Richcelt

Okay, NOW I'll read and give critique...

From mother's perspective. Interesting. Looks like a good beginning. Is there any more?

The worst day of my life started with Sarah bringing me breakfast, something she'd never done before.

"What's this?" I asked as I sat up in bed. I looked at the tray table she held in her hands. On it was a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast, and a glass of orange juice. Next to the plate was the morning newspaper. She simply smiled as she placed the tray onto the bed in front of me. As I did all of the cooking in the house I eyed the breakfast meal in front of me with an appraising eye. The eggs had apparently started out as being over hard and morphed into scrambled eggs. Despite that effort, they still appeared a bit runny and under done. The bacon was burnt as was the toast.

"It's a bit of a celebration," Sarah answered cryptically. She motioned for me to eat. I did a bit. A few bites of the underdone eggs were about all I could muster. The bacon felt like ash in my mouth. The toast was okay. I washed it down with half of the orange juice before I cast her a suspicious eye.

"A celebration of what?" I asked, knowing that it was nowhere near any special occasion worthy of celebration. Not our wedding anniversary (that was two months prior), and not anybody's birthday.

"Well," she began with a broad smile, "you know how I'd been feeling sick to my stomach for the past few weeks? We thought it might be that bug that's been going around? I went on a hunch and decided to find another answer."

"What answer?"

Sarah lifted up the paper to reveal a long plastic object that she'd placed under it. There was a plus symbol clearly visible on the plastic display. I looked at it in surprise. "Is that what I think it is?" Sarah smiled even wider and nodded vigorously.

"I'm pregnant!" she exclaimed.

I nearly knocked over the breakfast tray in my attempt to hug my wife of ten years. Emotions and memories flooded my brain at once. I was twelve years Sarah's senior, and had almost given up on ever having a wife and family of my own when I met Sarah. I came from a large family and wanted that for myself. Sarah had just gotten her Masters in business and was interning at my office. We hit it off right away and were married a year later. She was twenty-five and full of life. I felt certain that the family that had eluded me was guaranteed. After ten years of trying, we were on the verge of using medical means to force what nature had been denying us. But now, there was no need. Sarah, now thirty-five, and me at forty-seven, were about to have our very first child. The fact that was probably also going to be our only child was a brief thought that I quickly put aside.

"Of course, this is a supermarket test," Sarah cautioned as we broke our mad embrace. "I've made an appointment with the clinic this afternoon to make sure." I nodded in understanding. As accurate as the advertisements claim those over-the-counter tests to be, there is still an amount of inaccuracy that leads to false results. We wanted to be certain for sure. I placed a lid on my enthusiasm and went about my normal weekend morning routine.

At around one, Sarah and I drove across town to the clinic to have a more accurate test done. I was surprised that the clinic was even open on a Saturday, but I was glad that it was and that they were able to see Sarah right away. I sat in nervous anticipation in the waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. All sorts of thoughts crossed my mind. What if it was a false alarm? What would we do then? That would probably be the final catalyst to force us to look into in vitro for real. What if Sarah were actually pregnant? Then what? Was our house big enough? Should we move into something bigger? With more rooms? Boy or girl?

My head was swimming with so many questions I almost didn't notice Sarah walk into the waiting room. She was holding a sheet of paper and was crying. My heart sank into my gut as I shot to my feet. Sarah slowly walked up to me with the printout and then looked up at me. She managed a weak smile. "I'm pregnant," she said through her tears of joy. Soon I had tears of my own as we embraced once again.

We thanked the nurses profusely and paid what we owed for the visit. I would have paid ten times that amount for the good news they'd given us. Instead we got back into the car and began the trek home. All the while I peppered her with questions, and we bantered back and forth about what the next steps should be.

"How far along?"

"About six weeks now."

"Wow."

"I know! The fact that my period was late kind of gave me the clue that my 'illness' wasn't really an illness." She held up the printout. "Now we know why."

"Now we know why," I repeated.

We were stopped at a major intersection a mile away from our house by a red light. I saw the city bus behind us not slowing down through the rear-view mirror. The driver was looking down at something as the bus continued to barrel toward us. I could clearly see him look up from his phone at the last second and slam on his breaks just as I slammed on mine, but it was too late.

