DANNY TELLER GOES TO THERAPY: A Book to Read to Grieving Children

By Helen Borel

[This book was created for the age group of about 4 to 8 years old.  It shows, simply,
how a child’s grief can be handled appropriately. It includes two basic concepts: The
normal aspects of grief and an introduction to psychotherapy. (Showing how “talking
therapy” can help even a child.)  Additionally, it shows how family, friends, teachers
and doctors can all contribute positively during the normal evolution of grief to help
the child suffering a loss pull through it more smoothly.]

(I’m publishing this manuscript with the expectation that a children’s book publisher 
will be interested in purchasing it.  A publisher, that is, who has an on-staff illustrator
who can bring the visual aspects of this important story to life for kids who need it.)

[The markets for my book include: Pediatricians, Child Psychiatrists, Family 
Doctors, Parents of young children, Teachers of young children, Social 
Workers, Psychologists, Psychotherapists, Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents,
the clergy...anyone who needs to explain once-taboo topics of loss, grief and
handling ones feelings to a young child.  I’m open to edit to perfection this manuscript
which has been lying in my files for years.]

Danny Teller Goes to Therapy: 
A Book to Read to Grieving Children   by Helen Borel

( page 1, left page)  (pix: a bedroom full of toys, a hobby horse, etc.; a boychild in bed)

Danny Teller can’t play today.

(page 2, right page) (pix: Danny looks sad, could be 5 or 7 years old)

Danny Teller is sad.

(page 3)   (pix: Danny’s dad is bedridden in hospital, med’l paraphernalia + nurse)

Danny’s Daddy, Mr. Joe Teller is very sick.

(page 4)   (pix: Joe Teller on Exam table in MD’s Office)

Last Tuesday, Dr. Cardillo told Danny’s Dad that he must go to the hospital
for an operation.

(page 5)   (pix: Danny playing and laughing; Mommy’s on the phone)

Danny’s Mommy got a phone call from Dr.Cardillo.

(page 6)   (pix: Danny’s Mommy is Crying; Danny looks puzzled at Mommy’s side,
                        toys on floor, hand on Mommy’s arm)
                   
Danny’s Mommy Mary is crying.

(page 7)   (pix: Danny looks, sadly, out window; dog playing, bright outside day;
                        Inside dim, toys now have empty and ominous look)

Danny Teller was sad his Daddy was not home to play with him.

(page 8)   (pix: Danny’s mom embraces her little boy on her lap, he looks at her sadly
                         as just one tear rolls down her cheek)

Danny’s Mommy holds Danny tight.  For she is about to tell him something very sad.

(page 9)   (pix: artist, please use your imagination for this one)

“Daddy went to heaven today,” Mommy said softly to Danny. 

(page 10)   (pix: mommy cries but tries to keep it, somehow from her son)

Mommy Mary cries and cries.

(page 11)    (pix: Danny sees food on the dinner table, but he won’t eat)

Danny is not hungry.

(page 12)   (pix: Danny sits on floor by his bed; bedcovers disheveled from tossing...)

Danny cannot sleep.

(page 13)   (pix: Danny is distracted, sad, at School)

Danny cannot pay attention in school.

(page 14)   (pix: Another boy and his daddy are playing ball)

Danny sees his friend Benny playing catch with his Daddy Bill.

(page 15)   (pix: Danny has lost his childhood abandon; he’s so sad.)

Danny’s heart hurts.

(page 16)   (pix: Danny is sitting in the teacher’s office; Teacher talking softly to Mommy)

Mr. Miller, Danny’s teacher, talks to Mommy about Danny’s Sadness.

(page 17)   (pix: Mr. Miller and Mommy look concerned at sad Danny in chair)

Mr. Miller tells Mommy, “Danny needs help from a special person...
called a THERAPIST to help him with his sad feelings. So he can remember
the good times and love he had with his Daddy Joe...even though it’s okay to cry too.

(page 18)   (pix: Therapist’s waiting room; wall pix of Sigmund Freud, but friendly
                           and comfortable)

Mommy Mary brings Danny to visit Dr. Sam Gorsky, a Talking Therapy Doctor.

(page 19)   (pix: Pediatric Psychiatrist-MD office with play therapy area, desk and chairs,
                           takes Danny by the hand and smiles)

Dr. Gorsky is going to help Danny to not feel so bad.

(page 20)   (pix: Danny in patient’s chair [child’s chair] looking down at floor)

“Mommy says you hurt too much to eat,” Dr. Gorsky gently says to Danny.

