John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

The Old Boy. Short story by John William Tuohy

 “Music is the language of the spirit. It opens the secret of life bringing peace, abolishing strife.” Kahlil Gibran


A Short Story
John William Tuohy

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental

   “I suppose you people think my people killed John F. Kennedy”
   Over time the young man had come to understand that by “You people” the Old Boy meant anyone hired into the company after he had retired. The young man also knew that this would be the conversation would be for that days walk across the uneven sidewalks of old Georgetown.
   “What you should know” the Old Boy began without waiting for an answer “We had nothing to do with killing that unfortunate President Kennedy. Of course there were more than just a few inside the company would have killed had they had the opportunity come along and there were plenty of others who didn’t shed a tear in his passing”
    He stopped walking and turned his large head to face the younger man “He left those Cubans to die on the beaches at the Bay of Pigs. Just left them there to die. Promised them the world and then just left them there to be killed. They were practically defenseless on the beach and they were slaughtered.”
    The Old Boy looked into the dark cloudy sky and said “We’d done it before, the United States. Under Eisenhower. I was stationed in Italy at the time, 1956 or around that time, and slipping in and out of Budapest. My boss was a man named Frank Wisner. A good man. He told us to assure our contacts in Hungary that we would support them with guns and money should the Russians invade. Well they did invade. So Frank went to the White House and told Ike he needed money and weapons for the Hungarians. Eisenhower said no. He said that even with money and weapons the Russians would crush the Hungarians within a few hours. And they did.  So Frank came back to Europe just in time to see the people he had promised to support get executed. Then he went home and shot himself through the head. The agency said he had suffered a breakdown and had been diagnosed as a manic depressive and so on. He was all face saving rubbish.
     He turned away from the young man, sighed and pointed forward and the walk began again.
    “No, it wasn’t us. This notion to kill Kennedy. The original idea to kill Kennedy came from the Russian military. It was an auxiliary plan in the event of a nuclear war and it was a strikingly simple plan. Bury a mole in the United States and in the event of a nuclear war, unleash the mole to kill the President. We had the same sort plan in place. We both called it the same thing, The Big Event.
   “I don’t understand that part” the young man said.
   “That we gave it the same name?”
   “You mean we had a similar plan?” the young man asked “To kill the Russians leader?”
    “Of course. Still do and always will I reckon” the Old Boy plodded through a rain puddle “Of course it was all paper planning, worst case, you know, that sort of thing. Well then came the Russian’s humiliation with that whole Cuban missile crisis mess.  Khrushchev ordered the operation active.”
   “To kill Kennedy?” the young man asked.
    “Yes. Khrushchev was irrational, bloody, and unpredictable. A drunk too. We have him on tape calling Stalin a killer but it was Khrushchev who made political assassination a main instrument of his own foreign policy. He pushed the world to the brink of nuclear war with that entire Cuban thing.”
    He shook his head with disdain and spat out the word “Idiot”
    He stopped and took a deep breath of cold November air and then pulled his rain coat tight around his neck and said to the young man without looking at him “It seems impossible now but there was a global pitched battle between the Soviets and us over the future of Western Europe, Asia, African…..the world.
     They walked on and the Old Boy continued “Anyway, the hardliners in the KGB programmed Oswald to believe that by killing Kennedy, Oswald would spark the great nuclear confrontation that the Cuban Missile Crisis did not produce, that Russia would triumph and the world would rebuild based on the new utopia where the best aspects of capitalism and communism were combined making the world would be a perfect place. As the Kennedy-Khrushchev rhetoric became less hostile, it seemed to be leading toward détente in the fall of 1963, Oswald was given a sense of urgency.”
    “Was Oswald one of theirs from the beginning?” the young man asked.