The bus completely caved in the trunk on the sedan as it impacted and pushed us out into the intersection, despite the brakes locking up all of my wheels. We screeched into crossing traffic, coming directly into the path of a semi truck.

The semi hit us at full speed, slamming into the passenger door where Sarah sat. In slow motion, as the door crumpled under the force, all of the glass shattered and filled the cabin. I heard a loud crack over the cacophony of metal scraping and crushing metal, and rubber screeching across asphalt. The glass shards twinkled in the sunlight as they whipped past my face, digging into the skin just enough to tear a small wound before skipping away in another direction.

The force of the impact lifted the car off of its tires and it flew sideways, diagonally across the intersection. It only came to a stop after it had hit the concrete traffic signal pole with enough force for the pole to cut two feet into the driver's side rear door. The car dropped to the ground and rested there. It was then I noticed that something had fallen into my lap.

Before I looked at what I had in my lap, I turned to look at the pole now sitting in the seat behind me. Two feet closer and it would have torn through me. I wish now that it would have. I looked from the pole to my lap and wished to God that the pole hadn't missed me. It was Sarah's head in my lap.

It was covered in blood and resting at an odd enough angle for me to know instantly that her neck had been broken. The impact of the truck and the glass of the door had caved her head in at the temple. Her right eye was open, or exposed, I couldn't be completely certain which, and fixed as it looked at the smashed dashboard. I looked down the length of her half crushed body to see if there was any sign of life when my eyes landed on the printout still clutched in her hand.

With tears in my eyes I managed to move my sore arms enough to cradle the head of my wife of ten years, knowing that with her went the child just beginning to develop inside her. With her went the only hope of my ever having a child of my own. I sobbed at my double loss,the salty tears stinging the cuts on my face and mingling with the blood slowly issuing from them, wishing that the pole had been just two feet closer.

End

Yeah, no kidding "terrible title". Sheesh! Okay, I'll come back to this Foxglove (especially if you write more).

Deadline?

Thanks everyone. I really struggled with that ending too. Not so much how it ended, but in the structure of trying to relate the ending. Because it was based on the song, and if you are familiar with it, the ending is obvious (and I agree GLB, it was probably best that I left the "based on..." part until the end). But writing that ending out was a real pain. The last two paragraphs were written and re-written and combined and split apart and all sorts of stuff... and I'm still not quite happy with it. I didn't feel like I was translating into words what I was seeing in my head properly. Was it too little information? Too much? Redundant? I really struggled with that. Apparently you all got what I was trying to relate, so I'm satisfied with that.

I based the trio on my in-laws; fictionalized and taken to an extreme. But the dynamic between the oldest sister and her interactions with the younger siblings I have seen at many a family gathering. That part of it was easy to write, fortunately.

Glad you all liked it.

Nicely done. Interesting plot twists in there, and a few red herrings. I expected the room to hold a fully dead body, and I saw the double cross that Kevin played coming, but not Simon's answer to it. Good job once again.

Nothing like a funeral to bring out the "best" in people.

Yeah it did seemed rushed, etc. etc. blahdy blah. However, I think you did a good job of relaying the scene through the eyes of a child who'd too young to understand the world around her. Good job there.

Any part of this from experience?

The house was now empty. Two small moving trucks and a large pickup truck were loaded up with possessions. There was a large dumpster filled to overflowing with most of the rest. The only thing left was a large oak table that was still standing on the sidewalk outside the door. Around the table stood three adults, two women and a man, siblings to each other and the grown children of the old man who used to live in that old house.

Juan could only shake his head silently to himself as he stood there, waiting next to the "For Sale" sign; waiting for the word from one of the three "children" that he could haul the dumpster away. Instead, the three of them kept up the bickering he'd been privy to for the past hour since he arrived. When they weren't bickering with each other, they were on their cell phones bickering with someone else. None of them seem to realize, or maybe they didn't seem to care, that Juan was standing withing earshot of their bickering conversation.

"Look could we just get this over with," squawked Linda, the younger, and slightly heavy set, sister. "Kevin and the boys are already half way to Aruba by now. I want to fly out and meet them there."

"Probably having a grand time without you," Pam, the older sister, and the oldest of the trio, quipped. "'When the cat's away', you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Linda fired back.