(page 21)   (pix: Dr. Gorsky, a man about 50, chin rests in right hand, elbow on
                          desk; waiting for Danny to talk)

Danny is shy and quiet and sad.

(page 22)   (pix: On Doctor’s desk is a happy photo of doc with his son)

Danny sees the photo of  Dr. Gorsky hugging his son Tommy.

(page 23)   (pix: Still looking at the photo, Danny cries openly)

Danny bursts into tears.

(page 24)   (pix: kindly middle-aged doc pats boy’s hand, looking plaintively at boy)

“You miss your daddy so much,” says the nice Therapist.

(page 25)   (pix: Danny bawling now, louder than before)

Danny cries louder now. His therapist, Dr. Sam says he doesn’t have to
keep it bottled inside anymore.

(page 26)   (pix: play therapy child’s table and chairs, etc.; Danny with Dr.Sam)

Dr. Sam asks Danny to play-act with the toys in the room.

(page 27)   (pix: note to artist, pix is evident from dialogue, below; Dad toy has
                          flexible arms)

Danny picks a toy boy with brown hair like himself and a Daddy toy.

(page 28)   (pix: similar pix as in #27)

Danny makes the Daddy toy hug the toy boy.

(page 29)   (pix: beginning faint smile on Danny’s face)

Dr. Sam picks Danny up and hugs him tight.

(page 30)   (pix: Dr. Sam carries Danny to the waiting room; shakes his hand &
                           talks to Mommy Mary)

“See you next week, Danny,” Dr. Sam says gently.

(page 31)   (pix: Younger brother of Danny’s dad visiting to comfort family)

Uncle Carl is visiting Danny for a whole month. Uncle Carl does many 
things with Danny: Reads him to sleep, takes him out to lunch, plays 
ball with him, helps with his homework.

(page 32)   (pix: Show Mr. Miller, Danny’s teacher, with his arm around
                           Danny’s shoulder)

Danny’s teacher, Mr. Miller asks Danny to draw a picture of his Daddy 
and to write some words about his Daddy to tell his classmates.

(page 33)   (pix: Mommy has lunch on the table and Danny’s friend Benny and his
                          dad are there too)

It’s Saturday, no school.  So Danny’s friend Benny and Benny’s Daddy Bill 
come to Danny’s house for lunch.

(page 34)   (pix: the two little boys with Bill in the park; sailing toy boats,
                         fishing, etc.)

Benny’s Daddy Bill takes the boys to the park to play and enjoy the afternoon.

(page 35)   (pix: Dr. Sam’s office; doctor listens to Danny)

Danny tells Dr. Sam, “Uncle Carl and other daddies are being nice to me.”

(page 36)   (pix: Danny looking semi-sad; Dr. Sam nods)

“But I still hurt for my Daddy,” Danny tells Dr. Sam.

(page 37)   (pix: Dr. Sam looking understandingly at Danny, who’s toying with a toy)

It’s okay to cry.  It’s okay to talk to Mommy about how you both hurt from 
missing Daddy.  It’s okay to remember all the happy times with Daddy.

(page 38)   (pix: Mommy Mary and Danny eat and even smile a little)

Danny and Mommy are having a nice supper together. Soon they will watch 
some TV.  

(page 39)   (pix: Mommy looking out window, dabbing eyes with handkerchief)

Sometimes Mommy still cries.  When she thinks about Daddy, she misses 
him too.

(page 40)   (pix: Danny crying while talking with sad Mommy)

Sometimes Danny still cries when he thinks of Daddy and misses him so 
much too.

(page 41)   (pix: In Dr. Sam’s office at play therapy table with boy toy and
daddy toy)

When Danny is extra sad, Mommy takes him to visit Dr. Sam. Then Danny 
tells Dr. Sam everything that’s hurting, again.  And also about all the happy 
good things that are happening in his life too.

(page 42)   (pix: group of all story’s characters with dog wagging its tail)

Friends and Uncles and Teachers all sharing feelings with Mommy & 
Dr. Sam about missing Daddy help Danny remember Daddy. And help 
Danny hurt less and less...and not hurt so bad anymore, as time goes by. 

© Copyright 2009-2015 Helen Borel. All rights reserved.

For permissions and purchases, please contact AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST
here:  helenborel@earthlink.net and in the Subject line, type: DANNY TELLER

  Dear Story Lover: Please read the very first post (below), “OUR READING ROOM...”
for the AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST “Mission Statement”...and that all publicatons here
are FREE TO PRINT AND KEEP. 
   Some readers may, however, desire to help this daring self-publishing concept grow and spread
so other writers will be encouraged to bring their works directly to readers, bypassing long delays
by entrenched publishers, editors and agents who often sideline important creative works.
   Only if you can, $1.00 or more will be so very helpful..please mail to:
Helen Borel - Apt. 9L, 200 West 79th Street, New York, N.Y. 10024
...and if you want notice of upcoming stories, feel free to send along your email address.
Thank you so much for participating in this “experiment in writer emancipation”.

