I heard James Fields’ high school teacher discussing how Mister Fields seemed to idolize Nazi Germany and how inevitably any conversation with him turned to praise of Hitler and his ilk. The teacher lamented that he was unable to convince him otherwise.

When I went to high school, there was a guy in my class with similar leanings. I’ll call him M. When M wore a swastika belt buckle to school one day our history teacher, Mister H. called him out on it. M just smiled smugly and said he thought it was cool. Mister H asked him if he realized what that symbol represented and M indicated that yeah, he pretty well knew his history.

It may not have been the next day, but shortly after that Mister H presented us with a movie – the 1956 documentary, Night And Fog. If you’ve never seen it, consider yourself lucky. It uses very graphic SS footage and photographs of Hitler’s “final solution.” To say it was disturbing is an understatement. When the film ended, you could have heard a pin drop.

Mister H. then lead us in a discussion of what we had just seen, the rise of German nationalism (the parallels of today are frightening), and how there was probably not a Jew alive today (today being 1972 at the time) who had not lost a relative to the concentration camps. Someone asked if he had. Yes, he said. He had.

I don’t know if Mister H. got through to M or not. Not really. I certainly hope so. But I do know that M never wore that belt buckle to school again.


The man answering the door looked harried – hair uncombed, stains from more than one meal spotting his shirt, still in bedroom slippers at 10:20am. His eyes darted from one uniformed officer to the other as he repeatedly moistened his upper lip with nervous flicks of his tongue.

“Yes?” he asked without opening the storm door.

“Mister Jackson?” Officer Makely asked, raising his voice to counter the closed door.

The man inside looked none too sure of it when he replied, “Yes.”

“Can we speak to you please?” Officer Reanot asked, causing the man to swing his head in an almost comical exaggeration from one policeman to the other.

“Speak… to me?” His voice almost squeaked.

“Yes, sir. Would you mind opening the door?” Reanot pointed to the latch for emphasis. “And we’d like to see Mrs. Jackson. Is she in?”

The color washed from Jackson’s face. He started to turn away when a loud crash from the kitchen made him jump. Officer Makely put his hand on his gun.

Instead of retreating Jackson stood where he was, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, with a slump of his shoulders and a sigh audible through the glass he nodded his head.

“Yes. Yes. Come in. I can’t take this anymore.” He unlatched the door and took a few steps back to allow room for the two policemen to enter.

The stench from within nearly knocked the men over as they opened the door. Makely swallowed hard to keep down his gorge. Reanot drew his gun and hurried to the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ!” A mountain of dirty dishes was stacked in and about the sink. Debris was scattered on the floor. The stench was coming from the overflowing trash can. Looked like this was more a case for the Health Department than the Police. He holstered his gun and rejoined the two men in the front room.

“Nobody in there,” he explained to Makely.

“Mr. Jackson,” Makely said, taking the lead. “We’d like to talk to your wife please. We’ve got a 10-57, uh, a missing person report. Your wife’s sister says she has not been able to speak to her for over a week. She is quite concerned about her well-being. Is she around?”

Jackson looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Then he slowly shook his head, no.

“Can you tell me where she is?”

Jackson looked up at Makely with something very close to desperation in his eyes. “Oh, she’s here,” he said in a tentative voice. “She’s here. She won’t leave me alone. Not one moment of peace.”

Another loud crash came from the kitchen.

“Alan, what a mess!” a shrill woman’s voice shouted from the kitchen. “You never finish anything. Anything at all!”

Makely and Reanot exchanged glances as Reanot darted once again for the kitchen doorway.

Again, the room was empty, but now a stack of dishes was scattered across the floor. Several pieces were broken. Reanot moved quickly to the dining room, but it was empty too, then tried the back door, which was locked.

Jackson watched him from the other room as he approached the basement door.

“Don’t go down there!” Jackson squawked, his voice breaking on “there.” Makely put a hand on the man’s shoulder to restrain him when he took a step toward the kitchen.

“What’s in the basement, Mister Jackson?” Makely asked, trying to bore into him with his eyes. It had no effect. Jackson was far too distraught to even notice the steely glare.

Reanot tried the door, and it too was locked.

“You have the key for this?” he asked.

Jackson raised his hand, index finger extended and jabbed upward several times.