    “Oswald?” The Old Boy answered “The entire world was concerned with Oswald but he was nothing, a pawn in a game, less than that actually. He was just one of those poor beings who never had a chance. No father, placed an orphanage by his own mother. As a child he was withdrawn and temperamental and dangerous. When he was a teen he threatened his sister in law with a knife and he actually stabbed his brother.
     They crossed Wisconsin Avenue and the conversation died out until the passerby were gone and the sidewalk on 31st Street was empty. Then the old boy continued “He was a schizophrenic. Not many people know that, but it’s true. And he was stupid as well. Said he was a “Marxist.” although he had no understanding of what the word meant. He enlisted into the US Marine at 17 and of all the possible bad luck for the United States the idiot Marines trained him as a radar operator, a post that required security clearance and then assigned him to Air base in Japan, where our people were parking the s U-2 planes that we used to fly over Russia to collect intelligence.”  
  They turned right on to M street “The KGB recruited him in Japan. We didn’t find out until he passed some very good information on our U-2 program to the fucking Soviets. Recruiting low-ranking American servicemen was one of the KGB’s highest priorities in those days. Of course they would have liked to recruit American colonels and Generals, but they were difficult to approach. Enlisted men were more accessible….and Oswald was easy to turn. Oswald was awful marine. He was court marshaled for shooting himself in the elbow with an unauthorized gun. He was court marshaled for fighting with a sergeant.  He was demoted from Private 1st Class to Private and briefly jailed by the Corp. He was restricted to his barracks for firing his rifle into the jungle, unauthorized of course. The other marines nicknamed him “Oswaldskovich” because his pro-Soviet sentiments and yet none of this came the attention of the Marine command.”
  The Old Boy stopped and rested for a moment and then continued “They communicated with him through a locker at a bus terminal. Oswald would go to the station and leave a duffel bag stuffed with photographs of our top secret military planes, and flight planes including altitude of our U-2 spy planes. The Russians didn’t know anything about the U-2 and they didn’t know we were flying over their goddamn airbases. So when Oswald filled them in they were shocked.”
   “But” the young man asked how could they not have known about the U-2?”
    “The information they had on the entire U-2 project was mostly based on rumors, rumors we spread. The Soviet Defense Ministry knew that U-2 planes had flown over the Soviet Union several times, but its Air Defense Command had not been able to track them because the Soviet radars of those days did not reach ultra-high altitudes. That all changed when Oswald gave them radar and radio codes as well as codes to our new MPS-16 height-finding radar gear. Then they called Oswald in. He left the marines and defected to Russia. A few months later, based on the information Oswald had provided, the goddamn Russian shot down Francis Gary Powers and his U-2.”
The Old Boy turned and looked at the young man “You know all about that tragic event I assume?”
“I do, sir”
  “So then they had a U-2, the most highly classified secret the United States had at that time. And do you know that son of bitch Oswald was I the audience at Powers’ trial in Moscow?”
    They strolled slowly back to Wisconsin Avenue “We had eyes on him after a while but he left the marines a short time later, got out on a hardship discharge. Said his mother needed him. He hadn’t seen her in years and could have cared less about her. He got himself a passport and took off the Europe and eventually landed in Russia. That’s where the hardliners in the KGB got hold him.”
   “But” the young man said “I specifically remember that the Russian rejected him and that he tried to commit suicide or was that his cover story”
   “Cover story created by the KGB. We know that as fact, matter of record. As to the suicide, they showed him how to inflict a very miner but very bloody wound that left quite a mess in a hotel bathtub, which is the effect they were looking for of course. Our people checked Oswald’s cadaver and there was no such wound to be found on him.
   Well that allowed the Soviets said they put him in a mental hospital in Moscow for observation but actually he was actually at a KGB’s training facility where he was programmed, without his knowledge, to kill Kennedy. A short while someone, perhaps even Oswald wrote to our embassy in Moscow requesting return of his US passport making it clear he intended to return to the US.
