The Gift

 The Gift

This is unedited...my apologies!! 

The Great Blinky Light Heist of the Elements 55+ Community

This article is written with the help of ChatGPT... 

The Great Blinky Light Heist of Evergreen Villas

At Evergreen Villas, Christmas decorations were taken very seriously—especially by the residents of Building C, who believed that blinking lights were the visible proof that one was still alive and well. Which is exactly why no one could believe it when, three days before Christmas, the community center’s legendary blinking light display vanished overnight.

Gone. Every last twinkle.

By 7 a.m., the pickleball players had discovered the crime.

“Now listen here,” said Mr. Putnam, gripping his paddle like a sheriff’s badge, “this was no ordinary theft. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were after.”

Mrs. Heim, who had been warming up her wrists with aggressive circular motions, squinted at the now-dark eaves. “Honestly,” she muttered, “those lights blinked so fast they made my recliner vibrate. I always suspected they'd drive someone to crime.”

Mr. Hunt shook his head gravely. “This is escalation. First it’s blinking lights. Next it’s inflatable snowmen.”

Gasps echoed across the pickleball courts.

By noon, rumors had spread faster than a dropped jar of Bengay. Some blamed teenagers. Others blamed rival communities. But Mrs. Perkins leaned in and whispered her theory with terrifying conviction:

“It was an inside job.”

The investigation heated up when Mrs. Montgomery discovered faint paw prints in the frost behind the center. Paw prints that didn’t look exactly… dog-like.

That’s when everyone remembered.

Rudolph the Holiday Coyote.

Every winter, Rudolph appeared like clockwork—trotting through Evergreen Villas with a red blinking collar light and a suspicious interest in lawn décor. Children loved him. Management had a restraining order. And the blinking lights?

Well.

That night, the residents gathered with flashlights, thermoses of cocoa, and Mr. Hunt’s surprisingly intense walkie-talkie setup. The pickleball crew took shifts like elite tactical units.

At exactly 9:47 p.m., Mrs. Heim hissed, “Movement by the palm tree!”

Out strutted Rudolph the Holiday Coyote—now glowing like a Vegas marquee. The missing lights were tangled all over him: red, green, blue, blinking at chaos speed.

Behind him dragged an extension cord longer than the community bylaws.

Rudolph paused, stared at the group, and wagged his tail proudly, as if to say, I fixed the blinking problem.

Mr. Putnam slowly lowered his paddle. “Well…I’ll be dinged.”

They never did get all the lights back. Some disappeared into the desert night with Rudolph. But the blinking stopped. And peace returned to Evergreen Villas.

Mostly.

Except during pickleball.

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If you’d like, I can also turn this into a short narration script, newsletter version, or add illustrations cues! 🎄🦌🐾

You said:

turn into a newsletter

ChatGPT said:

Here’s a polished, ready-to-print community newsletter version of your story:

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🎄 Evergreen Villas Holiday Edition 🎄

December Community Newsletter Feature

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The Great Blinky Light Heist of Evergreen Villas

By the Evergreen Villas Investigative Committee (and the Pickleball Patrol)

Residents of Evergreen Villas were shaken to their very festive core three days before Christmas when the community center’s legendary blinking holiday lights vanished overnight. Not flickering. Not twinkling. Just… gone.

The first to discover the shocking scene were the early-morning pickleball players.

“This was no ordinary theft,” declared Mr. Putnam, gripping his paddle like a badge of authority. “This was clearly premeditated.”

Nearby, Mrs. Heim squinted up at the now-dark roofline. “Honestly, those lights blinked so fast they made my recliner vibrate. I always suspected they’d drive someone to crime.”

Mr. Hunt, serving a ball with dramatic flair, added gravely, “This is how it starts. First blinking lights. Next, inflatable snowmen.”

By lunchtime, speculation spread faster than holiday fruitcake. Teenagers were blamed. Rival communities were suspected. Even the new maintenance contractor endured a few suspicious glances. But the investigation took a dramatic turn when Mrs. Perkins leaned in during coffee hour and whispered her theory:

“It was an inside job.”

Later that afternoon, Mrs. Montgomery made the discovery that changed everything—faint paw prints in the frosted grass behind the community center. Paw prints that did not look entirely canine.

That’s when everyone remembered.