Reanot looked up and saw a key hanging on a nail in the cornice.

“Please. Don’t.” The man’s high squeak was barely audible. Reanot ignored him.

The stench that roiled from the opened door sent Reanot reeling. “Call for backup,” he managed to croak as he staggered for the back door.

“You’re worthless, Alan. Worthless.” a woman screeched from below. “You have never finished a single thing. Couldn’t even finish my grave.”


© 2015 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.


They rested for but an hour beside the pool, Dak anxious to be moving on. Lin suggested daylight might reveal some trace of those who had set the fire, but Dak thought it unlikely.

“This is not the head of the burn.” He pointed out the charred remains of a handful of white thorn trees and unfamiliar scrub. “I doubt they would have been staying here.” He surveyed the horizon ahead of them. “And there is damn little cover here, Lin. If they are close, they could easily spot us.

Lin agreed to the logic of that argument and began preparing to go. While Dak refilled the water bottles Lin collected the largest of the brush pig’s bones, and any that held even a hint of meat. They would crack the bones open for the marrow come dawn, a breakfast Lin really looked forward to.

While the vicinity of the water hole afforded little cover the charred plateau they traversed provided even less. It was beginning to look like they would be caught out in the open by sunrise when they finally stumbled upon a crack in the earth, a jagged crevasse about a stone throw wide and perhaps twice as deep.

As they searched the edge for a way down it suddenly dawned on Lin that they were no longer walking on ash.

“We’ve missed the fire’s head,” she said, weariness and defeat straining her voice.

Dak came up short, and gazed around. “Damn. I’m sorry. I’m so tired I wasn’t paying attention.”

She leaned into him and gave him a squeeze around the middle. “That’s OK. I didn’t notice either. We’ll just have to backtrack and look for it tomorrow.” He only nodded in way of reply and started a very tentative descent. This time the dingos let him take the lead. In fact, they seemed reluctant to follow even after Lin began her climb down.

“The dingos don’t like this,” Lin called down after Dak.

“It’s not that bad,” he shouted back up.

She continued on down. Eventually, after much yipping in consternation, the dingos followed her lead.

They made camp amid a tumble of boulders on the east face of the little canyon. Dak took stock of their water situation and concluded that they could move onward for one more day before reaching the halfway point, at which time they would need to return to the waterhole if no new source was found.

Lin set about cracking open the bones. Each crack of the rock she used echoed eerily up and down the arroyo. Neither she nor Dak liked it, but they had to eat. They scooped out the marrow with sharpened twigs and tossed the remains to the dingos. Komaninu leapt upon them with relish, but Shisha only sniffed, then turned away with a whine, and laid down with her head between her forepaws, shivering.

Lin looked from Shisha to Dak and said, “I don’t think we should stay here too long.”


© 2015 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.

Some previous excepts (most recent first):
Setting Out
Escape from Hel


The I Write Friday Flash badgeThey hid amongst the rocks just outside the mouth of the cave. Dak held a palm-sized stone in his right hand – a small pile of similar stones stacked near his feet. Lin crouched beside him, dividing her attention between the man walking on the charred plains below, and the two fully alert dingos which stood near her side. If either Komaninu or Shisha began to fidget she would soothe them to keep them quiet.

“Can you tell who it is?” Lin asked, straining to see.

Dak shook his head, no. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” He considered the figure below. “Judging by his size and bearing, maybe Jacob?”

Lin nodded. “Yeah, kind of reminds me of Jacob.”

So they were lucky. Jacob was not one of Michael’s best trackers.

“I think the wildfire has thrown him off.” Dak said.

They collectively caught their breaths when the man looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He mopped his brow, bowed his head, and moved on. As soon as Lin relaxed Shisha let out a little yip.

The man looked up again, but only hurried his pace. He was alone in the wild, and evidently did not relish a run in with a dingo.

Once he was fully out of sight Lin and Dak retreated to the coolness of the cave, followed by the pups, which curled up at their feet.

“We best leave tonight,” Dak said.

Lin wormed into him to make herself more comfortable. “We have water here.”

“We can come back, if need be. We need to find whoever set that fire, Lin. He knows where we are. We don’t know where he is. That gives him the advantage.”

Lin drew in a deep breath and let out a slow sigh.

