Subscribe to RSS feeds Bulkowski Blog via RSS

Thomas Bulkowski’s successful investment activities allowed him to retire at age 36. He is an internationally known author and trader with 30+ years of stock market experience and widely regarded as a leading expert on chart patterns. He may be reached at

Support this site! Clicking the links (below) takes you to Amazon.com. If you buy ANYTHING, they pay for the referral.

Picture of Bumper.
Kindle
Paperback
Nook
Picture of the head's law.
Kindle
Paperback
Nook
Chart Patterns: After the Buy
Getting Started in Chart Patterns, Second Edition book.
Trading Basics: Evolution of a Trader book.
Fundamental Analysis and Position Trading: Evolution of a Trader book.
Swing and Day Trading: Evolution of a Trader book.
Visual Guide to Chart Patterns book.
Encyclopedia of Chart Patterns 2nd Edition book.

Bulkowski's What Does Bequeath Mean?

Class Elliott Wave Fundamentals Psychology Quiz Research Setups Software Tutorials More...
Busted
Patterns
Candles Chart
Patterns
Event
Patterns
Small Patterns
Market
Industrials (^DJI):
Transports (^DJT):
Utilities (^DJU):
Nasdaq (^IXIC):
S&P500 (^GSPC):
As of 11/20/2017
23,430 72.09 0.3%
9,522 38.86 0.4%
756 -2.12 -0.3%
6,791 7.92 0.1%
2,582 3.29 0.1%
YTD
18.6%
5.3%
14.6%
26.1%
15.3%
Tom's Targets    Overview: 11/14/2017
23,700 or 22,800 by 12/01/2017
9,300 or 9,800 by 12/01/2017
800 or 750 by 12/01/2017
7,000 or 6,500 by 12/01/2017
2,625 or 2,540 by 12/01/2017

Written by and copyright © 2005-2017 by Thomas N. Bulkowski. All rights reserved. Disclaimer: You alone are responsible for your investment decisions. See Privacy/Disclaimer for more information.

When I read this story to my critique group, I read it too fast, and that was the start of my trouble. They were lost from the very first line. The critique went downhill from there. Sigh. But I think you'll love this story and the ending. I do.

Written: November 2009, revised 9/2013
Estimated reading time: 7 minutes

What Does Bequeath Mean?