  The KGB gave Oswald a reliable Russian wife and not just any wife. She held a diploma in pharmacology from a first-rate technical school in Leningrad and her uncle was a senior official in the Russian MVD, their version of the FBI.  A month after Oswald meets her, he proposes, she accepts and they are married. But they barely knew each other because Oswald had spent the month prior to their meeting in a hospital for reasons unknown.
“After he returned to the US, they gave Oswald a contact, a real piece of work as they say, Valery Kostikov, a rattlesnake if ever there was one. He handled all the KGB’s wet work in North America.”
“Wet work, sir?”
   “Wet work”, it a euphemism for blood, murder in other words. Anyway, Kostikov worked out of the Soviet embassy in Mexico City. His operational cover for the Kennedy project was “Comrade Kostin. He stayed in contact with Oswald through a series of letters sent directly to the Soviet embassy in D.C. They were all written in code of course, “friends” was for support officer, “Red Cross” code for financial help and so on.
    The Old Boy stopped to rest and then continued “Khrushchev had his own internal intelligence people and soon enough he learned of the Oswald operation and ordered the KGB to cancel it. Our sources say they KGB did try to deprogram Oswald but Oswald panicked and to prove to the KGB that he was capable of securely carrying out the assigned assassination, he went off the reservation and conducted a dry run by shooting at General Edwin Walker, a right wing nut down in Texas. But Moscow remained adamant. Our guess is that Oswald was devastated, he would never be the hero of the Soviet people that he envisioned himself to be, but, true to his style he went ahead on his own, utterly convinced he was fulfilling his mission.
“Why didn’t they simply liquidate Oswald, Sir?”
  “Because at that point, after Oswald took his shot at General Walker he was approached by a group within the Kremlin and the KGB, a rogue element of  hardline Stalinists.  They dubbed themselves the Saviors. They consisted of Ivan Serov, a cold warrior schooled in the purges of the 1930s. Khrushchev appointed him head of the KGB by in 1954. The ring leaders from within the Kremlin were Yuri Andropov and Vladimir Kryuchkov. Andropov of course went on to become the Soviet President and Mr. Kryuchkov found his place in history when he attempted to roll back history in a failed coup against of Mikhail Gorbachev. They conspired to rid Russia of Khrushchev, which they eventually did and to take revenge on Kennedy. They believed in the Stalinist way of doing things: hit hard, fast and below the belt if possible. We are fairly certain that Serov, Andropov and Kryuchkov, were the architects of the original plot to kill Kennedy and simply held on to the plan even after Khrushchev ordered them to cancel it. The Saviors ordered Oswald to go through with killing Kennedy.
    After Oswald killed Kennedy he made his way to the movie theater where he was to meet his contact from the Saviors who would, or so Oswald probably thought, take him on a safe passage to Cuba by way of Mexico a few miles away. We suspect his contact intended to murder Oswald in the darkened theater. It turns out the contact looked like Oswald and when he walked into the theater without paying causing the attendant to call the police. Oswald had just shot a Dallas cop a few blocks away, the cops put one and one together, raided the theater and arrested Oswald.
   Up until the very end he also followed the emergency instructions he had originally been given by the KGB—admit nothing and ask for a lawyer. But of course, he already knew too much about the original plan so Moscow arranged for him to be silenced. The agency saw the KGB’s finger prints all over the assassination within an hour of the killing.
  We broke protocols and contacted the FBI and told them that the Moscow’s next move would be to kill Oswald. But Oswald was still in the hands of the Dallas police who were transferring him to the FBI offices when he was killed in the parking garage. The KGB needed Oswald dead and would probably have poisoned him with something that would induce a heart attack but luck was on their side when only two days after Oswald was arrested and the lunatic Jack Ruby murdered him.