Caveats in relation to this Children's Book, Danny Teller Goes to Therapy: 1) You may

read and print out one copy of my manuscript FREE. However, when a publisher purchases 

this story and commissions an illustrator to do the graphics, this book will belong to that 

purchaser and no one but that purchaser will be free to print it out or distribute it thereafter.

2) This story can also be adapted for different age groups, tweens, teens...and the general

concept can be extrapolated for young adult readers and older adult readers.  Unless ALL

rights are sold by me to a purchaser, ALL Current and Future adaptation rights 

belong to me, Helen Borel.

Creative Writing Heavily Involves Both Left- and Right-Brain Processes

By Helen Borel

WRITER'S MIND: RARE BLEND OF LOGIC AND INVENTION         

Honoring and Using Your Creative Process Both complexity and simplicity characterize the writing process. Which is simple because a born writer is incapable of not writing. A born writer must write as we all must breathe air. Too, writing is complex because the creative process includes both right-cerebral and left-cerebral activities. It demands the planning, organization and logic which the left brain directs. Concomitantly, it must incorporate the primary process of dreaming, hallucinations, poetry and evanescent unexplainable essences which the right brain captures.

Uniqueness of the Writer's Mind  Thus, the writer - as are other creative beings - is unique in the ways she/he uses the brain and its many features. Ordinary individuals (by which I refer to those who are certain they lack creativity, or those who are scared to discover they are creative - the latter that I believe most persons, if honest with themselves, can identify with) tend to be attached to left cerebral thought processes; mathematical, reliable, logical, never out-of-the-box concepts here.

Therefore, I'm positive, that most individuals utilize only fifty percent of their brain power, if that. The only time such left-brainers may get to experience right brain activity is involuntarily, either while dreaming or if they ever become insane and "hear" voices or "see" visions. Such primary process thinking is characteristic of schizophrenia and emanates from the right cerebrum.

Engaged in the creative process, the writer is somehow enabled to dip down into the primary process - where psychosis lives - extract what objects, memories, cuckoo thoughts, and inventions are found there and return to real life (consciousness) without being wounded, too much, emotionally. This process is referred to, in psychoanalytic theory, as "regression in the service of the ego." How the artist makes this happen is still, mostly, a mystery.

The Creative Process is a Highly Focused State  My experience with my writing process is that, while aware and conscious of everything happening around me, I relax and let myself become so focused on an idea and on the need to write about it, and on the essentiality of writing itself, that I seem to enter a sort of trance. While, at the same time, I am also easily aware of my surroundings, can answer a phone call, will develop side concepts unrelated to the focus at hand, and so forth. It is this highly focused state that allows the plunging down or dipping into my depths of Self by way of the primary process which lives in the right brain.

The natural-born writer somehow - no scientist or psychologist truly knows how and why the creative person's brain does this - manages to utilize both cerebri and their divergent functions separately, at first, when giving birth to a shiny new idea. Initially by allowing the right brain to do its thing with memory, imagination, poetic use of language and special applications of individual words, the writer creates a unique mixture.  A dynamic substance which then sits ready, tremulously, to be attacked by the master Editor, the writer's left brain. The Logician.

If You Don't Like to Work Hard and Think Deeply, Forget About being a Writer  If you are fantasizing about becoming a writer and you imagine this process is easy and painless, let me shock you into reality here and now: Immediately disabuse yourself of this notion! Writing is difficult. And the most difficult phase of the writing process is when Logic must be applied to render your creation worthy of publication.

This is the time when you are forced to perform surgery on your new baby. When you must excise, ruthlessly - oftentimes your very best ideas because they simply don't belong in the work at hand - no matter how beautiful the words, no matter how brilliant your inherent philosophy, out they must go.

Still, stay calm. Don't toss away those cut-out fragments. Place them in a "ticklers" file folder for future idea arousals to elaborate more fully on these "ideas," or to nudge you to get going on other projects.

My advice for writers, freelance or otherwise: Since, presumably, you love to write, you absolutely must do it every day to get the feel of how your dual brains work. Your creative process will not click on until you do it consistently and with regularity. Writing is organic. Nobody can "teach" it to you. You learn to do it better and better AS you do it.