Karen's eyes narrowed to two slits and deepened to the color of slate. In a controlled tone, she said, "I just bought that tablecloth, Sally. Put newspaper under your coloring book like I told you a thousand times."
"You're not my real mom." Sally started drawing circles on the picture with a red crayon. "My bestest friend Missy says my real mom is a princess." Each circle became wider. "I was adapted."
"Maybe you didn't hear me." Karen slapped the newspaper against her palm and threw it onto the dining room table. "There's the paper. Use it. Now."
Sally switched to her left hand, fisted the crayon, and continued drawing. "I don't have to listen to you."
"I'm counting to three. One...."
The red crayon shot off the page. It skidded across the tablecloth. Sally gasped. She glanced at Mom. "Oops." Sally grabbed her coloring book and skedaddled.
"Get back here, Sally Ann Reynolds...."
"You're not my real mom. I hate you!" Sally pounded up the stairs.
She hid in the hallway closet with heart racing and clammy palms. "She's gonna kill me." She sat quivering, chewing on her bottom lip, hugging herself. She waited in the darkness. Her nose twitched at the stench of worn shoes and mildew.
The stairs creaked. She held her breath. Mom was coming....
She waited.
And waited.
Sally peaked out. Mom's perfume stunk. Sally sniffed the air. She didn't get a whiff of Cold Shoulders, White Shoulders, or whatever it was called.
She crept out of the closet. She stomped both feet. Twice.
Then jumped. Twice.
Still nothing. She ran to her room and slammed the door.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door. Mom likes my hair like this. I HATE it! She folded her arms across her chest, thrust out her bottom lip, and then blew upward. Loose strands fluttered but still covered her eyes. She blew again and then tucked the darn curls behind her ears, out of the way.
"No TV. Eat your vegetables. Go play outside." She faced the bedroom door, put thumbs in her ears, and made finger antlers. She stuck out her tongue not at her reflection, but at what lay beyond.
On the shelf stood a framed photograph of the family taken during Thanksgiving. Both Mom and Dad had rounded faces but hers was skinny, like a fashion model who fed the dog her Cheerios. Mom and Dad had dark hair. She was blond. They were tall. She was short. "They don't look like me. No way. I was adapted."
She grabbed a crayon, a black one, and gave Mom a moustache then scribbled out her face. With a red crayon, she drew two hearts above Dad's image and colored them in.
Sitting on her bed, she flopped onto her back, hands clasped behind her head. "Go to your room! Get off the phone! I'm counting to three. One! Two!" She took a deep breath, exhaled, and tossed her curls. "I'm a princess. A rich princess."
She imagined herself in a long frilly dress, sparkily blue to match her eyes. A tiara packed with stones shining white, red, and green topped hair the color of hay.
Cinderella doesn't have no curls. She sat up and opened a cigar box. The bottom half of the box hid precious treasures, but the top held knickknacks. She loved that box, that treasure chest, a gift from her dad a year ago when she turned five.
She pulled out a pair of scissors and went to work on her curls. "Shoot!" Those blasted scissors hardly cut paper, and they weren't no good on hair. She threw the scissors into the box and slammed it shut.
In two days, it's Christmas. I got all day tomorrow to be good. She hopped up and down on the bed and then jumped off, crashing to the floor. Mom hates that. A smile reached her ears. She climbed up on her bed and jumped off again.
"Knock it off, Sally!" Mom yelled from downstairs.
"Wash your hands! Brush your teeth! Don't pick your nose!" Sally pushed aside her anger and slipped her hands between the mattresses, sliding right then left. "Bingo!"
She pulled out a sheaf of papers from her secret hiding place and flipped to the good stuff, her pointy finger tracing words, back and forth, down the page. Her index finger tapped the spot. "Here it is."
She reached up and yanked the big, fat dictionary off the shelf. It slipped through slender fingers, crashed onto the bed, and bounced open. "Darn it!"
She found her place on the papers again and then scanned the pages. "Bequeath... bequeath... bequeath. What does bequeath mean? It must be in here, somewhere."
She thumbed through the pages, but soon gave up. "I don't know how to use this blasted thing." She slammed it shut and then hoisted it back onto the shelf, grunting with effort.
The papers caught her eyes again. She scanned down the page and found where Missy had drawn a green dot.
She mumbled, "Be quiet. Clean your room. You're grounded!"
She heard the garage door closing. She raced out of her bedroom and down the stairs. "Dad! Dad!"
"Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas."
She slammed into him, coiling her body around his leg. She felt the winter chill clinging to his pants.
He reached down and lifted her up so that their eyes leveled. He kissed her forehead and then set her back down. "How's my little girl today? Were you good?"
She nodded then glanced at Mom.
Karen stood over the kitchen sink, a half-peeled potato in her hand, a smudge of dirt coloring her cheek. She reached up and tucked bouncy hair curls behind one ear.
Dad's eyebrow shot up. His gaze returned to Sally. "Uh, oh. Santa doesn't give presents to naughty girls, you know that."
"I was sorta good," Sally said in a quiet voice and then sucked in her cheeks, forming dimples. Dad loved her dimples.
He looked at his wife again.
Karen held up the tablecloth and used the potato peeler to point to the red crayon mark.
He felt a tug on his pants and looked down.
"What does bequeath mean?"
"Bequeath?"
Sally nodded.
"I'm surprised you can pronounce it."
"My bestest friend Missy taught me."
"What's for dinner, Hon?"
He felt a tug again.
"Dad? What's it mean?"
"It's hard to explain."
"Missy says my real mom was a princess. Was I adapted?"
"Were you adapted?"
She nodded. "Missy says I was adapted. Is Mom my real mom?"
"You mean adopted, not adapted." He plopped down on the stool beside her. "Let me tell you a story." He lifted her onto his lap, facing him. "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, lived a beautiful woman called Princess Tatiana. One day, Princess Tatiana met a handsome man and they fell madly in love. Years went by and they had a baby girl they named Sally."
"Me?"
He nodded. "Then Princess Tatiana got sick, really sick. Her husband stayed with her day and night at the hospital, but that left poor Sally all alone. A giant stork...Do you know what a stork is?"
She rolled her eyes. "Duh!"
"A silver stork with wings bigger than this house grabbed Sally and whisked her away. Princess Tatiana's cold got worse and worse and when she found out Sally was missing - well, that was too much for her heart to bear. She died.
"Her husband went looking for Sally and searched everywhere, from the highest mountain peak to the lowest valley floor, but he couldn't find her. Until one day, word spread that Sally was found!"
Her eyes widened into two orbs of blue. "Where?"
"In your bed." He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. "Now go get ready for dinner." He set her down.
She shuffled from the room, her slippers sounding like sandpaper rubbing across tile.
Karen waited until she heard Sally's door close. "That tablecloth was brand new. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know. I wish you'd do something about her. She's intolerable."
Her eyes narrowed, teeming with skepticism. "Princess Tatiana? You told me your first wife was a bankrupt alcoholic who died during childbirth."

# # #

Sally reached into her secret hiding place, pulled out the document, and flipped to her favorite page. With Missy's help, Sally memorized her favorite line, the one with the green dot beside it. "I, Princess Tatiana, bequeath to my daughter, Sally, the sum of ten million dollars, payable when she turns eighteen.
"What does bequeath mean?"
The End

If you liked this story, please vote for it by clicking 

Thanks!

-- Thomas Bulkowski

See Also

  • Green Soap. Reading time: 1 minute. This story is about getting a kid to wash his hands.
  • Red Truck. Reading time: 1 minute. This story is about what happens to a kid's toy truck.
  • Soul Ambulance. Reading time: 5 minutes. This is a Christmas story about something that happens at the airport.
  • That which cannot be said. Reading time: 7 minutes. Lovers discover a common connection between them.
  • Twenty at a Time. Reading time: 5 minutes. A CEO steals money and has to repay it in an unusual way.

Top

Written by and copyright © 2005-2017 by Thomas N. Bulkowski. All rights reserved. Disclaimer: You alone are responsible for your investment decisions. See Privacy/Disclaimer for more information. There are two kinds of adhesive tape, the kind that won't go on and the kind that won't come off.