To the Heart

“Do I know you?”


“No, sorry.” Go away.

He smiled and sat next to me. “You’re waiting for someone?”

Keeping a relaxed smile on my face, I scan the park. A rosy light from the setting sun brightens the golden leaves. “A friend. We were going for a run.”

My perfect cover story, and I had the tennis shoes and running pants to match. I was prepared.

I couldn’t tell him my real reasons for being here. The knife in my boot, the cold steal of a gun tucked into my pants belt under my shirt in the back, silencer and poison darts in my pack—oh yeah, I couldn’t spill my secrets.

He pulled a book from his pack. “Have you read this one?”

“I’m not much of a reader.” And he even had one of my favorite authors. I read that book five times.

“Then you haven’t found the right books.” He grinned, flashing me a dimple. I liked that smile.

If I could be anybody else, if this could be any other day, I would love to find out what makes him laugh.

Couldn’t this guy just go away? I smiled. “I doubt it. I’m more of an action person.”

“Action movies? Or action life?”

“Business. I’m an entrepreneur.”

“You’re sixteen. Like me.”

“Um, I babysit.” I never messed my cover story before. This guy was really getting under my skin.

A flash of color out of the corner of my eye. A red hoodie, a blue baseball cap—I knew what my target would wear. Leaping up, I followed the figure toward the growing shadows. A brisk autumn chill nipped at my heels as I hurried after.

“Maybe I’ll see you next time,” he called.

“Sure. Bye.” My gaze trailed the target. He was a drug dealer and had hurt children; he needed to pay for his crimes. He headed out of the park, weaved through the traffic on the New York streets, and disappeared down a dark alley. I followed, shadows snatching at my skin.

A pain shot through my leg, and I stumbled to the ground. A shape towered over me, gun in hand. I recognized a glock and silencer. He pointed it to my head.

“You should have talked about the book. I knew it was your favorite.”

Feather's First Change

“I’m home.” I listen for her familiar greeting.

Welcome home, Feather. How was your day? But the silence pulses through our small cabin.

“Grandma?” I toss my bookbag on the chair—homework can wait—and walk into the kitchen.

The smell of something burning and the sound of the oven buzzer greet me. Opening the oven door, I find black cookies. They must have baked for an hour.

“Grandma?”

No answer.

A thump in the backyard, and then heavy footsteps traipse across the porch. My feet freeze to the floor. The door slams open and a man stoops and squeezes himself into our tiny kitchen. A crossbow in his hand.

“What did you do to my grandmother?”

Snarling, he points the bow at me.

Something breaks inside me, and I race to the front door and out into our front yard.

A bolt flies past me. Why is this guy trying to kill me?

I hear his feet pounding behind me, closer and closer, but I don’t dare look. He grabs the back of my shirt. I scream.

He yanks me back, and I feel my limbs tearing, bones crunching. A rush of cold followed by a wave of heat—everything fades. Needles of pain prick my skin, and my lungs burn. What’s happening to me?

Screaming, clawing, kicking, squirming, I stretch my arms, trying to break away from him, but my clothes trap me. I crawl my way out and wiggle out of his clasp. His hands close over my body, but I claw his face.

Spreading my wings, I climb into the sky. I am free, wild, alive.

I am a hawk.

Feather

I have flown far from home.


Perched on the roof of the bell tower, I drank in the smell of salt and fish. White buildings gleamed in the golden sunlight. Blue-green mountains surrounded us, an army protecting us from the rest of the world. I could be safe. Maybe I could settle down.

I could nest among the humans again, no one hunting me. No cages. No traps or nets. No man with the ruby ring and scars scratched across his face.

A teenage boy in the streets below watched me. I preened my feathers and spread my wings for him, showing off my soft white underbelly and red tail. He called up to me, his human voice imitating a soft screech—the call a male hawk to his mate. The sound shuddered through me.

“Come and talk to me, el halcón.” He held his arm out for me to land on. I liked how the wind pushed his black hair out of his face and how his brown eyes sparkled with laughter.

I studied the streets for danger. People milled the stone-cobbled roads, blocking cars. Nothing here but locals, I decided as I opened my wings and swept down toward the boy.

He cooed softly to me in his own language. I liked the sound of his voice. I took a bit of his hair in my beak. He tasted of the sea and the wind.

“Gotcha,” a harsh voice said behind me. A net wrapped around me, and the boy’s face filled with horror as someone snatched me away.