Rudolph the Holiday Coyote.

A seasonal legend at Evergreen Villas, Rudolph appears each December like clockwork, sporting a blinking red collar and an unsettling curiosity about outdoor decorations. Children adore him. Management files reports about him.

That evening, residents staged a full-scale watch. Armed with flashlights, thermoses of hot cocoa, and Mr. Hunt’s surprisingly advanced walkie-talkie system, the Pickleball Patrol took shifts around the community center.

At precisely 9:47 p.m., Mrs. Heim whispered urgently, “Movement by the palm tree.”

Out strutted none other than Rudolph himself—now glowing like a rolling Christmas tree. The stolen blinking lights were wound around him in a spectacular tangle of red, green, and blue chaos. Behind him trailed an extension cord of heroic length.

Rudolph paused, wagged his tail proudly, and blinked at the stunned audience as if to say, Problem solved.

Mr. Putnam lowered his paddle slowly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be dinged.”

Some of the lights were never recovered, disappearing into the desert night with Rudolph. But the blinking stopped. And peace returned to Evergreen Villas.

Mostly.

(Except during pickleball.)

The Tell-a-Tale Heart - Janice

I want to tell you a tale about myself.  I am a heart.  In my neighborhood I am like the mayor.  All of my neighbors depend on me.  Without me, no one would be able to function.  But sometimes my friend the Brain thinks he runs things, but he really does not.

My homeowner, Mickey Edwards, has had me for 81 Years.  I’ve been very lucky to be here for that long.  My homeowner took better care of me when we were younger but as most tenants, I got neglected and forgotten at times which resulted in I didn’t want to stay around.  We went to a heart repair man called a cardiologist which told my homeowner to give up his favorite Jack Daniels and his stinky cigars.  He did do that, or I wouldn’t have been around as long as I have. 

As the years went by, we got older, and I got more tired. The cardiologist changed my medicine a dozen times.  Sometimes I wouldn’t beat fast enough and sometimes I just went crazy and found all kinds of ways I could stir thing up.  So, they found a device for me that’s called a pacemaker and if I was bad, it would shock me. I hated that but I behaved better after the shock. 

Soon, none of that worked and the cardiologist said there was only one thing left to try. It was an IV medication that went 24 hrs. a day.  But he also said it would only last 6months to a year. 

I felt immediately like my old self.  We traveled, partied and had fun again.  Six months were up, and I was better than ever.  The IV got clogged up a few times but we got that fixed.  I even got to go to Paris.  

Then the year was up.  My homeowner’s care giver watched us like a hawk.  Sure enough, my blood pressure started going down and I felt tired.  I also didn’t beat as fast.  We stayed in the CCU for 23 days.  That was certainly no fun.  They tried everything to get my blood pressure up, and me to work harder.  But it didn’t work. 

The Dr’s told my caregiver there was nothing else they could do and the IV had to come out. They were sending us home without the IV and no medication, for us to say our goodbyes.   They said I could last 2 hours to 2 days without the IV and no medication. 

Our care giver cried every day. Notifying family and friends of our condition.  We came home. Our bed was right by the backyard window so we could see our flowers.  We also got to hug and kiss our dogs a lot.  After two days the kids were all here, all the Grandchildren and friends from out of town.  As my homeowner said: he got to attend his own wake.  After another two days everyone had had gone home.  I thought “I fooled all of you! you suckers.  We are still here.”

Going on eight weeks at home we are STILL here.  We fooled everybody. Defied science!!!  My blood pressure , pulse and oxygen levels are better than they were when I was 20!

And the beat goes on………………………….

Jobs. marc

 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1I3LsRwguMgJe0g2dlzTr2asBUQVReL0F/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=102199702183800118810&rtpof=true&sd=true

A Man of Letters - Marc

            Being a man of letters, it pains me to put pen to paper on this subject. However, time is short, and the truth of things cannot be ignored any longer.

              It was not always this way. In earlier times, my youthful exuberance was boundless, as was my belief in the power of learning. I envisioned a future that was limitless, as I worked to accumulate letters after my last name, like medals worn on a uniform. The competition was brutal, oh yes, with causalities casually tossed to the wayside, pitied, and then forgotten.