   It was a close call for Moscow, a very close. Too close in fact. The Kremlin knew that anything that linked them to Oswald would start World War III and there was so much that could link them to Oswald, who, in the cold light of day, was a Marine who defected to Moscow and then returns to the U.S. and kills the President.  So they started a worldwide and very effective disinformation called Operation “Dragon” a disinformation effort aimed at diverting attention away from the KGB’s involvement with Oswald and drawing the blame on to elements within the United States.  They launched rumors, published articles, faked letters from Oswald and produced books written by American friends insinuating that the culprits behind the Kennedy killing were in the U.S., not in the Soviet Union.
  They did a trial run first. They KGB blind mailed faked information to conspiracy buffs in the United States to get the firings going. That worked so they produced the first American book on the assassination, Oswald: Fall Guy. It was 250 pages of rubbish that blamed the CIA and the FBI for the Kennedy killing. The book’s author was Joes Joachim. An American but red from top to bottom. The KGB sent him to Dallas for five days right after the assassination. He came back to New York, wrote his ridiculous book and had it published by a small house in New York that was an inch from going under.
   The KGB’s money man in Manhattan kept an eye for just such things and he showed up at the published door with Joachim’s book and a check for $80,000 plus an annual $10,000 to various friends of the cause to purchase copies of the book which made it an instant success.
    The theory was that if it worked once it will work twice so they went forward with it. They found a man in New York named Lane Marx. He had changed the spelling to Marks. A lawyer and a faithful communist who had gone mainstream a decade before the event in Dallas.
   “Deep cover?”
  “No.” The Old Boy answered “just took it on his own to float in the American mainstream, attain a position of some influence and sink us from within. Won a seat in the New York legislature and held a fairly high rank in the Kennedy White House campaign. The KGB had been anonymously supporting his career for year. After the assassination he started doing the rounds, talking about conspiracy at the highest levels and so on. So the KGB contacted him from five steps away”
    “Five steps away?”
    “It’s a term in the business. You need to learn it. It means that one of their agents in New York contacted a friend of a friend of friend of Lane Marx. They let it be known that the Kremlin approved of his questions about the Kennedy murder and that should he publish on the issue, his efforts would not fail. So, he wrote one. Well essentially he rewrote the Joachim book, added a few otherwise unknown gems that the Warren Commission had missed, provided by friends of the Kremlin. His book blamed the CIA and a right-wing American group.
   He took to the college campus tours promoting the “CIA did it” theory. He was very effective. The media loved him, accepted what he said unquestionably.  Then Hollywood came along. Their all brainless out there but they added to the damage by turning his book into a film. 
Those two books encouraged people with any remotely related background expertise to join the “Who killed Kennedy” fray. The damn thing is they all viewed events from their inexperienced perspective, but they ended up all accusing some elements within the U.S. of killing the President.”
“The company should have protected itself” the Young Man said as he looked down at the uneven sidewalk “If you don’t mind me saying so Sir”
“Well did” the Old Boy answered But we were new at defending ourselves within the confines of a free and open society. I mean it’s contradictory to what we are. We started our own campaign to counter theirs but we were hamstrung, I mean we couldn’t very well point the blame at them so we blamed the Mafia. They were a fairly easy target, since they can’t argue the accusation. We kept a private detective in Vegas on the payroll as a black mailer. His name was Becker. A shake down artist. We had him on an extortion charge. We were blackmailing the blackmailer. We gave him the go ahead and he started planting stories that he was with some mob boss in New Orleans when the mob boss admitted that it was the Mafia that killed Kennedy. It had legs for a while. The media bought the story lock stock and barrel. Never questioned him on it. Amazing. Anyway, the Mafia craziness took most of the pressure off of us. Still, doubt lingers”
  He signaled to the young man that the walk was over and then said “Mao Zedong, that murdering son of a bitch, used to say that a lie repeated a hundred times becomes the truth. For once he was right. And that’s how the Kennedy conspiracy theory was born.
   “And it never died.”

