My Cousin Elmo says, “Because of COVID-19, my garbage bin gets to go out more than me.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Congratulations, you’ve made it one-twelfth of the way through 2021.”

He did everything correctly after the world went to hell. He made it to his initial ‘bug-out’ site and reorganized himself before heading off on his 400-mile journey home.

By the end of the week, he had started traveling at night, avoiding towns, stopping during the day to sleep. Three months later, he came to Giuntoli Lane, knowing he had less than 90 miles to go.

Deciding to cross an open field through some cows to a copse of trees to rest during the day, he had forgotten that the cows, now wild, might have different ideas. He could not outrun #272.

More bad news as my cousin Stephen Timmons died January 22, following an accident in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, where he lived. He jus’ turned 65, having been born in Enid, Oklahoma, January 3, 1956.

We had only ever met once in 1964 when I was three, and he was seven and that was at my Grandma Agnes’ funeral. All I can recall about that time is the turtle, the ‘midgets’, and the watermelon we enjoyed eating every night.

Years later, we contacted each other through social media and had tentative plans to get together this coming summer. Stephen had such a great sense of humor, was quick-witted, and an all-around great guy.

While I treasure the time we had getting to really know one another, I’m gonna miss his friendship.

“You’re always making up stories to get me to do stuff you don’t want to do,” my son said when he was eight-years-old.

“You’re only saying that to get out of doing your chores,” I said.

“I’m not either, and you know it,” he said.

“What story have I made up?” I asked.

“Well,” he answered, “like the one where you said you’d toss me through a portal into another dimension if I didn’t clean up my room.”

“That’s not made-up,” I returned. “What do you think happened to your older brother?”

“What older brother?” he asked.

I smiled, “Exactly.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “We need to investigate the Democratic party to see if they have any ties to the U.S.”

He was standing at the cellphone store’s window. Taffy recognized her former levitation and potion’s teacher right away.

She joined him.

“Though you might not be here,” he said.

“Had no idea that I was going to be here,” Taffy returned.

“Yet here you are,” he said.

After a brief silence, he stated, “The old magic is in danger from the new.”

“The new?” Taffy asked.

He pointed at the items on display, then disappeared in a puff of smoke. Taffy turned to see a woman with a cellphone camera.

“What..?” she said before also vanishing in a smoky cloud.

Even with his ancient eye-sight, he could see the three boys, his grandson’s, as they crossed the flat below his hillside perch. The youngest, as was usual, was trailing behind the other two.

Behind the old man was a sheep flock, guarded by two large dogs. He scanned them, then set about preparing the three meals for the boys.

“Got a big-ears, Grandser,” the eldest said as he dropped the jackrabbit on the ground.

“Looks good,” Grandser, their name for their Grandfather, answered.

“I only got a stupid groundhog,” the middle grandchild complained, “He’s so noisy.”

He was speaking of the youngest grandboy, seven or 8. The two boys sat down and began eating before their brother made it into camp.

“See what I found?” the youngest said, holding up a faded and nearly rotted piece of paper.

Grandser held his hand out. It was an old advertisement insert from a newspaper. He examined it and knew it must go into his treasury, a cave where he kept things of the past.

“So what is it?” the boy asked.

“It’s ads for food from a grocery store,” he answered.

“A grocery store?” the child questioned.

The older of the two boys made a disapproving sound with his teeth before saying, “Now you done it. He’s gonna be talking about weird old things all day long. Great!”

Grandser smiled at the eldest boy as he looked at the prize his youngest had brought him. Finally, he found what he was looking for, below ‘$4.99 a pound for New York Steak,’ the date, January 29, 2021.

“Eat up, boy!” he said to the youngster standing before him.

It was a beautiful day, sunny, with a few high clouds and no wind. Social elites, movie and television stars, politicians, and sports figures gathered for this first-ever televised event of its kind.

“And here they come,” the announcer stated over the public address system as the racing gates moved up to the starting line for the beginning of the first showing.

The crowd cheered at the sound of the bugle call, alerting spectators to the start of the race.

The bell rang, and the announcer shouted, “They’re off.”

Within seconds, eleven adult racing tyrannosauri’ tore through the terrified crowd.

The four pods slipped through Earth’s atmosphere. Three landed without a problem, while the fourth tumbled wildly, killing its single male occupant.

Of the other three, while safe, one had dropped far from the other two. That capsule held a female, who upon exiting her craft, found herself alone.

For nearly a year, she searched to find another survivor without success. Then one morning, she discovered the debris field and the site of the fatal crash.

Hopeless, she ran through the woods, ignoring all possible dangers. Without warning, she found herself attacked from behind.

Quickly, she pulled her survival knife and slashed at her attacker, who howled in pain, jumping off of her. It was one of the group of four she had come with, the other man.

She needed only to look at him to convey her question.

Still holding his bloodied rib cage, the man pointed at a camouflaged pod. She rushed over and banged on the door.

Slowly, the other woman slid the door aside and stepped out, holding a baby. She smiled.

The two looked at each other, then hugged. It was the first real contact the first one had felt since leaving her red planet.