"Oh PLEASE! How many times has that man cheated on you now? And you're still with him. And he's conveniently on a cruise, out in the Caribbean, without you there, and surrounded by bikini-clad babes. That's a very tempting place you put him in all by himself."

"Keven hasn't cheated on me for two years now," Linda shot back.

"That you know of," Pam added under her breath.

"The counciling has been really helpful. Something you should have tried yourself, you know. Maybe one of your marriages would have survived. At least I'm still on my first one."

"Could the two of you keep it down?" Arnold, the son in the middle of the two girls, said to his sisters. He held a cell phone to his ear. "I'm in the middle of an important conversation, here."

His two sisters looked at each other and then at him. "By all means, Arnie," Pam said with an exaggerated bow toward her brother. "Wouldn't want family to intrude on the rest of your life."

Arnold hung up the phone. "That's a laugh, Pam. When did you care about family? This is the first time I've seen you in how many years? Five? It takes dad to die before you can deign to take yourself out of your gold-dug palace to see either of us?

"For your information," Arnold continued, "that was Robert telling me that the deal with the Chinese firm we are trying to partner up with is beginning to fall through. So I need to be on a flight to Beijing in a few hours to save it. So, for once I agree with Linda. Let's get this over with ASAP."

"I should have been ON that cruse ship with Kevin anyways if it wasn't for dad deciding that he had to go and die now," Linda said, picking up her argument where Arnold had interrupted.

"Yeah, well he'd been sick for a while hadn't he?" Arnold berated his younger sister. "How many times did you stop by and see him in the past year?"

"I was here for his birthday two months ago, same as you," Linda shot back. "Unlike some," she fired at her sister.

"I had a court case I couldn't get out of," Pam defended.

"Maybe if you stopped taking your husbands to court for more and more of their money you might actually have time for family once in a while," Arnold chimed in.

Pam huffed. "Why would I want to have time for this family anyways? What has it done for me?"

"Here we go again!" Linda cried up into the clear blue sky.

"I'm the oldest child, and yet all I got from anyone in this family was a load of crap. You," Pam pointed her finger at Arnold, "were the only son in the family. The pride and joy of mom and dad's eye. And you," she pointed her finger at Linda, "were the cute little baby of the family, pampered and... overfed all your life. And what did I get?"

"You got plenty," Arnold returned. "Music lessons, dance lessons, horse riding lessons, a new car at sixteen, while myself and Linda got mom and dad's hand-me-downs."

"Those were just to shut me up," Pam retorted. "You and Linda got all of the real attention."

"Oh, I wish you would just shut up," Linda exploded, placing herself between Arnold and Pam. "You constantly whine and complain about how much 'love and affection' we got from mom and dad while you didn't. Well what do you care now anyway? You can go back to your rich-bitch palace and live in the lap of your ill gotten luxury while I work long, crazy hours as a nurse. This is the first chance I've had for a vacation in years, and instead of spending it on a cruse ship with my one and only husband, I'm here dealing with dad's stuff and listening to how 'no one ever loved' you!"

Pam looked apoplectic, but try as she might have wanted to, she said nothing. Her mouth just opened and closed like some fish washed up on shore, trying to think of some biting remark to make towards Linda and shooting down each thought soon after coming up with it.

Arnold looked at his watch. "I've got two hours before I have to leave for my plane, I'd rather not spend them here continuing these old arguments. So, we have the old dining table left over. Who's going to take it?"

"Kevin likes modern-looking things," Linda said. "This would clash with everything I have in my house."

"I have no need for an old table like this," Pam said with a bit of disgust. "I already have one and it's much better than this old thing."

"And I have no room in my small condo for a table like this," Arnold added.

"Then let's give it to the trash man over there and go," Pam decided. The other two nodded. Pam motioned to Juan.

Juan watched as the three siblings got into each truck and slowly drove away. He shook his head once again and strode up to the old oak dining table. He could tell by looking at it that it had been hand made. The table top was still smooth, but just about everywhere else on the table had been carved into intricate designs. There were places where it was obvious that this was a first attempt at woodworking. There were actually nails in some places, where wooden dowels would have been better, but still it was sturdy. Juan wasn't an expert on woodworking, but he's seen enough tables and other bits of wooden furniture during his many years as a "waste management specialist" to know that there were some amateur methods to the table's construction, but that it was also well made regardless.

Juan ran his hand over the top of the table and had the sudden vision of a young man in his early twenties working away at the rough blocks of oak wood in his shed. He could see the young man as he worked the lathe, making the intricate table legs. He could see the man carving into the side of the support beams that would eventually support the table top and attach to the table legs. Juan thought that he could almost see letters being carved into the side, but before he could see what the letters spelled out, the vision changed. It was no less than ten years later. The man, a woman whom Juan supposed was the man's wife, and three kids, ranging in age from about ten to four, all sat around the table. The man had told a funny story, and everyone around the table was laughing. It was as grand a family scene as Juan remembered from his own childhood and any that he has had with his own family now. He inwardly smiled at the scene.

As the vision faded from his mind, his hand ran along the underside of the table, and across the carved surface of the support beam. He could feel the letters carved into the side, and bent over to look at the underside of the table. He could see the words written there. The scene of the young man making the table, the young family laughing around it, and then of the three grown children arguing around it and just leaving it behind caused a tear to fall down his cheek as he read and reread the words carved into the table.

It made Juan sad. The man had grown old and died. To hear the old man's three children, Juan was certain there was no grave stone. Only the words left behind on this table would mark the old man's passing. Only the words left behind on this table would stand as the old man's epitaph; an epitaph that only he had bothered to read.

"For my children"

End

Based on "Morningside"

By Neil Diamond

Just for fun, here's a few more opening lines:

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The candle flickered in the breeze, casting the shrine in alternating patterns of light and shadow.

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The day at the park was beautiful.

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"What you do is point the X-1 west and punch it up to about Mach one point two, and you're flying just as fast west as the earth is spinning east. Anything faster than that, and you're chasing the sun."

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There was a time when Humans were the dominant species.

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He ran his fingers over the keys. In this day and age, they weren't made of ivory any more, but just some kind of imitation.

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Erin was the prettiest girl in school.

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He hated this neighborhood. He hated the people in it. He hated their nice houses, their nice cars, their nice yards; everything.

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All it took was a thought. The jet ripped apart and exploded into a fiery ball.

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My first time? Yeah, I remember it. I'd just turned twenty-one. Happy Birthday, huh?

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"I wouldn't go out with you if you were the last man on Earth," Belinda Martinez said to me in high school.

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The rains came once again to Southern California, carried by a cold wind that blew the rain sideways across the Valley floor.

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It was a fortress, not a grand palace.

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The phone call came early one cold February morning. It was the 27th, a Saturday, in 1988, and Richard had been sitting in the living room with his older sister, Marie, watching cartoons on the television.

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The little boy and his parents walked among the busy walkways between exhibits at the New York World's Fair.

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The terminal had been cleared. Only reporters from the various news agencies, government officials, essential staff, and security were allowed in Terminal 5.

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The door chime rang just as Jakob Cral was sitting down to dinner with his family.

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The door to his apartment slid open. He looked around the dark room and found it appropriate.

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The squad car progressed down the street between residential neighborhoods.

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The first signs that something was terribly wrong come with the alarmingly sudden increase of missing persons reports.

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"Okay, this is it," Baker said through the radio mic. "This guy doesn't leave this block alive, understand?"

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Legend states that the one born with the mark of the phoenix shall rise out of the ashes of civilization.

 

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"Eban, is that a tattoo on your arm? That fire-bird looking thing?"

 

"No, Ms. Castile. It's some king of birthmark."

I love the imagery of the first one and I love how you used dialogue to pull me in the second one.

I just NOW realized that that should be "KIND of birthmark".

Everyone voted on the Samantha Reynolds story, and I have no idea how I would write a full story from it. Non sequiturs would be hard to do right, especially since I don't think that way. I do think it would be funny to have a character who spoke in nothing but non sequiturs through the story, but if not done right, it could be annoying. I'm not sure if I could pull it off.

And no, Dex, I can't resist.

Thanks for the comments and the votes everyone.

We could use recycled first lines? Had I known that, I'd have put up a lot more than I did. All of mine were fresh.

The only caveat to that would be to restrict it so that only one person can pick one line from one particular author, so that everyone doesn't go flocking to one person's lines and leave everyone else out (some wrote enough for everyone to take one, with a few left over). For, example, if Copper chose a line of Tank's, that closes him down so that no one else can pick a Tank line. So Copper picks Tank, then Tank picks SD, then SD picks Nixie, and so on, just for example.