“Will it ever end, do you think?” she asked him. “The running. The hiding.”

Dak wrapped an arm over her shoulder, cupped her breast, and having no answer said nothing.


They climbed to the top of the cliff by the light of the setting moon, Tetu, and waited behind a low rock face for it to fully sink below the horizon. Dak wanted to leave the area in the darkness between moons, figuring that if their position was watched such timing would offer the best concealment.

The top of the plateau had been desolate enough before the wild fire. Now it was like a scene from Hell itself. And like Hell, it was hot, radiating back heat from Kepler’s unforgiving gaze. Dak reminded himself that they would miss this heat in just a few hours, after the full chill of the desert set in.

They decided to strike out in the direction the fire had come from. Dak hoped to find its origin, and from there that Lin, the more experienced of the two when it came to skills of the wilds, might find a trail to follow. Water was their most limiting factor, so they had agreed before setting out that they would only go as far as half the water would take them. If they found no other source of water by then they would head back to the cave to refill and reconsider their options. For now they went on, Dak steering by keeping the Sentinal over his left shoulder.

As usual, the dingos ran before them.

The second moon, Iah, had just cleared the horizon when a warning went up from the dingos. Dak and Lin froze, trying to fix a bearing on the yips. They had taken only a few steps when the yipping stopped.

“What do you think?” Dak asked Lin.

“I don’t know.” Once a dingo got started they usually only stopped yipping after the kill, or when killed.

They hurried forward, but with caution. It was not long before they heard something racing toward them, then heard one little yip of recognition. Shisha paused only a moment, then turned tail and ran back the way she came.

“They’ve found something,” Lin said, quickening her pace and taking the lead.

Shisha came back three more times to ensure they were following. The next time they saw her she was with Koma, chewing on the remnants of their kill, a brush pig.

“I thought you trained them to save the kills for us.” Dak said with a bit of humor in his tone.

As they approached they forgot the pig for something much more important. A few feet beyond the kill was an open pool of water.

© 2015 by Jon M. Strother, all rights reserved.


A NASA concept image of a space station.I hovered just outside the circle of Dockside officers surrounding Captain McGuire, trying to catch his eye. No doubt they were busy, what with launch just six hours away, but I really needed to bring this issue up with him post haste. McGuire was known for his temper, as well as his disdain for civvy staff members. Since I’m definitely a civvy I dared not interrupt. Hendricks, our Chief Operations Officer here on LF-4, finally left the little cluster of uniforms and the Captain cast me a skeptical glance.

“What is it, Abbot? You’ve been dancing around there like you’ve had to piss in the worst way for the last half hour. Get it off your chest.”

Clearing my throat, I stepped forward, close to the remaining circle, yet not actually joining it. Fleet boys have an overdeveloped sense of personal space and have been known to deck anyone stupid enough to intrude. The three remaining officers stood nonchalant regarding me with smiles, bordering on sneers. I paused, uncertain of myself, of the situation. “Get it off your chest,” was a questionable invitation at best.

“Sir, I need to talk to you about the supply situation.” The sneer on Lieutenant Du Val’s face melted into a blank, unreadable expression. Lieutenant Anderson looked at her watch.

As Dockside Logistics Specialist for this launch it was my job to make sure everything was properly procured, delivered, and stowed aboard the ship before we sent her on her way. Once launched there’s no turning back, no resupply. First Crew would not emerge from stasis until the ship reached its full cruising speed, in about three years. The survival of the colonists depended upon a full manifest.

I cleared my throat again. “There seems to be a problem.”

Lieutenant Du Val frowned, folding his arms over his chest. Sub Lieutenant Gamble assumed Parade Rest, hands behind his back. His half smile-half sneer remained on his face. Anderson looked like she suddenly remembered something needing doing, and departed at a good clip.

I did not interpret the officers’ body language as good signs, and felt my situation growing tenuous.

“May I speak to you in private?”

Captain McGuire scowled, ever so briefly, then jerked his head to the side, dismissing the others. Du Val saluted and walked away, casting a black glance my way. Gamble stood off to about 3 meters and resumed his at ease position.

“What’s on your mind, young lady?” McGuire asked, his countenance all sincerity and concern.

“I’ve just finished my inventory, Captain, and there are critical shortages in the supplies.”