              I recall, from an early age, intense competition between schoolmates to excel. In primary school, at the tender age of eight, my main competitor for brightest boy in the class was William Schibel. We would revel in the praise received from our instructors, and celebrate when the other was reprimanded. One incident, which is etched into my memory like a wound that will not heal, involved a day that I forgot an to complete an assignment. When the instructor called upon me, aghast I found myself; having to publicly admit my mistake. My humiliated cherry red face turned to look at William, whose smile was boundless. I would hate him for the remainder of my primary years.

              I believed in my area of expertise, convinced that I would help mankind, and be reimbursed liberally with wealth and prestige. As my letters accumulated, I paid scant attention to the tiny sacrifices demanded for the sake of my advancement. Ethics and morals were being slowly eroded, reshaped like the river stone. But all of that was ignored by the sea of prosperity that surrounded me.

              Of course there were signs, pride and ego can never completely bury the obvious. However, I was a man of letters, and as such, I knew what was best for those inferior to me in education and intelligence. I convinced myself that my unethical behavior was for their sake, therefore I had to persevere on my mission.

              Many of those actions shame me now; however, this is not a confession, and I seek no absolution. I knew, on some level, that power and prestige had darkened my soul, but the soul is invisible to others, its blackness known only to me. As my letters increased, the ease of committing crimes against the body and spirit appeared to not be crimes at all; simply actions demanded of my class status. How many commandments were forgotten and broken? It is easier for me to recall the few that were not.

              I looked down on those uneducated individuals who worked with their hands, their bland uniforms, bland spouses, bland lives. We, the educated and elite, were living our lives in color, while theirs was in black and white. Whenever I was forced to interact with them, they were encouraged to complete their task quickly, and I always resented paying their fee.

              My metamorphosis was gradual, I cannot point to a single episode or event that initiated it. It appeared to me that my cabal hardly recognized my profound changes that were taking place, or more likely they did so and did not care. By the time I had exited the cult of greed and hubris, they might as well have been aliens to me.

              I came to realize that most, if not all of the catastrophic episodes that have plagued mankind were because of actions, or inactions of the educated elite. It was not the farmer, or the lowly soldier, nor the nursemaid who generated conflict between men. No, it was us, the educate elites, who raised the scimitar of death that would sweep across nations, the brunt of which was borne by the serfs who served our lifestyle and excesses. We however, often escaped with minimal loss.

              What is that you say? Yes, it is true, that without us, many of the conveniences that we have come to rely upon would not be possible. But when those conveniences disappear, who will be better adapted for survival? Will it be the farmer or us? The weaver or us? The carpenter or us? As painful as it may be to admit, the farmer, weaver and carpenter have had a far longer tenure on this earth then we.

              I have come to believe it inevitable that what we, the educated elite have brought to the world would someday disappear. But which of us would bring about it?

Will it be the Diplomat class, unable to resolve a simple issue which would then snowball into the Great Final War?

Or perhaps the Geneticist, in her zeal to increase her letters and status, producing something monstrous and unstoppable.

Will it be the AI Ethicist, who decides to look the other way so his company can advance more rapidly than his competitors.

Perhaps the Bacteriologist, ignoring safety protocols in the Gain of Function Laboratory, seeking an edge over others.

              How do I know that the inevitability of these scenarios? Remember William Shibel and I as eight-year-old rivals? Every one of us who has climbed the ladder of letters, has never lost that burning need, like a thirst that can never be quenched, to rise to the top and push our rivals down.

              It was not the actions of the farmer, weaver, or carpenter that has caused this apocalypse to be placed upon us. The claim that it was a Virologist, somewhere in Asia who felt the need to ignore all caution and rain this deathly end upon us is at this point irrelevant.

What is relevant is that the creatures trying to reach me as I cower in this corrugated shed are almost upon me. How fitting, how humorous, how ironic that the most educated, elite among us, have inadvertently produced the least intelligent creatures to destroy us all.

              I have one bullet left in my .38

              I am a man of letters.

              I will not become a zombie.