Keep on doing it. You'll know by the feel of it when your writing project is as excellent as you can write it for the topic you've selected and for the target readership of the publication you have chosen for it.

After the Creative...Comes the Pain, the Editing  And when you are ready to submit it to an editor or publisher, please don't send anything that you haven't thoroughly read over and over again for quality, grammar, originality, clarity, creativity, style and tightness. Nothing extraneous. Cut out unnecessary sentence-lengtheners. Remember the old adage: "Less is more."

Additionally, be surgical about typos and misspellings. Proofread several times to make sure your work is in high quality submission mode. Your editors will be most grateful and you will be proud of your writing. So, even if declined by one publication, your work will still be in perfect shape for submission elsewhere.

Lastly, during your struggles to develop your writing talent, remember this: Though the writing process may appear simple while being quite complex, it is exceptionally rewarding. Because nothing is more exhilarating than doing all day the precise kind of work that makes you happy.

© Copyright 2008-2015 Dr. Helen Borel. All rights reserved.

For permissions and rights, email me at: emotional_health@earthlink.net and type into the Subject line "WRITER'S MIND"

Because Creativity and Emotional Health are Related, you may wish to read my various articles on psychiatry and psychotherapy subjects. Feel free to visit My PsychoTherapy Zone at: PsychDocNYC.blogspot.com

Freud Bleuler Breuer, Inc.: The First Medical Ad Agency

By Helen Borel

Shortly after the turn of the century (the 19th to the 20th, that is), I was privileged to witness the start-up of the very first medical advertising agency. It was lunchtime in Vienna, between noon and 3 p.m. just like these days on Madison Avenue. I was reading the Wiener Zeitung in the Kleine Wiener Weinstube on Kinderkirchekuchenstrasse, gaily humming a Walz as I sipped my Wiener Wein.

Across the Strasse was a Krankenhaus. Walter Krankenhaus, just like our own Walter Reed Hospital in Washington.

As I leafed the Zeitung's strudel-flaked pages, I was pained to see the proliferation of advertisements by quacks selling their panaceas and snake oils. Not a few Krankenbuggychasing lawyers were also represented there. A gulp of Wein took the edge off my anxiety. You must remember, those were the days before Valium (R) (diazepam). B.V. Also before caffeinism, a recently discovered psychiatric entity for which that benzodiazepine seems to have been, fortuitously, brought to market.

Are Juan Valdez, the coffee industry icon, and Roche Laboratories in cahoots?

Sipping coffee at the Kaffeeklatsch (which was also pre-Starbuck's), just like on our coffee breaks these days, was innocent enough to the gentle WeinerVolk in the early 1900s. Nor did they compound their caffeine addictions with Pepsi (R) or Coke. Although I fault the Schokoladenmacher for their attraction to chocolate, another culprit those days, and these.

Just about this time at 19 Bergasse, a conference was being held in the Wohnzimmer, the room choked with smoke emanating from the discussion leader. The other conferees were spellbound because he looked the spitting image of Montgomery Clift. They couldn't have known that, as Duke University's clairvoyance studies were not yet available to help them.

Still, the 46-year-old doctor was a good presenter. The moment heralded those moments to come when the Drs. Sackler created William Douglas McAdams and when Dr. Barnum founded Barnum Communications, both much later in the United States.

But these serious doctors sipping Frau Martha Freud's Kaffee couldn't have known of their meeting's pioneering significance. What they did know was that the Vienna Medical Society had an aversion to sex. Everytime he opened his mouth with a case history, the moment sexuality arose from Sigmund's lips, learned medical men with tight, starched collars, which probably accounted for their splenic comportment, jumped up in the lecture hall and hurled epithets of the Wurst kind. Unending. Until Herr Professor Freud was laughed and booed into silence.

"A fitting demonstration of ego crushing id," Sigmund told himself, stroking his beard as he strode from his detractors. Little did he suspect his colleagues were anxiety-ridden caffeinists. But this, as I said before, was B.V., before Valium, and all the other psychopharmaceuticals for that matter, and anxiety was then almost as popular as hysteria.

"There must be a better way to make a living," his unconscious burst forth.

Now, racing feverishly, Sigmund's mind formed the elements of yet another universal system - the medical advertising agency. Then he gathered his cronies Eugen Bleuler and Josef Breuer around him - Wilhelm Fleiss was out of town on a nose job - and appointed himself Herr Kreative Direktor.

As is often the case nowadays, the writer was Jewish so, for fair balance, the fledgling group felt compelled to call in an Italian Art Direktor. (Also often the case nowadays, Italians are talented ad agency artists.) Breuer mentioned a young adolescent he'd seen drawing in Montmartre cafes.
"Amadeo, they call him. Very talented fellow."