McGuire looked puzzled and stepped a bit closer to me. “What do you mean? Last week you told me everything was well accounted for.”

“Last week everything was well accounted for. I supervised that inventory personally, and everything was there down to the last gram of coffee.”

“Then how can there possibly be any shortages?” he asked, scratching his graying beard. “And what kind of shortages are we talking about here? Food? Medicine? Materials?”

“Yes. Yes to all of that. Plus equipment. Two tractors are missing. Otherwise, about 30% of the food and building materials have disappeared, and fully half of the pain killers.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “That can’t be right. All those supplies have been under guard and seal since their arrival. Either you must have made a mistake upon delivery, or are mistaken now. I can’t see how they could have just gotten up and walked away.”

My stomach dropped.

“With all due respect, Sir, there was no mistake. Then or now. Obviously someone has stolen these goods, and in doing so put the lives of hundreds of colonists in peril.” I could not help letting my eyes drift toward Sub Lieutenant Gamble. As if being reminded he was there, Captain McGuire turned and signaled the Officer over. As Gamble approached I took a reflexive step back.

“Yes, Sir?” Gamble stood rigidly at ease.

“Joe, Liz here seems to think there is a problem with the supply inventory.”


“She says close to a third of it has disappeared.”

Gamble’s face remained a study in stone.

“You can confirm that Warehouses 6 and 7 have been under 24/7 security?” McGuire looked stern.

“Yes, Sir!”

“And that the contents were moved, in their entirety, aboard the SS Hudson last night?”

“Yes, sir. I observed the transfer personally.”

“But–” McGuire cut me off with a gesture.

“And that the hold has been under constant guard since being sealed?”

“Yes, sir.”

McGuire turned to me with a skeptical, half bemused look on his face. “I think you must have made a mistake, Ms Abbot.” I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off again. “Now don’t fret. We’ll double check everything, and believe me, if anything is missing – one, I will personally lead the investigation, and two, we will not launch until any shortfall has been filled. Thank you for coming to me with this. We’ll get on it right away.” He turned to Gamble. “See to it, Joe.”

“Yes, Sir!” Sub Lieutenant Gamble saluted, smirked at me, turned on his heal, and marched away.


McGuire glared at me. “I think we are done here, Ms Abbot. Dismissed.”

He walked off, leaving me drained and shaken.

I knew what I needed to do. I had to downlink right away. I turned and rushed back to my quarters.

I locked the door even as I noticed my message board blinking. When I called up the text any hope for support melted away. Instead of a reassuring message from Captain McGuire, it was orders. I was being reassigned. I was the new Logistics Specialist for SS Hudson. I was to report onboard within the hour. As I reached for the communications console my door swept open. Two Marines stepped in, one to each side, followed by a grinning Lieutenant Du Val.

“Good afternoon, Liz. Come with us please. Oh, don’t bother to pack.”

© 2014 by J. M. Strother. All rights reserved.

NASA image believed to be in the public domain.


A laptop screen showing the new Windows 8 interfaceOther than that, Windows 8 seems fine.

Metro Apps are those funky looking boxes you see plastered all over the start screen, as shown in the graphic to the right. If your computer is touch sensitive they are just a finger tip away. The apps themselves seem OK, but apparently they only run in full screen mode, and when they lock up they pretty much lock up your computer.

I’ve only added a few of them, both games (solitaire and mahjong to be precise), and they both lock up a lot. The old standby, CTRL ALT DEL brings up the Task Manager menu, but since the game is in full screen mode the focus remains on the game, meaning you can’t actually use the Task Manager.

To make sure it wasn’t just me screwing up (been known to do that) I went to the old standby, Google, to search for something along the lines of “Windows 8 locks up.” Sure enough lots of people have the same problem. One post mentioned a work-around, which is to set the Task Manager attributes to be Always On Top. Have not given that a try yet, but it will probably work. Still, I should not have to implement a work-around for killing an app.

These glitches, Metro Apps locking up and the Task Manager problem, sort of take the glow off my brand new computer. I realize Windows 8 is new, but come on Microsoft, the Metro Apps represent your whole new computing paradigm, you best get it right. I anxiously await your update that will fix both these problems. But I’m not holding my breath.

