Douglas Rees
I was born on October 19th, 1947 in the hospital at March Air Force Base just outside Riverside, California. My father, Norman, was a career sergeant who'd served as an aircraft mechanic and infantryman in the Philippines campaign early in the war and was taken prisoner on Bataan. My mother, Agnes, was a nurse at the hospital where he was sent to recuperate after the war was over.
Until I was fifteen, I lived on or near a number of Air Force bases in this country and in Germany. My sister, Patricia, was born in 1950 at Travis AFB.
Until I was six, I wanted to be a fireman. Between six and twelve, I wanted to be a paleontologist. When I was twelve, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I still haven't outgrown that.
I made some occasional stabs at writing and submitting manuscripts in my twenties and thirties. When I turned forty-seven, I decided to start writing things more regularly. I've been doing so ever since.
“I cast a spell to make me Juliet. It worked. But I forgot that Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy. I got what I asked for.”
“But the only game she wanted to play was Kidnapper, where she tied me up and left me in my own tree house for about twelve hours, until Dad climbed up and got me down. Why hadn’t I at least called for help? I had. But no one had heard me. Probably because of the gag in my mouth.”
“How high did I get?” I wanted to know.”
“I went to outer space,” I said, “But I didn’t like it.”
“What is that?" Dad said, looking at the doll."It’s called the Scream," I said."I know that, but what us it?” Dad said.“Maybe she sleeps with it,” I said to Dad as he tucked it under his arm.“Then no wonder it’s screaming,” he said.”
“Careful, Edmund,” I said. “She eats guys for breakfast.”“Should I pour milk on meself?” Edmund asked me, and grinned.”
“I'd heard of Vlad Dracul, but only the name. The kids at Cotton Maher never said much except things like "The football team's up against Vlad this Saturday. Pray for them." When I'd heard that, I'd asked the kid who'd said it what the big deal was. "Shut up," he'd explained.”
“Dear Mr. Gibbon. Sorry I was absent. Here is some salted food. Please grade it the way you would a jenti piece of beef jerky.”