving objects. The little things were still much too tiny to clearly make out, but they had attached something that looked like shiny silver strings and were moving the splinter closer to the body of the bug, thing or ship? Could those really be tiny spaceships sitting on my counter, just inches away from a jar of extra crunchy peanut butter?

He stared in amazement and wonder as the little things began shifting the splinter against the roach. He shook his head and stared as bright lights flared where the splinter rejoined the ship. I should call the newspaper or the government. I could be famous. He saw, in his infertile imagination, a newspaper featuring his photograph with the words Charles Campbell discovers aliens in his kitchen!

He lost track of time, but eventually noticed fewer little people were around and realized they were going back inside the roach. In the several minutes he had been staring at the tiny recovery operation the third roach, the one he hadn't noticed disappear, had climbed up and sat on his dull gray hand. By the time the last of the tiny people were going back in their spaceship that looked like a roach his hand had slowly started changing shades back from black and gray to a much more healthy pink hue. He was watching the bug in the bag walking out when he felt the tingles of his previously numb hand. Charles glanced down and saw the third bug slowly bringing what looked like tiny hoses back inside.

He stared at his hand, saw the more familiar skin tone and sighed with a smile. He looked down as the third bug walked off his hand and all three lined up on the counter facing him.

A strong bright white light rapidly flashed into his eyes and he heard clearly a voice begin to speak. You will not remember anything unusual happening this evening. You simply had a splinter. Your hand hurt for a while and that is all you will remember. There were some unintelligible whispers before the message continued. "And you will never again approach another roach or any other bug. Go back to your normal existence. That is all."

The bright flashing lights winked out and the small roaches remained motionless as Charles rubbed his eyes, yawned, and went to the refrigerator for a beer while briefly wondering why his hand tingled slightly. He had just popped the top off his beer and was taking a sip when Barbara started to yell.

You goddamned idiot! Look! More roaches and you standing there swilling beer! She brought down the cutting board on the three scurrying bugs with both flabby arms swinging it. It was a heavy one, made of beautiful oak, which had been passed down from generation to generation; never to be passed down again.

People for thirty miles around heard the explosion. Houses within half a mile of the blast site, formerly known as Charles and Barbara's house, caught fire from the blast wave and windows were shattered for several miles around. Twenty people were struck temporarily blind from the flash of brilliant white light. The radiation levels were never revealed to the public, but dozens of people died within a few days of the blast. The FBI, Homeland Security, CIA, and several large black vans filled with men in odd looking uniforms with masks and respirators cordoned off the approximately fifteen miles around the explosion site.

The only public explanation theorized was that apparently terrorists had been experimenting and were trying to build a nuclear weapon when it, presumably, accidentally detonated. After all, why would anyone nuke a town of 1,800 people in rural Northern Alabama? One member of The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission summed up the town's fate this way on TV.

The only things that will be able to live around the immediate blast site here in Palmerdale for the next two hundred years are roaches.

CHAPTER TWO: Sugar and spice

The sun was setting as a limping possum trundled slowly across and through a thicket of leafy green kudzu. It wiggled its nose and peered at the clearing ahead. Sniffing the air intensely, it was unsure if its eyesight or nose was to blame for the confusion. It smelled no people in the area, but a human girl was sprawled in the kudzu plants only a few feet away. Deciding to trust its nose, it continued to move slowly forward. It moved cautiously but fell over on its side and remained motionless as the girl began to speak.

Hello. I am Betty White. I have come here to visit my relatives. I am twelve years old. The girl spoke in a normal tone of voice but her eyes did not blink, nor did any part of her body move except her mouth.

A squirrel stopped climbing a nearby tree looked down at the girl and remained still as she spoke. It had seen the girl, gradually increasing in size, over the last few weeks and thought it slightly curious but otherwise held no particular opinion on the matter.

The girl's body grew larger every couple of days. Each time it grew, a large silvery ball descended from the sky the night before.

