Seven years ago, an out-of-work programmer reprogrammed his life and, with the help of his old flame Sara, became Rosie. Just how good was Rosie’s “programming?” Four BigCloset authors, invited to join Sara and Rosie for a writers’ retreat, are about to find out!

“Love is a powerful thing, isn’t it?”

Words are better . . . truer, maybe . . . when silence surrounds them.

What does yourself look like today?

Though the might of his right arm was already legend, it was not by battle prowess that Sigurd held his men steady in the face of a boiling sea of fearsome creatures, of horrors that would freeze the blood of the most bold.

If you reached the end, the final end of the final rope, and could take a mulligan, would you?

I was looking at a photo of a much younger Irene Trainer, a husky, bearded man at her side and an infant in her arms. She was young. Pretty. Smiling like a spring morning. I started to cry, and somehow completely forgot that Mom was on duty. “I . . . I . . . Oh, Mom, it’s so awful!”

Moose looked uncomfortable. He knew – like I knew – that a week or two away wasn’t going to cure what was eating me up. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

It wasn’t our way.

Sometimes you have to roll the hard six . . . without loading the dice.

“I know almost everything they say about lawyers,” he responded. “We make up most of the jokes ourselves. But what do they say about linguists?”

Kurtz tried, but she couldn’t keep from laughing. Which proved to be almost as contagious as vomiting on a plane.

I sneezed explosively; by happy coincidence, the sound bore an uncanny resemblance to the word, “bullshit.”

“Are you sayin’ my mini dress and go-go boots are impractical?”

“They're practical, girl. For certain, ah, pursuits.”

“Jogging not being among them,” I agreed ruefully. “Especially since our hosts don’t understand underwear.”

Janet snorted. Then giggled. “You might catch a few eyes,” she agreed.

I pulled the front door open with a jerk, surprising an imposing man with a completely bald head just as he was about to hit the door again. “If you say anything about knockers, you’re a dead man!” I growled.

I reached into my purse and flipped him my drivers’ license. “That’s me,” I said. “Or was, up until a month ago. I have sixty years of memories to go with the photo. If I was scammed, the scammers are the functional equivalent of an advanced species. And there’s no way that I could ‘delude’ myself into a working knowledge of Old English, Norman French, Greek, Classical Latin, Church Latin and Hochdeutch, with a smattering of other languages besides.”

“That girl juice IS scramblin’ your brains. You’re nuts!”

There are days when you can see your whole life in a coffee cup, I guess. I certainly could, today.

“Holy macaroni, you’ve got lady parts?”

I was starting to think that a Distinguished Professor of Linguistics ought to be able to come up with something more penetrating, more insightful, or at very least more likely to generate an informative response from others. Not that my use of “what” as an interrogative pronoun was in any way improper, of course. I was just surrounded by idiots.