To My Dear Passengers,

At our last meeting, you clicked your heels, repeated, “There’s No Place Like Home,” and returned to your heart’s desires in the present time, which is 2024. I am humbled by your joining me for several years as we time-traveled in Electra, my red twin-engine plane, and more recently in Wish, my hot air balloon.

Thank you for all the rides, some smooth, others bumpy, and for your patience, sometimes watching the me in one year observe the me in a different year. In our last encounter, I, whom you know as Dylan, remained with Wish and Investigative Reporter Quinn along the Ohio River bank overlooking a monstrous industrial complex, belching smoke and polluting the atmosphere.

Recall that after you clicked your heels and disappeared to parts unknown, I handed a map to Quinn, sending this remarkable porcupine on a mission to complete “Skunk Tale’s Trilogy,” which I began writing 17 years earlier. For those new to the Trilogy, it consists of fables titled “Norton’s Tale” “Sebastian’s Tale,” published in 2016 and 2017, respectively, and the yet-to-be-written “Tale of Quinn’s Quill.”

You are about to enter the world of the third fable, which I am writing via my Skywriting blogs. In today’s blog, you will meet Abigail, who first appeared in “Sebastian’s Tale,” and is again an essential protagonist in “Tale of Quinn’s Quill.”

As we embark on this new chapter, I invite you to join me in these Skywriting blogs. Each entry will bring us closer to the heart of the story. I welcome your thoughts, your questions, and your insights as we unravel the final mystery of the Trilogy. Your voices will help shape this tale.

* * *

Abigail followed her morning breakfast routine: coffee and rice cakes topped with nonfat yogurt and smoked salmon. She enjoyed this simple meal while reading her MacBook Pro on her antique secretary’s fold-out desk. The old secretary, aptly named Ethan because it was purchased forty years earlier from Ethan Allen, sat in the corner of her living room, flanked by a wall of windows providing a magnificent park-like east-facing view. She no longer lived in Presto, and her life had changed after downsizing from the 2500-foot townhome she had lived in for over 20 years to her now 900-foot apartment in the lovely Western suburb of Sewickley.

With her mouth full, Abigail checked the to-do list on her MacBook calendar. The September 17th list included routine maintenance for her Kia and a facial for herself—both, she mused, were well past due. She needed a facial with “Amazing Grace,” amazing because Grace could erase several years from Abigail’s now eighty-year-old face, at least for a couple of days.

There was also a reminder to call the Homewood Cemetery to schedule a visit with the new director of family services. Earlier that year, Abigail visited DJ’s resting place in the Star of David Section of the cemetery, where his ashes had been interred for 17 years in the Wall of Eternal Life. She wanted to review the contract, which would ultimately include herself and, more importantly, address a problem noted and reported during a previous visit.

Abigail’s mind drifted to the strange incident during that June visit. While waiting forty minutes in a dim reception hall of the landmark building dating back to 1878, she recalled sitting with nothing to do but think; think about her concern regarding the fading of DJ’s name on the granite box housing his ashes.

While Abigail sat at the long wooden table, she was drawn to the most giant bottle of antiseptic hand sanitizer she had ever seen. Of course, the powers that be wanted to encourage all visitors to use the sanitizer, hoping to wipe away COVID germs. As she read the label on the bottle, Abigail’s sadness was replaced by nervous laughter, given the irony of the message printed in giant letters on the sanitizer bottle … “Germs Be GONE.” The word GONE was printed in extra large capital letters, so Abigail’s focus was drawn to that word. She thought, “How appropriate, everything in this place is GONE,”  including the inscription on DJ’s final resting place, which had been disappearing if not GONE yet. Time to ask the new family service director about that.”

Once the director arrived, she rapidly greeted Abigail, told her she didn’t have much time, and asked what was so important. Abigail explained her concern regarding DJ’s fading name, only to be told that after seventeen years of exposure to the elements, fading was expected. Abigail confirmed this possibility but couldn’t understand why the carved names of DJ’s “neighbors” had not experienced the same phenomenon. So, at Abigail’s insistence, the family director accompanied her on a visit to DJ.

This famous cemetery is vast, with twists and turns, making it difficult to find sections and/or plots. The roadways had finally been color-coded to help folks navigate, as well as tour guides needing to find the VIP family graves of Frick, Heinz, Hillman, Mellon, Rockwell, and others. Thus, they followed the map down to the Eternal Wall of Remembrance, where DJ, Abigail’s VIP, was interred. Once there, they exited the car, walked over to the wall, and looked up. Voila, nada. NO NAME! Nothing at all, just a smooth, blank marble slate. The operative word for that day was GONE, just like the hand sanitizer bottle stated. Abigail cried, and the service director was flummoxed, saying she would find out what happened and get back to Abigail in a few …

So in a few…, Abigail received a call. She was told that based on her earlier (now we are talking several months earlier) complaint about DJ’s fading and then absent name, the decision was to re-engrave. According to the family service director, it just so happened the re-engraving was about to be done that very day. Imagine the coincidence! Abigail told the service director she would return to pay her respects and confirm the engraving. “But,” said the director, “it will take a couple weeks. I’ll call you once everything is completed.”

It was already September, and Abigail had yet to receive a call. That’s why it was on her to-do list. Suddenly, she heard a knock—a strange, rapid rat-a-tat-tat—echoing through the quiet apartment and jolting Abigail out of her reverie. She froze, her fork hovering mid-air, as the unfamiliar sound continued from the lower part of the door. It was too low and urgent to be from one of her neighbors.

With a slight frown, Abigail placed her coffee cup down, her heart thudding faster than usual. She wasn’t expecting anyone and the odd rhythm of the knocking unsettled her. Abigail moved toward the door, the sound still insistently drumming away. “Who knocks like that?” she muttered, feeling a twinge of unease. Peering through one of the 

windows in the door, Abigail saw… nothing. But The knocking persisted.

Her pulse quickened, and she hesitated before unlocking the door. Slowly, carefully, she pulled it open just a crack. At first, Abigail only saw the familiar hallway. Then, her eyes lowered—and widened.

There, standing on its hind legs, was a plump porcupine, its quills bristling beneath a small, worn fedora. It stared at Abigail through round, beady eyes, holding a rolled-up map in one paw. The porcupine cleared its throat before speaking with an unexpected calmness.

“Investigative Reporter Quinn, at your service,” it said, tipping its hat politely. Abigail’s jaw dropped. For a moment, all Abigail could do was blink, trying to process what her mind told her could not possibly be real. “A porcupine? At my door? And it talks?”

Stay tuned to learn more …