The squirrel didn't like the sounds the ball made and would leave the area whenever it came. When the diminutive woodland creature came back the first time, after the ball left, it found a girl's head on the ground cushioned by the leafy kudzu plants. Every time the ball came and left the girl's body was larger. Its growth seemed odd to the squirrel but only in a passing way. It had more important things to consider. Fall was here, winter was coming, and nuts didn't collect themselves.

The girl turned her head toward the prone body of the possum and her eyes opened slightly wider. She sat upright and then stood. Wearing a black short sleeved shirt and shorts, she squatted down and poked the possum gently with her index finger. You are not dead. You are pretending to be dead so I will not harm you, but you have nothing to fear from me. I will neither eat nor hurt you, she said then leaned back in the underbrush and opened her mouth wide. A blue butterfly fluttered to a stop inside her mouth.

The squirrel lost interest and wandered away.

The girl remained motionless and eventually the possum quietly limped away as a small roach climbed up and sat on the girl's forehead.

For an hour nothing changed, except the setting sun.

A robin landed on a tree branch overhead and looked down. It spotted the tasty looking roach and swooped down. Using its beak, it attempted to bite the insect in half. The roach's body flashed a brilliant blue-white light and the robin slid off of the girls face and fell to the ground dead.

As the last rays of the sun left the sky a silver ball, about two feet in diameter, descended from somewhere far above the Earth. It settled into the kudzu plants just in front of her and a small dark rectangle opened on its surface. Five roaches, two ladybugs and a canary emerged. They moved to the girl’s outstretched hand and remained motionless there for nearly another hour.

A crow, with smoke singed feathers and a missing wing, hopped from under the weeds and entered the silver ball. The dark rectangle closed and the butterfly flew rapidly into the sky heading south. The roach that had been sitting on her forehead climbed into the girl's mouth while the other insects and canary went off in different directions.

She turned toward the distant sounds of yelling and music and started to walk in toward them.

*****

Run! Run, damn it! Coach Waldrip yelled, holding a clipboard in his big sweaty hands. He swore and threw the clipboard at the bench without looking.

Freshman Tommy Owens had taken off his helmet just seconds earlier to drink some water. The thrown clipboard connected solidly with his forehead, surprising the teenager and causing him to fall backward off of the bench.

Jake Carver looked down at his stunned teammate and laughed. But looking up at the scoreboard his laugh quickly died. It was the fourth quarter with five minutes left on the clock.

His team, The Fighting Possums, trailed The Rebels twenty-nine to twenty-three. He watched the game for a few seconds then turned and watched Amy Lynn leading the other cheerleaders. The squad was gyrating rhythmically to the marching band's music. He smelled the popcorn drifting over from the stands as some of the crowd began to leave, apparently trying to avoid the heavy traffic after the game.

Amy was on top of an impressive pyramid of teenage girls cheering loudly.

From his vantage point he could see up her small skirt and smiled.

A sudden whack to the side of his helmet made him turn to face the red faced coach Waldrip.

You, Carver! Get your mind right! Get in there and run the Jethro plays! I'll signal which ones, now get your ass out there! The coach yelled, as spittle flew from his lips.

You better calm down coach or you'll have a heart attack, Jake thought, as he ran onto the field to his teammates.

Coming onto the field is number twenty-two, Jake Carver, the announcer said, in an over the top excited voice. "While they're huddling up, let me remind everyone that Sonny James Used Cars is proud to bring you live coverage of this exciting game tonight on WRAG FM; The voice of Ragland.

Remember that tomorrow is free hot dog day at Sonny James so bring the kids, bring the dogs, heck why not slap the dust and cobwebs off of the mother-in-law and haul her along too?

It’s first down at the Rebel's forty yard line, with three minutes and twenty five seconds left in the game. The Possums have lined up for the snap. Carver fades back. But no one's open. He feints left and then sprints down the center and- Oh baby, he's been dog piled at the thirty-four yard line."

The announcer continued to ramble, but all Jake heard was a repetitive series of hollow thumping sounds as he lay motionless on the field.

He awoke on his back when the coach (never trained in proper medical procedures) judiciously threw a cup of icy cold water in his face. Jake felt woozy as he sat up and tried to decipher what the coach was screaming at him. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton as he shook his head.