I screeched and wriggled, trying to spread my wings, clawing and pecking at the hand with the ruby ring.

“You can’t get away this time, witch.”

The boy grabbed me. “Fly away, el halcón.”

I wouldn’t run any longer. My claws ripped at the man’s face. He pushed me away, protecting his face. Punching, he hit my wing. My bones snapped, and with a screech of pain, I stumbled.

“You brought this on yourself.” The man advanced on me. Blood poured from the wounds on his face, but he smeared them away with the back of his hand as if it were merely sweat.

Fly. But my body wouldn’t listen.

But I had legs. I could run.

Closing my eyes, I called my other self, the teenage girl I had once been. I had buried her inside me long ago when I had fled. My feathers tingled; my wings stretched into limbs—the bones knitting, changing, the broken one healing.

And then I stood in my doe-skin dress, cobbled stones smooth and cool against my bare feet. Before me, the man’s face twisted with hatred, but then, eyes blank, he fell to the ground. Dead? I hoped so, but if not, I would fight back again.

The boy stood behind him, a rock in his hand. “My name is Javier.”

“I’m Feather.”

Runt of the Litter

Her ankle screamed with pain, the trap’s teeth biting into her foot. Four creatures surrounded her, creatures shaped like her but taller and hair on their faces. She had never seen anyone else like her before. She crouched, hissing.

One poked her with a spear, slicing her arm. He laughed. Another peeled the rags off his body; she watched him warily. Her nostrils flared; something in the air smelled wrong. Fear ran like ice down her spine. She glanced about, searching for a way to escape. Hissing again, she tried to scoot away, but the heavy metal attached to her foot held her down. She yowled, and the creatures jeered.

A sound behind her and then a shadow jumped out of the trees. The creatures, one by one, fell as the shadow spun around them. Then the shapeless shadow crouched before her, a face in hers. Dark brown eyes that reminded her of the flame that had flickered in her mother’s eyes stared at her, and a soft voice mewed gently, a murmur that reminded her of Mother’s voice singing her to sleep. She didn’t know what he meant, but she trusted his tone.

The teeth opened and he slipped her leg out. He picked her up, and she saw Mother Tiger lying on the ground, blood pooling around her. Whimpering, she pressed her face into his chest. His hand stroked her hair, and she could feel the rumble in his chest when he spoke, the words foreign to her ears.

She breathed him in, the smells reminding her of home—fresh pine, animal hides, the musky odor of the earth. And something else too. Something pleasant. This must be the smell of Man, the dangerous creature Mother Tiger always warned her to stay away from.

Through the woods, he carried her to a den built above the ground, made from fallen trees. Inside, it was warm. He set her on something soft and wrapped in warm hides. Hides without fur. It felt strangely smooth to her fingers.

He tugged at the rags around her foot, pushing, jabbing at the painful sores. Hissing, scratching at him, she pulled away. But his low voice rumbled at her, quiet, soothing, and he gently wiped the blood away. At first, it stung, then it soothed, and his voiced made her feel sleepy. He gave her warm milk to drink, and her eyes drifted shut.

###

She woke to the thud of the door banging shut. With a cry, she sat up, and he stood before her, two black tiger kittens in his hands. He dumped them in her lap, her sister and brother.

She cried and smiled as they tumbled over each other, trying to lick her face. Hands on his hips, he stood beside them, grinning. “Looks like you were the runt of the litter.”

She frowned. “Grrr. Rrrnnn. Rrrrrnnnnnt. Ruuuuunnnt.” She poked her chest with her thumb. “Runt.”

Down the Rabbit Hole: The Never-Ending Story

Thanks to everyone who participated in this contest.

The winners are as follows:

First Post: Renee Miller
Best Post: Amelia Sides (for her entry: "He was perfect for my experiment.")
Most Posts: Paige Ray
Last Post: Michael Keyton

Please contact me at rita@ritajwebb.com so that we can discuss your prizes.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I looked at the sign and sighed. The man had no shoes, his toes a sickening color of green, like burnt snot, and his hair had things crawling in it. I wondered what good my dollar would do anyway; he'd probably just use it for booze, not a bar of soap or even a loaf of bread. I continued walking, deciding to use my shoe dollar to by a lottery ticket. If I won, I'd come back to this spot and give him a thousand dollars.