PS, I also was unable to get screen capture to work, something I do a lot of on my old PC. Also Googled that, and supposedly it works just like I’d expect it to, but it doesn’t. I’ll let you know if I get it figured out. ~jon

Image from Microsoft under the Fair Use doctrine, for commentary, criticism, and reporting.


Cover art of Boundary WatersMy friend, Estrella Azul, has a blog post up by the same title as this one. Her post is about the old Guardian survey of 100 famous books. You can pop over to her blog and see which ones she’s read and how many you have in common. But this is not that. Her title simply tickled my muse, and got me wondering about the literal answer to the question.

What are you reading right now?

I just finished Sisterland by Curtis Sittenfeld. It intrigued me in that it is set in my home town of St. Louis, Missouri. I’d head the author discuss the book on the radio, so when my book club selected it I was more than happy to nab a copy for my Kindle. It is about identical twins, both with physic abilities, and how a prediction one makes complicates the lives of both of them. I did enjoy it, but was left just a little disappointed.

To answer the question more directly, I am currently reading Boundary Waters, by Debra Easterling. I just stated it (still in Chapter One), so it is too early to have formed any opinions. The author spent many years in the Boundary Waters region, so I am looking forward to her description of the area.

I am also currently “reading” Campfire Songs, edited by Irene Maddox and Rosalyn Cobb. As the title suggests, this is a collection of old campfire songs, many of which bring back fond memories from my childhood. I put “reading” in quotes because I am actually just picking out the ones I know and singing my way through the book. My kids think I’m crazy. They’re probably right. Again, I’ve just gotten started and have refreshed my memories on: Get Along Little Dogies, Home On the Range, Red River Valley, and Streets of Laredo. I am embarrassed to say I had to go out to You Tube to find Streets in order to recall the tune. I was singing it to the same tune as Get Along. The words fit, but it sure sounds wrong.

Next up in the songbook is Amazing Grace.

So, to repeat the question, what are you reading right now? Let me know in the comments.



A books stacked on a wooden tableWow, the day is winding down and I have yet to post anything about the launch today of the Best of Friday Flash – Volume Two. That’s the way it is around here lately, between my scatterbrain habits, household chores, a couple of appointments – the day just sort of flies by. I’m left sitting here wondering where the heck the time went. But I cannot let the day close without acknowledging this auspicious moment and the wonderful group of people who actually made it happen.

The Best of Friday Flash – Volume Two is a collection of 58 wonderfully diverse pieces of flash fiction produced by the best online writing community on the planet, heck, on any of the eight planets (and one plutoid). As one of the editors of this volume (along with the talented Tony Noland and Rachel Blackbirdsong) I had the opportunity to work with some of the best flash fiction writers on the web. So if you want to know who really deserves credit for this fine collection look no further than the Table of Contents. These are the people who took the chance, bared their souls, and shared their original creations with the world.

No small feat that.

The same is true of all the others who participate in #FridayFlash every week. Without this fine collection of writers we would have no fine collection of stories. So now, as the evening draws to a close, I raise my glass in tribute, and say thank you to everyone who helped make this day happen. Not all of you are included between the covers of this book, but each and every one of you are included in my heart.


Cover of Less Than Nothing by Jeff Posey depicting a close up of a Native American in full headress.This post isn’t so much a book review as a reconnection.

I just finished reading “Less Than Nothing, A novel of Anasazi Strife” by Jeff Posey. If you’ve followed this blog for a long time, or been a #FridayFlash fan back in the day, that name may strike a bell. Jeff used to post flash fiction related to his WIP (work in progress for those who wonder) and they were always very well received. Good writing begets good reception.

At any rate his WIP is no longer a WIP but a full fledged novel, the aforementioned “Less Than Nothing,” available as an ebook from Amazon, SmashWords, and Barnes & Noble. I assure you, it is very much more than nothing.

Jeff’s posts were usually character studies or experiments to see what worked and what didn’t. I always enjoyed them, even if he sometimes seemed a bit less than satisfied with a given effort. I was one of many who told him I’d buy the book when it was done. Well, I have, and I am not disappointed.

