My Last Valentine

By Lizbeth Hartz | February 14, 2019

Barry’s nickname, Ashtar the Magnificent, came about because of his psychic—he called it psycho—ability. I only had to be in the same room with him to feel better.  I wrote briefly about falling in love with my partner Barry 13 years after Vic died (a coworker hunk I’d secretly been in love with), toward the…

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Revenge, Fear and Self-Preservation

By Lizbeth Hartz | February 8, 2019

Brian Smith, like most of the firemen at the department, feared Jaku. After swearing me to secrecy he told me that the firefighters laughed at Jaku’s stories to appease him, but they all knew better than to believe the outrageous sexually oriented lies he’d told about me. Brian said the guys knew Jaku lied whenever…

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Liar Liar: How a Sociopath Lies to Manipulate and Control

By Lizbeth Hartz | February 1, 2019

It happened in October of ’83, a few weeks after I transferred from the Army Fire Department into the alarm room on Whaler Air Force Base. I’d just finished my initial two weeks of dispatching training on day shift, and was working the midnight shift solo. I’d turned the lights down low to keep an…

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Can Hundreds of Thousands of Tweets Help Save a Saudi Teen’s Life? #WATWB

By Lizbeth Hartz | January 25, 2019

Barricaded in an airport hotel room in Bangkok on January 5th, her passport seized by Saudi authorities, 18-year-old Saudi teen Rahaf al-Qunun desperately wrote her first-ever tweet in Arabic, “I’m the girl who ran away to Thailand. I’m now in real danger because the Saudi embassy is trying to force me to return. I’m afraid.…

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The Ghost of El Tejano

By Lizbeth Hartz | January 13, 2019

The first time something otherworldly happened to me, I was four years old. Drawn like a magnet to a desert ironwood tree in Tucson, Arizona, I wrapped my little arms as far as they’d go around the big knobby trunk. I’ll never forget the energy like electricity slowly snaking through me. I felt so alive.…

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An Epiphany on Epiphany

By Lizbeth Hartz | January 6, 2019

Living in the countryside of central Spain in the early sixties felt magical for 8-year-old me. I still remember our home address: Patrocinio (he who gives his protection), Gomez (man) Tres (three), Canillejas (a region 5 miles northeast of Madrid). Although roving bands of gypsies traveled in tattered wagons through the countryside, these fast-change artists…

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