Bleuler put a damper on this immediately, reminding them, "He's the crazy one who threw his
sculptures into the Venetian canals."

"Here, here, Mein Herr Doktor Bleuler. In psychiatry we don't label people crazy. Especially when they're artistic. This is one reason I summoned you here to form this new agency. It will be a haven from mental asylums for such personality types."

"But back to the substance of our discussion. With mass production, it can ease the lives of
millions. Our job is to announce it in the medical journals and to creatively market it."

Josef Breuer volunteered again, "This Modigliani is our boy to do the graphics. None of us can draw."

"Right, Joe. And you're tops with hysterics. You could mesmerize the Mona Lisa, baby. You be the executive for the account. Hypnotize the product manager at the client drug company if you have to."

"And Gene, you research the markets. Get the figures, the demographics. It's a numbers game all
the way, bubby."

At which Bleuler stood up and smoothed his pants, affecting a doctorly tone, "I suggest a
comprehensive name for our, er, agency. Panaceas & Snake Oils." He pronounced this without
faltering although no one had ever taught him how to get the ampersand into his speech.

"Gene, baby, you're too literal. It's our job to make the client seem legit. Let's stick to the medical
model. A group of symptoms makes a syndrome, no? Sneezing, Wheezing, Itching is an allergic
syndrome, yes? So we become FREUD BLEULER BREUER, Inc. Thus we are free of the
overcritical interference of the Vienna Health Administration.

Little did Freud know that myriads of medicolegal committeemen would soon evolve to gum up the
creative works.

"Now let us repair to the Kleine Wiener Weinstube to seal our partnership with some Wein."
And this is how I came to witness the inception of Freud Bleuler Breuer, Inc.

A horse-drawn carriage pulled up beside my table. Three short, serious men stepped down,
one puffing on his cigar as he counted out change for the driver. (It was the era before blue
jeans, the fashion for advertising talent these days.)

Basically, they looked like doctors. Doktors to be exact. Not a very wild start for fellows
pioneering a new creative field.

As fate would have it when you're writing your story in the first person, the formal little group
requisitioned the table next to mine. I watched them through the hazy eyes of a lazy Wein-filled
afternoon. Or was it the other way around?

When the waiter marched away for their drinks, one of the austere Austrians whispered,
"But Siggy, what is this product we will be marketing to the whole world?"

"My dear new partners...boys, trust me. I'm not at liberty to say until the client is ready to launch.
They're waiting for the NDIs and VHA approval. I can tell you it's a terrific local anesthetic
whose only known side effect is a transitory euphoria. I have myself done research with it and
can vouch for it. It will become very popular and we will be richer than from psychoanalysis."

Bleuler and Breuer raised their eyebrows in unison, baffled, but shrugged their collective shoulders, unconsciously...acceptingly as Freud tried to quell their fears.

"Not to worry, boys. It's pure as the driven SNOW."

The waiter brought their Wein.

Sigmund Freud, Eugen Bleuler and Josef Breuer raised their glasses.

"PROSIT!"

Medical Advertising was born that moment on that little Viennese street with the very long name.

I lifted my own nearly empty glass in salute and caught a twinkle in the eye of the new Kreative Direktor.

(c) Copyright 1978, 2015 Helen Borel. All rights reserved.

For permissions and purchases, please contact AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST

here:  helenborel@earthlink.net and in the Subject line, type: FREUD BLEULER BREUER

   Dear Story Lover: Please read the very first post (below), “OUR READING ROOM...”

for the AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST “Mission Statement”...and that all publicatons here

are FREE TO PRINT AND KEEP. 

   Some readers may, however, desire to help this daring self-publishing concept grow and spread 

so other writers will be encouraged to bring their works directly to readers, bypassing long delays 

by entrenched publishers, editors and agents who often sideline important creative works. 

   Only if you can, $1.00 or more will be so very helpful..please mail to:

Helen Borel - Apt. 9L, 200 West 79th Street, New York, N.Y. 10024

...and if you want notice of upcoming stories, feel free to send along your email address. 

Thank you so much for participating in this “experiment in writer emancipation”.

THE POWER OF EMPATHY: THE CARING-SHARING "GENE"

from my Book Critique Column

By Helen Borel

(The following critique of Born to be Good was commissioned in 2009 by the
FOUNDATION CENTER, the “go-to” place for all information about charitable
organizations. A version of it was published in the PHILANTHROPY NEWS 
DIGEST on August 19, 2009.)

Born to Be Good: The Science of a Meaningful Life by Dacher Keltner
was published by W.W. Norton & Company, New York, NY, 2009.

According to those knowledgeable about such matters, human tendencies leaning toward the
“Greater Good” may well be innate rather than simply learned,  may well be as prominent
and endogenous as, what researchers and intellectuals other than Dr. Dacher Keltner – a
psychology professor and researcher at the University of California’s Berkeley campus –
have believed from as far back as social scientists have been investigating human emotions
and human interconnections.

The self-concern, even selfishness (not the healthy narcissism of a self-caring, self-confident
individual) that have, heretofore, been highlighted and elevated by thinkers and investigators
of human emotions and thought processes, now appear to have a viable, equally powerful
competitor, according to Dr. Keltner’s research and conclusions noted in Born to Be Good: 
The Science of a Meaningful Life. It’s called EMPATHY!   That ultra-human capacity 
to feel “with” others.  And “for” others. And the  related positive feelings and facial ex-
pressions, tones of voice, and manners of touch that generate generosity.  Not only of spirit,
but of sharing one’s joy with others and, it follows, sharing one’s possessions with others.

Largesse, apparently, is natural.  Not merely for the aggrandizement of Self.Not simply for
the inhabitants of one’s family group.  Thus, demonstrated in this compact yet comprehensive
polished diamond of a positive adventure into human kindness, is the distilled essence of this
book, that the Urge to Share, to give, is inborn.  And, now that Dr. Keltner has exposed
this scientific finding, this truth,  what fund-givers and grant-hopefuls do with this information
can be groundbreaking.

Because, not only is there generosity in giving, there is generosity in receiving – then
turning around what one has received and becoming a giver too, not necessarily in funds but
in fundamental services to others.

This is exciting knowledge for the nonprofit community.  For grantors and grant-seekers alike,
Born to Be Good points out the core, the very heart, of what makes charitable foundations
and their founders tick.  And what the book embodies for nonprofit givers, donors, grantors
is that the physiologic and neurologic morality every individual is born with, embedded 
in each of our living cells, that motivates nonprofit grant-seekers of funds for community
works and individual grant-seekers of funds for projects that, ‘though a small piece of
artistic work, or an incipient medical investigation or experiment, or a new journalistic path,
can now be thought of and recognized also as an ethical empathic expression of something 
motivated by and created for the “Greater Good”.  

Written for the intelligent reader in an appealing, generally conversational tone, Born to Be 
Good is richly visual in images, both photographed and  illustrated, that amply complement its
pictorial language.  Dr. Keltner’s profound and wide-ranging scientific expertise and his inclusion
of diverse researchers’ contributions to his study of INNATE HUMAN GOODNESS, packs
a powerful punch for the dignity of man.  Because he involves colleagues and other varied
resources, calling upon them to verify and enrich his treatise, the reader can be assured that this
particular author is not a lone voice crying out in the wilderness of past pessimism about the
once-perceived, and overly-generalized, parsimoniousness of human nature.

This book is eminently recommended for its incisive and insightful recognition of what Born to 
Be Good’s Chapter 4 elaborates on: “Survival of the Kindest.”  In it, Dr. Keltner points
out that Charles Darwin, in his book Descent of Man,   “...Darwin argued that the social
instincts – instincts toward sympathy, play, belonging in groups, caring for offspring, recipro-
cating acts of generosity, and worrying about the regard of others – are part of human nature.”

Almost every inch of this book is worthwhile for the implicit minute intricacies explored by
Dr. Keltner, as well as for its vast overview of everyday facets of human nature.  Significantly
also, for its inclusion of the mysterious complexities of neuroscience – that budding
neonate, that exciting “new baby” of current scientific eminence which is demonstra-
ting cerebral plasticity in both the physiology of neurotransmitters (the brain’s 
chemical messengers) and cerebral anatomy itself. Therein may lie some of the secrets 
of what makes us feel so good to give, what makes us care so much about the feel-
ings of others and about what happens to others – the very essence of what gives
purpose to our years and, therefore, meaning to our lives.

All interwoven to evolve a tapestry of the naturalness of giving and receiving, the natural
resources of leading a “meaningful life,” of being truly human. The happy fact that we frail 
homo erecti can now give ourselves permission to love ourselves better, now that we have
Dr. Keltner’s assurances that we're congenitally nicer, innately compassionate – that we
are not the blindly self-absorbed gimme-gimme acolytes of the gods of affluence, of gems
and opulence, of naked insubstantialness mired in materialism.  We are, as Dr. Keltner
broadcasts in this impressive work, “Born to be Good!”
     