   “There is a great deal of money to be had in dead Kennedy’s.”

These chairs were laid out for a wedding in 1939 in Poland. The wedding was abandoned, and so were the chairs due to the German invasion. They were found again after the war with the trees growing through them. The are freshly painted every year.



Tom Hennen

“Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when, we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night’s meandering skunk.”  Tom Hennen

Tom Hennen, author of six books of poetry, was born and raised in rural Minnesota. After abandoning college, he married and began work as a letterpress and offset printer. He helped found the Minnesota Writer’s Publishing House, then worked for the Department of Natural Resources wildlife section, and later at the Sand Lake National Wildlife Refuge in South Dakota. Now retired, he lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.


#Armed Workers In A Motorcar#1918#Ivan Puni

Emily Winfield Martin


Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvelous than the land.  -E. M. Forster

" We arrived at our first foster home on January 6, 1962, my seventh birthday. There was no party because there were no adults around who knew it was my birthday, and I didn’t know it was my birthday without an adult to tell me.
  Our new foster parents were a young couple, in their mid-twenties perhaps, and were cool cats who were products of the Beat generation, but at a time when beatnik culture was on the wane and more or less reduced to a cultural cliché. The Hippies were still six years away. Since neither Tina nor Kenny worked on a regular basis, they opened their house to the city for temporary placement of children so they could to make a few extra dollars.
  As bizarre as it may seem, Tina and Kenny—I’m not sure we ever knew their last name—had been my parents’ occasional drinking partners. Tina, tall and slim with long, dark black hair, worked occasionally as a bartender at Shaum’s Tavern on Main Street, so we knew who she was but barely recognized her that day.
  On our first morning at the house, Tina gathered us around the picnic table in the back yard, lit a Pall Mall cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “Look, I’m not gonna kid you. I’m nobody’s mother. Even if I wanted to be, I wouldn’t be very good at it. So here’s the deal.” She pulled a small pile of dollar bills out of her jeans pockets. “Kenny and I are making a few dollars on you being here. I guess you figured that out already.”
  We hadn’t realized that, but it was useful information.
  “Kenny and I will give you each a dollar a week not to cause any problems.” She handed Paulie, Denny and me one dollar each. “Any trouble, no more money.”
  Now in 1962, a dollar went a long way, especially for a little kid. A movie ticket was fifty cents, a soda at the movie concession stand was twenty cents, and a candy bar was a nickel. But Paulie held out for more. My mother used to say that Paulie had “the face of Ireland and the mind of an Arab.” He looked harmless but could wheel and deal with the best of them. And that’s what he did with Tina.
  “I should get two dollars,” he informed her.
  “Because I’m in charge of them,” he said, pointing a thumb at us, “and that’s a lot of work.”
  Tina pushed her lips out and asked, “How much work can that be?” and then waved her hand over our heads to demonstrate how little we were.
  “Well, they’re very stupid,” Paulie countered, and turning to me he said, “Johnny put a fishhook in his eye because he wanted to see if it would hurt.”
  She looked down at me with a mixture of horror, disbelief, and amusement and I nodded and showed her my slightly drooping right lid. “Cartoon” was the only word I could muster in my defense.
  “Denny,” he continued, “Got hit by a car.”
  Tina shrugged, unimpressed. 
 “Three times,” Paulie added.
  Tina shrugged again.
  “In one year,” Paulie said.
  “So?” she asked.
  “In the same place, on the same street,” he answered.
  Impressed, Tina turned and looked down at Denny, who, proud of his feat, shrugged and smiled. “It was easy,” he blushed, and waved her off.,
  Then came the pièce de résistance of Paulie’s argument. He pulled down his shirt collar and showed her the five-inch scar that ran from his jawbone to his chest. “I fell off a wall onto broken glass and cut my throat.”
  “Run over three times, fish hooks in eyes, and slashed throats,” Tina said, shaking her head.
  “Abi gezunt,” I said, and we all cracked up laughing, except Tina who had never heard my mother’s admonishment, “Stop complaining.  You got your health, abi gezunt.” It was the gallows humor we loved most of all.
  She handed Paulie another dollar.
  “And what about Maura’s dollar?” he asked.
  “She’s four years old, for God’s sake!” Tina said, feeling the full effects of what the legal community calls extortion.
  “Then she doesn’t fall under the agreement,” Paulie said, and folded his arms across his chest.
  “You would let your little sister fall into harm’s way because you didn’t get paid to help her?” Tina asked.
  “Yeah,” we all said, more or less at the same time. Business is business. The thing about little kids and money is that they don’t understand the value of a dollar but you can’t cheat them out of a penny.
  “All right,” she said, and handed Maura her dollar, and as she walked away we heard her mumble, “You cheap little bastards.”
 But Tina was faithful to her promise. Every week she paid us our allowance, and, as agreed, we stayed out of trouble. But for all of Tina’s talk about not being a fit mother, she was actually good in the role. She cared for us and for her father, Dennio, who lived in an apartment in the basement. When Tina went to work, Dennio cared for us and we cared for him."


