“No, no. Your Mom told me ‘no more Milton Smith’. She was very particular about it.” I wagged a finger in an imitation that my daughter would have slapped my hand for. My granddaughter found it delightful, clapped her little hands together while her younger brother threw a palm over his mouth to cover his chuckling. “Now you two kids need to get some sleep. Maybe I’ll read you the one about the Barnowl. You love that one.” The mirth stopped in a heart beat, two pairs of young blue eyes locked onto mine. I wondered if between the crevasses of time, they could still make out the mischievous twinkle that would give my game away. My grandson looked stern, a pout on his lips. But his sister, quick as a bullet from a six shooter, had me pinned. She smiled triumphantly as she folded her arms, “You never listen to mommy. You promised.” I cracked instantly, set myself with a groan into the creaky old wood chair. “It's a terrible song of metal, sand and blood. The Barn owl would be much nicer,” I argued with a half smile. Two pouting faces were my reward. My grandson furrowed his little brow, “You said a story not a song Grampa.” I shrugged. “Okay, okay, it's a story. Tuck yourselves in and let's go visit the tragedy of old Milton Smith. Yehaw

New one from a new story which is just a nugget of an idea. The Ballad of Milton Smith. It's very rough.

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