Jake, wake up! Can you hear me? The team needs you, boy! Come on, suck it up! Get out there! Do it for the school! Waldrip yelled, bending over him.

Jake noticed the sweat stained armpits of the coach’s shirt and smelled a hint of whiskey trying to hide under the aroma of chewing tobacco as he looked up. His hearing and vision cleared at the same moment the coach said, Do it for the school.

The boy nodded and his fellow players helped him stand up. He glanced at the scoreboard. Fourth down? How long was I out? He wondered, trotting back onto the field.

As the teams lined up for the last play of the game, a young blonde haired girl wearing a black short sleeved shirt and shorts stood silently watching from the Rebel's end zone. The girl glanced briefly at the stands, watching the people yelling, and then looked back as Jake shouted Hike!

Carver has the ball! The announcer shouted over the public address system and for all the listeners on WRAG radio. "He's under pressure. He's swinging left and running hard. He's at the twenty… the ten… Touchdown Possums!

With twenty seconds left in the game, and the score tied at twenty-nine, Waldrip calls for his last time out.

Just a friendly reminder folks; Sonny James has just received a dozen, that's right twelve, like new used cars this afternoon. All of them come with low mileage and all are protected by the Sonny James personal guarantee. Sonny wants you and your family to come on down tomorrow, enjoy some free hotdogs, and with every purchase receive a free brand new AM-FM radio.

I was just handed a note to remind everyone, if you'd like to donate to help out the people in Palmerdale, the Red Cross blood mobile is in the parking lot. And stay tuned to WRAG after the game for the best in classic rock and roll."

Jake watched, from the sidelines, as Tommy Owens kicked the field goal. It was good and the remaining crowd cheered wildly. After the ball sailed through the goal very few people saw the little girl reach up and catch it one-handed. Jake saw the catch and the girl staring back at him as he cheered along with the rest of the team. When the cheerleaders and players blocked his view of the girl he felt an odd desire to go talk to her.

Tommy was grinning like he'd just won the lottery as Amy Lynn gave him a big hug.

The marching band was playing, and the milling crowd made it hard for Jake to think clearly as he worked his way through the knots of people until he saw the goal posts and past the end-zone where the girl had been standing. He didn't see her in the small groups of people heading toward the parking lot. Trotting over to where she had been standing, he looked around but she was gone.

He unsnapped his helmet and slid it off. Sweat dripped down his face and the back of his neck as he looked down at the football or what remained of it. He bent down and picked up the deflated ball. There were four small holes running along its length. Poking his finger inside one of the holes, Jake looked confused as the announcer wrapped up his broadcast. "Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who aren't quite sure, it is official the Ragland Fighting Possums have beaten the Rebels thirty to twenty-nine. Coach Waldrip certainly has a lot to be thankful for tonight. If you'd like to show a little thankfulness don't forget the Red Cross bloodmobile will be taking donations in the parking lot for another hour.

Drive carefully on your way home and don't forget tomorrow there's going to be all the free hot dogs you can eat at Sonny James Used Cars, where they treat you like family.

We now return you to our regular programming."

Thomas McGee slowed his old truck to a crawl and then stopped as his wife shouted at him. Pull over you old coot. That poor little girl looks lost, Sally said unrolling the passenger side window and called to a girl watching the cars go past. Girl, where are your shoes?

The blonde girl dressed in black shorts and shirt looked at the old lady in the car saying, I have no shoes. Then tilted her head very slightly and added, Ma'am.

The old lady said something to the driver of the truck and then opened her door. Sally was nearly ninety years old, but she moved with amazing speed as she walked over to the young girl. They were nearly the same height and the girl looked at the old woman as she came closer.

Where are your folks, sweetie? Why don't you have shoes? Are you lost? You look lost.

I, the girl said then paused for a moment before continuing. I have no folk’s ma'am. In that, I have no parents to speak of. I did not know footwear was required. Is it a law? As to being lost, I know precisely where I am. I am in Ragland Alabama. She paused again before adding, My name is Betty White. It is nice to meet you."

My mamma always used to say All God's children got shoes. I believe we have some in one of the closets at home that would fit you, Sally said, and waited a