One thing I wondered about was how much I’d enjoy it as a novel. The thing about novels is the reader’s sense of discovery as the novel progresses. Since he posted many shorts related to the work I was not sure how much discovery would be left. I needn’t have worried. While a few of the scenes harken back to those flash fiction stories this is much more than a bunch of shorts bundled together. Jeff has done a wonderful job here of weaving a seamless and complex tale involving many fascinating characters wrapped in layers of intrigue. One word of warning for the squeamish, there is a lot of violence. I would not call it gratuitous, but it is prevalent throughout the book.

I suppose a short synopsis is in order even though this is not a book review.

The story takes place in the desert southwest, near present day Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. It is set just before and in the wake of the 1057 A.D. Crab Nebula Supernova, an event that sets off a wave of violent upheaval in Anasazi society and surrounding areas. In the midst of this crucible Tuwa, a young man discarded by his father as an infant, is thrust into a struggle to free his people from the brutal rule of Chief Warrior (and obvious sociopath) Pokunyesva, or Pok.

After Pok kills those Tuwa loves most, Tuwa and several of his orphaned friends take up with a long distance trader who teaches them to how to survive and adapt in a brutal world. His trading years takes place mainly off stage, and the story takes up when the trader’s business brings them back to Tuwa’s homeland.

Tuwa and his compatriots return to Center Place Valley seeking revenge. They are but a handful of young adults and children who attempt the seemingly impossible – to overthrow tyranny of Pok, and in doing so unleash a series of events which will shake the Anasazi world to its core.

I was gripped by the story of Tuwa and his friends. I had come to know them back in Jeff’s flash fiction days, and missed them. It was such a pleasure to rediscover them, not just as a series of shorts, but a full fledged, fully realized, and very well executed novel. Well done, Jeff Posey. I am so glad I have rediscovered you and look forward to reading you newest works.


The three horsemen ambled round the bend heading east, laughing at their own bawdy tales. Upon seeing a cottage the lead man, Ladif, pulled up. The other two reined in and fell silent, their horses nickering beneath them.

“Well now, looks like we’ve found a place where we can take a load off,” Ladif said.

They spurred their horses forward, turned from the road, and ambled through the gate. The men bore no livery, their tack was old and worn, their clothing all but rags. Three desperate men, in very desperate times.

They came to a halt once in the yard and Ladif, the tallest of the three, called out for anyone in the house. The horse beneath him shied nervously. Ladif responded with a harsh yank on the reins.

“You keep treating your horse like that, Ladif, and she’ll be done with you some day, mark my words,” Ceb scolded as he dismounted his own dapple gray. He patted her flanks and took a moment to inspect her right hoof. She seemed to be favoring it of late.

Ladif responded with a series of curses aimed both at his horse and Ceb.

“Wallup, see if anyone’s home,” Ladif told the third man.

Wallup rode right to the door and pounded on it with the sole of his well worn boot. “Oy! Anyone there? Come on, now, show some hospitality to three wandering knights.” Getting no response he leaned down and tried the latch. It did not move. “Locked,” he snarled and backed the horse away. He dismounted, approached the door again, and began to heave his shoulder to it.

“Leave it be,” Ceb called from over by the well. “I’ve found this…” He held up a piece of parchment. “’Twas in the bucket.” His horse was now slaking her thirst.

“What?” Wallup scoffed.

“Says, ‘Leave in peace and peace shall follow you.’ It’s got hex marks on it,” Ceb warned.

“Pfhat! Witchcraft. Load of crap I tell you.” The man returned to abusing the door. After three good tries it heaved to. He fell in as it gave way.

Ladif laughed when Wallup went sprawling, dismounted, and followed him in.

“Naught worth having,” Ladif complained when he reappeared a few minutes later. Despite his words he held a loosely tied bundle in his left hand.

“Too bad, too,” said Wallup following right behind, twirling a woman’s blousey tunic, squeezing the empty bosoms with a grin. “Could of had some fun, eh?”

Once the horses were watered they remounted and continued on to the east.

Ceb returned two days later, leading two riderless horses. He reined in at the gate, dismounted his dapple gray, and tied the other two steeds to the fence. He laid a bundle, loosely tied within a tunic, just inside the gate. Then he backed to his horse, made a warding sign, remounted, and galloped away.

© 2012 by J.M. Strother

Image a painting by Paul Cézanne circa 1865-1867 via WikiMedia Commons

© 2012 Mad Utopia Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha