A major toy retailer almost made an incredible discovery.

Hidden scales and microphones were installed beneath the chairs of mall Santas in demographically similar locations across the country.  By subtracting the weight of the chair and “Santa,” researchers could calculate the heaviness of each lap-faring child.  Recordings were made of the children’s wish lists.  If any correlations emerged between weight and requested toys, the company could more effectively market to children discretely weighed in their stores.  On the verge of identifying one such trend, an elated research team failed to notice that one mall Santa in Nebraska weighed nothing at all…

He sat on the bed and leaned close to her.  Her breathing sounded regular.  Gently, he ran his fingers over her hair.  Warm.  Sound asleep; good.   She would need her rest tomorrow.  Quietly he went to her dresser and opened each drawer, scanning the contents.  In the third, the room’s second-hand moonlight disclosed small, glittering objects.  Ah, she was lucky: he’d found what he wanted.  Then tomorrow would indeed be a big day for her.  Police reports.  Press hounding her for details.  At last, the killer had spared another victim; someone to tell a story.  He left with his prize.

Thank you, Erin, for the inspiration.

Headlights after headlights after headlights pass; comets in the dark.  Someone next to me is screaming, trying to tear my hands from the wheel but I am lost in a private philosophy lesson.  Today’s topic?  Power and consequence.  The stuff of Machiavelli.  Machiavelli would have known not to pass judgment on someone who wields power, not to “fail” someone who controls the outcome of fate.  They mustn’t be told they “cannot have their drivers’ license” because they “lack discipline.”  Discipline?  It takes discipline to navigate this one-way highway, dear instructor.  Headlights after headlights after headlights.  Which will be the last?

This week a book made the New York Times Best Seller list.  I’d call it “my book,” but that would feel dishonest.  I wrote the words, yes, but I cannot remember writing the notes from which I worked.  I find outlines—extensive ones—scrawled in my own handwriting on paper scraps or my bedroom wall.  Brilliant stuff.  But among the plot twists and story arcs I find messages:  “Bury it,” one reads.  “Hidden beneath the straw,” says another.  “Pray,” advises a third.   Needless to say, I enjoy the fruits of my royalties from my home and no longer venture into the barn.