Also, I don't know if anyone else has had this idea yet or not, but I for one would be very interested to see if the authors of the above selection of first lines can then, after the contest, wrap stories around them. I think it might be a good challenge, at least for some (myself included). It's one thing to come up with an interesting line, especially when that's all that's required, but you may not have much more than that line thought out. Some of the lines I wrote for this contest I have continueing plots for. I DON'T have one for the one that made this list, however. So it would be a bit of a challenge to come up with one.

I wonder how many others would feel the same way about their lines.

To be frank, Antilla, it's your own damned fault for creating a contest that required SO many different entries. That's quite an undertaking even for someone like ShadowDog, who's run many contests.

That said, this is coming along nicely, despite your difficulties. So, nice job!

I don't know. I kind of pictured him as Robin Williams. Only instead of standing on a desk and looking down upon his students, he laid down on the floor and looked up at them.

Yeah, extra kudos for compiling all of that.

Having it listed that way made it easier for me to compare. For me, I looked at all of those lines and picked the ones I thought were the best opening lines. There were others amongst them that were better lines over all, but to me sounded like they'd be better in the middle of a story (maybe a chapter beginning) rather than the first line of a story. So I tended to vote for those. That's my thinking anyways. As Six famously says, "your mileage may vary".

And I'm just as guilty of it. I look back over the ones I wrote and realize that some are better elsewhere. It just illustrates how hard an opening line is.

Lots of gems in there (I'm a bit green), but that last one has me LMAO!!

Hey Dex, who's Johnny?

Last week the paper read: "Definitive proof dragons existed!" They'd found bones as evidence.

This week's headline read: "'Dragon' a hoax!" The fossils were of a Pteranodon and an Apatosaurus on top of each other.

Ken could only laugh.

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The Hadrian floated into the docking station as the hanger doors closed. There was extensive damage to the hull; parts of the ship had been exposed to the vacuum of space. The opening salvos of the civil war had been fired.

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"Operation: Market Garden" was aptly named, ironically; it was a meat market, and a future flower garden "watered" by the blood of many soldiers.

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The first thing Professor Simmons did upon entering the room was to lay on his back on the floor, look up at the acoustic tiles above us, and ask, "Ever wonder why the sky is blue?"

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Samantha Reynolds was an okay enough person, so long as you didn't mind her non sequiturs. If you were having a conversation about the TV show you watched last night, she'd say something about how her goat got stuck in the fence.

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Legend states that the one born with the mark of the phoenix shall rise out of the ashes of civilization.

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"Eban, is that a tattoo on your arm? That fire-bird looking thing?"

"No, Ms. Castile. It's some kind of birthmark."

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"Look, I don't mean to be ungrateful or rude, but could somebody help me out of this ****ing car? I still have a date I'd like to get to tonight."

That's a really nice tale, Elfie. That must have been some trick to pull you away from that. Hopefully you'll have the chance to live that way again.

(BTW, I noticed a few punctuation errors near the beginning that you might want to check.)

I don't dance.

I've tried to... many times. I always end up looking like that age-old white guy just flailing about. Meanwhile, others are able to shake their "thang" all over the dance floor. I look like I've either had too much to drink (flailing), or not enough (stiff). Either way, it never looks good.

Oh, the rhythm is there, to be sure. I can tap out a beat just fine. Just don't ask me to move any more than that. Way above me, you know, the hands and arms, they can move all over the place and look smooth doing it. But it stops at the waist. The movement stops there. Beyond the tapping, I don't move at all. The instant I do, it's a disaster. I'm surprised I haven't tripped over myself after all of these years.

But what's the big deal, right? There are lots of feet like me who can't move. There are even a few poor soles... I mean souls... who are even worse than I am at it. So why should I be worried about that? Why does it matter? Right?

If all of the other parts above you happen to be musically inclined, and you're not, it can mean a lot. If you play an instrument, what difference does it make that your feet can't move beyond a simple tapping? No big deal, right? If you sing, it should be the same thing, right? Right? It should be.

That is unless you are in a school choir, and the choir director just happens to be dating (and eventually marries) the theater director. And they both like show tunes! So not only do you need the ability to sing, but dance as well. At least you do if you want any shot at the brief, fleeting, oh-so-important spotlight of high school fame.