In 1962, six year old John Tuohy, his two brothers and two sisters entered Connecticut’s foster care system and were promptly split apart. Over the next ten years, John would live in more than ten foster homes, group homes and state schools, from his native Waterbury to Ansonia, New Haven, West Haven, Deep River and Hartford. In the end, a decade later, the state returned him to the same home and the same parents they had taken him from. As tragic as is funny compelling story will make you cry and laugh as you journey with this child to overcome the obstacles of the foster care system and find his dreams.


John William Tuohy is a writer who lives in Washington DC. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. He is the author of numerous non-fiction on the history of organized crime including the ground break biography of bootlegger Roger Tuohy "When Capone's Mob Murdered Touhy" and "Guns and Glamour: A History of Organized Crime in Chicago."
His non-fiction crime short stories have appeared in The New Criminologist, American Mafia and other publications. John won the City of Chicago's Celtic Playfest for his work The Hannigan's of Beverly, and his short story fiction work, Karma Finds Franny Glass, appeared in AdmitTwo Magazine in October of 2008.
His play, Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public performance at the Actors Chapel in Manhattan in February of 2007 as part of the groups Reading Series for New York project. In June of 2008, the play won the Virginia Theater of The First Amendment Award for best new play.

 Contact John:


Estado de ánimo: mood
Example sentence:  No tengo el ánimo para bromas.
Sentence meaning: I'm not in the mood for joke

Quebrar:  keh-brahr': To break; to go bankrupt
1. Por segunda vez este mes, los niños del vecindario me quebraron unaventana jugando al béisbol.
For the second time this month, the neighborhood kids broke one of mywindows playing baseball.

2. Me quedé sin trabajo después de que quebrara la empresa por la quetrabajaba.
I ended up unemployed after the company I worked for went bankrupt.
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Sentence meaning: He is such a bore of a teache

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The Porchless Pumpkin: A Halloween Story for Children
A Halloween play for young children. By consent of the author, this play may be performed, at no charge, by educational institutions, neighborhood organizations and other not-for-profit-organizations.
A fun story with a moral
“I believe that Denny O'Day is an American treasure and this little book proves it. Jack is a pumpkin who happens to be very small, by pumpkins standards and as a result he goes unbought in the pumpkin patch on Halloween eve, but at the last moment he is given his chance to prove that just because you're small doesn't mean you can't be brave. Here is the point that I found so wonderful, the book stresses that while size doesn't matter when it comes to courage...ITS OKAY TO BE SCARED....as well. I think children need to hear that, that's its okay to be unsure because life is a ongoing lesson isn't it?”
Paperback: 42 pages


It's Not All Right to be a Foster Kid....no matter what they tell you: Tweet the books contents
Paperback 94 pages