 (c) Copyright 2009, 2015 Helen Borel. All rights reserved.

For permissions and purchases, please contact:  helenborel@earthlink.net
and in the Subject line, write: AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST

...and if you want notice of upcoming stories, feel free to send along your email address.
Thank you so much for participating in this “experiment in writer emancipation”.                                                                                                                

THE RATS OF PREVLONSK

By Helen Borel    

Mrs. Yelena Katz hated rats.  Rats reminded her of her childhood in Prevlonsk where
those ugly, sooty vermin scampered and scurried freely at night among the erosions of
the stone bricks of the kitchen wall, snatching the few morsels of bread Mama had saved
for tomorrow's breakfast.

Yelena Horoshovna's girlhood was pitiful.  She, her brothers and sisters, mother and
father, grandmother and grandfather were starving most of the time in their crowded hovel.
Adding horror to their misery, Yelena, coming to tuck him in, witnessed her baby brother
Ivan bitten to death in the night by three of these rodents; a large, fat, black one
administering the bite of death, chomping its fangs into the baby's jugular.

The rats and the Horoshovna family survived in inseparable disharmony after they buried
Ivan.  The little to eat became less and the rats ate that, growing fatter.  Yelena grabbed
one, gnawing on her last bit of apple one night, by the neck watching it squirm as she
choked it.  She flung it against the wall and squashed it with the worn wooden heel of her
left boot.

Her aching stomach was Yelena's constant companion.  She knew its gurgles, its belches
of huge chunks of air that, swallowed, had come to take the place of food.  She knew its
grumbles, its every complaint.  Her stomach knew her too, often distracting her from its
gnawing pain to have her listen to its dysphonic music.

One night, the grumbling that had started in her stomach as she lay awake switched from
inside her body to outside from the street.  A gang of townspeople in black, carrying two
crude torches and axes dripping with blood were heading toward their house.  Yelena
heard the shush, shush, shush of their peasant boots on the footpath.  She heard their
grumbling and grim laughter as they moved closer and closer, the two lone torches in
front gleaming like the hungry eyes of their kitchen rats, the black pulsing body of the
beast gliding across the floor of the outside path, positioning itself to pounce on her
helpless family.

"Pogrom!  Pogrom!" screamed Natalya Verovna, Yelena's grandmother.  Everyone
scampered like their own rats into the cellar whose wooden door Yevgeny, her father,
had seamed in such a way as to make it appear no cellar ever existed in this house.

Down in that dark, damp grave - which Anya, her mother, had stocked with stinking
cheese, dried fruits crawling with insects, moldy bread, potatoes turning into vodka,
and a few torn pillows and rags from old clothes for warmth - they were in closer
company with the rats and the very vicious fat, black one who had killed their Ivan.
But, for the time being, they were safe from the greater threat outside.

Only Yosepina, Yelena's big sister, was outside walking toward the house from
Aleksandr's fruit stall when the mindless, peasant mob approached.  Aleksandr was
the boy Yosepina was to marry.  Only Yosepina was attacked and butchered.

Mindful that "the rat squad," as Grandpa Fyodor called the bloody murderers in the
night, roamed for Jewish victims in its drunken stupor for days on end before its
frenzied orgy ended, Yelena's wretched little family lay trapped below their own house,
huddling together, eyes wide, barely moving to take a breath, unable to avoid being
crawled upon and being bitten, savaged by the lesser of the two evils.

Hours and days passed.  The miserable dead food Mama had stored up for them was
gone, most of it stolen by the cellar rats.

When the rumbling in their stomachs replaced the growling and destroying they last
heard yesterday from the street, Yevgeny Horoshovna, holding the small square of
cellar door ajar, peered up to witness the horrible:  Yosepina hacked to bits, her
blood making a thick sauce around her.  Her father screamed in places no human
ear could hear and, saying nothing to the others, tip-toed up the rotting, creaking
stairs and made his preparations.

Everyone had a piece of meat to eat that night for the first time in five years.  They
savored each bite only after their initial hunger was sated by rapid swallows of large
chunks of it.  Every evening, her father, Yevgeny, brought down more.  After each
feast, he buried the bones in their arid old potato patch and said Kaddish:
                             
                              Yisgadal V'Yisgadash
                             Schmai Rabai...

Soon, they all perished in Dachau.  Except Yelena.  The rats again had come in
the night. The vermin ruled Europe.

Copyright 1977-2015 Helen Borel. All rights reserved.