              BANG

Four Poems - Marc

 Carousel

The children squeal their delight

          as the moving rainbows

Carry them gently past

          the elusive treasure just out of reach

"One more ride daddy," she pleads

          her face flush with joy

He digs deep into his pocket

          to pay the man again

And wonders about his life, going

          round and round, nowhere in particular

His dreams further out of reach each passing year

          as he hums the music of the ride

Untitled

Standing silently and helplessly

          with hands clasped behind them

Necks straining to watch

          the agile hands working

Hoping for a miracle

          as the frigid wind

Brings them closer

          on this desolate street

But the sounds make it clear

          despite his best, there will be no miracles

The man shakes his head

          and calls the tow truck

The Waiting Room

The door moans its protest

          when opened

Like a cranky old man

          given a reason to complain

Leading into a room

          of shadows

Lined with wooden chairs 

          built to cause pain

Pale adults stare

          suddenly neglecting

Magazines they weren't reading

          their eyes dissecting

And I'm certain the stillness 

          will become a grave

When the nurse calls me, like an angel

          and leads me away to save

Untitled

"Trust me," the voice coos

     in a silky tone

Just beyond my recognition

     it is movement at the edge of a fog

"Take my hand," it sings

     I hesitate

The path is unknown to me

     despite my fear and pain

"You can not know my road"

     "Although you have always known you will travel it"

"Call me Justice; rich and poor become equals"

     "When we meet"

But I know your true name

     greatest of thieves 

You steal away the last of my life

     As I place my hand in yours

All American Party - Kathy

 All American Party

Enduring Lesson - Nez

 

The boy had survived, no, endured the beating of his young life. Rather, the beating of a lifetime. A beating no one should experience. Yet he had. Beat up, bruised, a bleeding lip, his jeans ripped, now sobbing quietly, he had endured and survived. Bobby had cried out only once during his lesson. His awareness and understanding of the old man had told him that crying out would only prolong the assault. He remained quiet even after the old man had gone inside.  

It wasn’t his fault. I had cried out to stop it but the old man had simply brushed me aside. I felt terrible and guilty for his beating but didn’t know how to stop it, or how to comfort him. Then his sister screamed as she came out of the house to his side and consoled him. Her sudden appearance had even prompted the old man’s abrupt withdrawal. Bobby though was still upset, hurt and mad. Not so much for the beating, but because he had known that if anything happened to me there would be consequences, and he hadn’t listened to that warning voice in his head.

Bobby didn’t deserve that beating, though in the back of his mind he had known it was a possibility. He knew that simply being four years older made him responsible for me, responsible for not letting anything bad happen to me, yet it had, to both of us actually, “something unacceptable” in the old man’s eyes. And he had to learn. And Bobby learned.

Bobby and I were riding his horse, Trotter, bareback on the shoulder of the highway when a log truck driver, being funny, gave a loud blast on his airhorn. Startled, Trotter had reared up and we both had slid down the horse’s back and crashed, me onto the gravel and Bobby on top of me. I was bruised and had a couple of scrapes and one was bleeding a little, and I had cried but I was not badly hurt. Nothing was broken, just scrapes on my arms and a little tear in my shirt. Realizing I was okay I had stopped crying. I couldn’t let Bobby see me cry.

Bobby had raced to retrieve Trotter and together we returned the horse to its pasture. Then as we walked, or trudged, the three or four blocks back home I could tell that he was worried and I said we should make up a story that I was in a fight, and I laughed. But Bobby didn’t. He had said that it wouldn’t matter. The old man would see my scrapes and bruises and lay in to him because he had allowed something bad to happen to me and that was unacceptable.

Suddenly, I felt terrible for Bobby.

And he was right. The old man, sitting on the porch-steps as we approached, saw my scrapes, bruises and slightly bleeding arm and demanded to know what happened. I began to say I had won the fight, but Bobby jumped in and told the truth. The old man grew mad, stood and began yelling. I screamed, “ it wasn’t his fault, it was the truck driver’s”, but the old man ignored me. In a rage he attacked Bobby. It was worse than we imagined.

But now, now it was done. The lesson complete.

Now, with his cuts and bruises and bleeding lip, which would all heal in time, Bobby lay where he had last landed, his spirit broken. And so was  our relationship. I liked Bobby and had hoped he would be my big brother forever. He was twelve, I was only eight. We were step-brothers and in the short time we were acquainted he had treated me as his little brother. Until now. Bobby never acknowledged or spoke to me ever again.  

One Tug, Two Moves - Nez

 One Tug, Two Moves, By Nez

LLLN-2 1968 Marc

 LLLN-2 1968