From the Author
I spent my childhood, from age seven through seventeen, in foster care.  Over the course of those ten years, many decent, well-meaning, and concerned people told me, "It's okay to be foster kid."
In saying that, those very good people meant to encourage me, and I appreciated their kindness then, and all these many decades later, I still appreciate their good intentions. But as I was tossed around the foster care system, it began to dawn on me that they were wrong.  It was not all right to be a foster kid.
During my time in the system, I was bounced every eighteen months from three foster homes to an orphanage to a boy's school and to a group home before I left on my own accord at age seventeen.
In the course of my stay in foster care, I was severely beaten in two homes by my "care givers" and separated from my four siblings who were also in care, sometimes only blocks away from where I was living.
I left the system rather than to wait to age out, although the effects of leaving the system without any family, means, or safety net of any kind, were the same as if I had aged out. I lived in poverty for the first part of my life, dropped out of high school, and had continuous problems with the law.
 Today, almost nothing about foster care has changed.  Exactly what happened to me is happening to some other child, somewhere in America, right now.  The system, corrupt, bloated, and inefficient, goes on, unchanging and secretive.
Something has gone wrong in a system that was originally a compassionate social policy built to improve lives but is now a definitive cause in ruining lives.  Due to gross negligence, mismanagement, apathy, and greed, mostly what the foster care system builds are dangerous consequences. Truly, foster care has become our epic national disgrace and a nightmare for those of us who have lived through it.
Yet there is a suspicion among some Americans that foster care costs too much, undermines the work ethic, and is at odds with a satisfying life.  Others see foster care as a part of the welfare system, as legal plunder of the public treasuries.
 None of that is true; in fact, all that sort of thinking does is to blame the victims.  There is not a single child in the system who wants to be there or asked to be there.  Foster kids are in foster care because they had nowhere else to go.  It's that simple.  And believe me, if those kids could get out of the system and be reunited with their parents and lead normal, healthy lives, they would. And if foster care is a sort of legal plunder of the public treasuries, it's not the kids in the system who are doing the plundering.
 We need to end this needless suffering.  We need to end it because it is morally and ethically wrong and because the generations to come will not judge us on the might of our armed forces or our technological advancements or on our fabulous wealth.
 Rather, they will judge us, I am certain, on our compassion for those who are friendless, on our decency to those who have nothing and on our efforts, successful or not, to make our nation and our world a better place.  And if we cannot accomplish those things in the short time allotted to us, then let them say of us "at least they tried."
You can change the tragedy of foster care and here's how to do it.  We have created this book so that almost all of it can be tweeted out by you to the world.  You have the power to improve the lives of those in our society who are least able to defend themselves.  All you need is the will to do it.
 If the American people, as good, decent and generous as they are, knew what was going on in foster care, in their name and with their money, they would stop it.  But, generally speaking, although the public has a vague notion that foster care is a mess, they don't have the complete picture. They are not aware of the human, economic and social cost that the mismanagement of the foster care system puts on our nation.
By tweeting the facts laid out in this work, you can help to change all of that.  You can make a difference.  You can change things for the better.
We can always change the future for a foster kid; to make it better ...you have the power to do that. Speak up (or tweet out) because it's your country.  Don't depend on the "The other guy" to speak up for these kids, because you are the other guy.
We cannot build a future for foster children, but we can build foster children for the future and the time to start that change is today.

No time to say Goodbye: Memoirs of a life in foster 
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Kahlil Gibran, an artist, poet, and writer was born on January 6, 1883 n the north of modern-day Lebanon and in what was then part of Ottoman Empire. He had no formal schooling in Lebanon. In 1895, the family immigrated to the United States when Kahlil was a young man and settled in South Boston. Gibran enrolled in an art school and was soon a member of the avant-garde community and became especially close to Boston artist, photographer, and publisher Fred Holland Day who encouraged and supported Gibran’s creative projects. An accomplished artist in drawing and watercolor, Kahlil attended art school in Paris from 1908 to 1910, pursuing a symbolist and romantic style. He held his first art exhibition of his drawings in 1904 in Boston, at Day's studio. It was at this exhibition, that Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who ten years his senior. The two formed an important friendship and love affair that lasted the rest of Gibran’s short life. Haskell influenced every aspect of Gibran’s personal life and career. She became his editor when he began to write and ushered his first book into publication in 1918, The Madman, a slim volume of aphorisms and parables written in biblical cadence somewhere between poetry and prose. Gibran died in New York City on April 10, 1931, at the age of 48 from cirrhosis of the liver and tuberculosis.

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Paperback 86 pages

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Paperback 36 pages

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