"Move over there. Hit this mark on this note. Kick, ball, change!"

Where was I? In the back. Where they couldn't see me flailing through the steps, or pounding across the stage, stiff as a board. The rest didn't matter. No amount of singing talent could erase the fact that I was completely unable to move with any semblance of grace.

Solos? You're kidding, right?

Solos.

They went to those who could dance... even a little bit better than I was able to. The voice didn't matter. If they could move, and look good doing it, who cared if their voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard? Their feet could move gracefully across the stage. I looked like the feet of the Frankenstein monster!

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!

Tenth grade, the choir director, Mr. Jackson, decided to do Les Miserables. The theater director, Ms. Dawley, set up the stage and told us where to go and how to stand and how to move. Where was I? In the back, on a riser (never mind how tall the rest of me was even then), out of sight. The Seniors, and a few Juniors, got the solos. The lone Sophomore (me) was in the background. But that's okay. Let the Seniors shine one last time.

Eleventh grade, and we're doing Phantom of the Opera. Two male leads. Surely the vocal talent is there for at least one of them. But, I need to be able to move across the stage? The Senior tenor, who's feet are only a bit more mobile than I am, gets the Phantom. Okay. He's a Senior, I'm a Junior. One last shot at the spotlight. The part of Christine goes to a Senior soprano (a wonderful voice). Her Junior boyfriend (a baritone) gets Raoul. Both can dance well (not that there's much dancing involved).

Typecast much?!

Where am I? In back, where no one can see me. Again.

After Phantom, we find time to do Grease. Lot's of dancing involved! The "Phantom" bows out because he doesn't want to have his long mane of hair cut into a 1950s greaser's ducktail. So Danny and Sandy? "Raoul" and "Christine" again (naturally). Kenickie? Another Junior bass who can't really sing and who is stiffer than I am (what?), but he can lift and throw anything, or anyone. Oh, I got a part. Doody. A solo? HA! "Danny", "Kenickie", and "Sonny" got all of the male solos. "Kenickie" can't sing. "Sonny", a Senior tenor/baritone, can't hit the high notes in his one solo. Where am I? In the background, barely visible, except for the points where I have to act.

I can't act any better than I can dance.

I don't dance.

Twelfth grade, Senior year. My chance for the spotlight, right? We're doing "Land of a Thousand Dances" and some kind of turn of the century (circa 1900s) musical review! WHAT!? Even MORE dancing than we'd done the previous two years combined! Oh well, I'm the only Senior tenor. Shoe in for whatever solos might be had, right?

WRONG!

Of the TWO solos available, they go to a Junior who's voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard. But Dawley liked his sister two years ago (although the feeling was NOT mutual) and he could dance... sort of. Where was I? In the back, where I wouldn't be seen. Out of the spotlight.

It's been seventeen years since then. I occasionally do myself the great favor of walking myself down Memory Lane. Most of me remembers the good and the bad. There are regrets to be sure. Things that could have been done better. It's all in the past now though, so what can you do? Be bitter over it? Maybe, but what good would it do? In the end, the sadder part of that journey all came down to one simple fact.

I don't dance.

End

Thank you Elfie and GLB for your comments. You have no idea how much I really appriciate it. And GLB, that's exactly what I was waiting for. I will keep your suggestion in mind for next time. Thanks again.

The ultimate evil reborn.... or is it? If this were a different forum, I would probably raise questions about the philosophical underpinnings of this story. But now is not the time or place.

This reads either like a condenced version of a larger story, or the buildup to one. The trouble with doing villains is that it takes a longer time to get into their heads, explain their actions and motivations, and how they effect the world around them. I'm thinking that this could have been a bigger tale here.

Nicely done, for what it was. Just too short.

This was very good. I liked how you got into this guy's head and explained why and how he was forgetting about himself, and the beatings he was getting for what he'd forgotten.

I do have to echo Sheep Murderer to some degree here. There did seem to be something missing. I don't think it was quite character development that was lacking. Maybe on the part of the girl. A bit more info on her, to back her motivation maybe. Maybe that's not it though. I did feel something missing, but I can't quite tell exactly what.

But aside from that, I did enjoy it. Again, very well done.

Hmmm. Spooky. Would have liked to have seen more of this played out.

Good job just the same.