For permissions and purchases, please contact AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST
here:  helenborel@earthlink.net and in the Subject line, write: THE RATS OF PREVLONSK

Dear Story Lover: Please read the very first post (below), “OUR READING ROOM...”
describing the “Mission Statement” for AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST...and that ALL 
publications here are FREE to print and keep.  Some readers may, however, desire to help  
this daring self-publishing concept grow and spread so other writers will be encouraged to 
bring their works directly to readers, bypassing long delays by entrenched publishers’ and 
agents’ rules that often sideline important creative works. 
Only if you can, $1.00 or more will be so very helpful..please mail to:
Helen Borel - Apt. 9L
200 West 79th Street
New York, N.Y. 10024
...and if you want notice of upcoming stories, feel free to send along your email address. 
Thank you so much for participating in this “experiment in writer emancipation”.

OUR READING ROOM...mini books, MAXI ENJOYMENT

MISSION STATEMENT for
AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST
Herein you'll find a selection of stories that will enjoy being read. For they've too long sat,
stuffed in file drawers, dying to get out into the sunlight and get read by whomever wishes
to do so.  AND IT'S ALL FREE to READ, FREE to PRINT OUT, FREE to KEEP.

The only caveat is: When anyone...a publisher, an editor...or anyone else, purchases any
of these stories, terms of sale may (at times) preclude that story or stories from being
displayed here temporarily or permanently after that sale.

My motivation for publishing my literature here follows:
For centuries, writers have been forced to delay publication, or never see our works in print.
Because we've relied on book publishers and periodical editors to decide when, or even if,
our works will ever see the light of day. And whether you, our reader, should ever get to
enjoy our works.

This has been an arbitrary process with ALL the marbles in the court of those publishers and
editors.  All the while, like most actors pounding the pavement, from audition to audition,
striving for that elusive Broadway or Hollywood role, we majority of talented writers have
grown gray-haired waiting for our "luck" to change, giving up on the endless and varied
demands of "Writers' Guidelines," tight contest deadlines, grants that take booklength amounts
of our creative hours to apply for.

All we want is a Platform Where Readers Have Access to Our Original Writings
That, without all the endless back-and-forths of being hopeful supplicants, sending ceaseless
"cover letters," "sample chapters," "explanatory notes about our completed pieces". Then
we writers would be free to do what we do best...WRITE!  Write our original constructions,
that is.  Not all those marketing and supplicative activities that rarely generate a publishing
contract.  Wasting our Creative Time is truly a crime.  We have one lifetime to get our
creations accomplished...this is it.  We deserve to be involved more in our
Creative Processes than trapped in all that time-robbing, marketing our stuff.

Along Comes a Technological Savior
Freeing Writers to Self-Publish
(Enter laughing)  Ha!  I invented AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST to get my works directly
to my real reading public...no longer to harried editors and publishers who have too much
to read, and who don't always have a gifted eye for quality writing.

Ergo, Welcome to the New World for Writers Everywhere!
THE INTERNET IS HERE...aah published at last!

At last, we can SELF-PUBLISH without aloof intermediaries (agents, reps, editors,
publishers...and assorted [or is that "sordid"] other "experts") intercepting or being
nonresponsive to our creations.  We can even give away our works for FREE.
And/or we can ask eager readers to send a few dollars...but only if they can.

~ No more time-wasting
~ No more unpublished manuscripts languishing in our file cabinets
~ No more wondering if readers will ever get the chance to read our ideas and
our unique ways of sculpting them with words

~ We can expose our works online by providing our words directly to everyone
~ Everyone can copy and print out our works
~ Call mine: "THE COVERLESS BOOK"  

A Note about this READERS' SALON
I'm Helen Borel, the self-publishing writer here at AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST.
Read anything here and print it out and keep it for FREE!***

Be aware (unlike "e-books" and downloading other works), as with most print fiction,
the writings presented here are not illustrated with visual art.  Instead, the words
alone are meant to paint pictures in your mind, to evoke whatever unique experiences
you'd adventure upon when reading any carefully crafted text.

***Yes, no matter what, everything here is always
FREE TO READ, FREE TO PRINT, FREE TO KEEP...so...
Only if you can afford it, gifts of $1.00 or more are always appreciated to keep
the words flowing and the works coming (time, creativity, joy).
You NEVER have to, but if you do...Thank You so very much
and send it to:
Helen Borel - Apt. 9L
200 West 79th Street
New York, N.Y. 10024

Also, if you wish notification of new writings being presented here at
AAH PUBLISHED AT LAST, please include your email address.

Copyright (c) 2015 Dr. Helen Borel.  All rights reserved.

And you can also reach me at helenborel@earthlink.net