Then a bullet winged past my head, thudding into the wide-toothed smile of a tooth-paste advert. The Bill-board was ruined, and so was her smile. I ducked then turned in time to see a punk dancing on asphalt. Veering around a corner, he vanished.

I started running, like I did the night war was declared in December 1941. As I ran the wolf ran alongside, and somewhere along the line the two of us merged and became one, the supreme predator, the beast from the primordial swamp. A fierce howling burst out from foam flecked lips, the howl of the hunter, the howl that rejoiced in the warm trail, the scent of a kill.

Another minute and the punk would be finished. Doomed. Yeah doomed, because I would get to him before the law and its lily-livered liberal guardians arranged for him a mink-lined, padded cell. It was hard to contain that final howl, the howl that proclaimed to all the world—that goddamned punk is mine

Surely that's not what I remember. Finally awakening in a hospital room after days spent in a coma, I was told that my light turned green, and I proceeded to make my turn and was broadsided. Where do these dark thoughts come from, am I someone else living in this body? My head hurts, as my thoughts drift once more to the man holding the sign on the street corner if I'd only given him my last dollar would I be lying here now?

My thoughts moved with the traffic. Just this once I didn't want to pretend like I didn't care for this person, these kinds of people. I pressed the break and came to a stop. Stopping traffic, I got out of the car, turned around and yelled to the man with the sign. "Come on!" I waved him on. "Come on!" He looked at me with trepidation. Gauging from his demeanor, he probably gazed on the entire world with trepidation. Then he started my direction. No, I didn't want to give him money. I had a better idea.

He was perfect for my experiment.

He edged toward me, still unsure whether he should trust me or not. I smiled, batting my eyelashes prettily and allowing a slight blush to dot my cheeks.

He ran to my car. Worked every time.

"You should buckle," I said as I reached behind the steering wheel to the hidden red button.

He glared at me, sighed, and then obeyed. The belt clicked into place, and I hit the button.

The car lifted into the air, the wheels tucked underneath, and we flew away. Nobody paid a whit of attention to us. Just as I knew they would.

And there we were, the Universe at our fingertips as the dash transformed into something that resembled the Starship Enterprise.

We darted through black empty space until we reached my lair.

"What's that?" He asked, sounding a little panicked.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll have some food for you in no time."

I stomped on the gas pedal and flipped the switch to my automatic garage door opener, size quadruple X for those extra large spaceships.

I'd also have to remember to make a stop at The Universe Emporium later; I was out of Peanut Butter.

"Why do you need Peanut Butter?" The Bum asked me when he was cleaned up, and we were on our way to The Universe Emporium, Galactic Department.

"Well, I happen to like it," I replied.

Then, accidentally, it escaped me, a guilty, freakish chuckle that I suppressed with a cough. I saw him watch me suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

"I do love me some Peanut Butter," I whispered under my breath.

He glanced at me, his eyes wide, and he placed his hand on the door. "You know, I do love peanut butter too, but I never thought I'd find a woman who also enjoyed that sticky brown goodness."

All at once, the absurdity of the situation struck me. Hard. Like a mallet right into my skull. We were not in a futuristic space cruiser, the dash was just the same old dusty, cracked dash it had been when I bought the car from that guy in Winnipeg four years ago. It was an awesome deal—all he wanted was a Snickers and my socks. I obliged.

I didn't even like peanut butter due to the severe allergy that would render me, well...dead. I forgot to take my meds that morning and now I sped down the highway, dollar in my shoe, bum in my passenger seat making cow eyes at me while he imagined doing all sorts of disturbing things with the jar of peanut butter he imagined I was buying.

I knew I'd forgotten something this morning. The question was, did I turn around and go home to take my meds, or just enjoy the ride?

The question was decided for me.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a glint. Metal has a certain reflection, and that metal reflects very specifically.

I was being followed, and if I turned my head just so, I would likely see something I really wished I wouldn't.

I took the next exit, ran through the cloverleaf, and headed back the other way. Unfortunately I was JUST fast enough to see what I'd hoped I wouldn't.

Gay Deceiver was following me.

Damn him! Of all the people, in all the universes, why did Lazarus Long have to follow me home, now? It had been eons since our last encounter, and I hoped never to meet him or his precious Sharpie again. Or Deety. Especially her—she was a poison I would rather not deal with.

I ignored my instincts and looked.

There were four of them in the Gay Deceiver—all of them—same as they were 8 years ago when we'd last tangled.

Screw this. I would NOT let them interrupt the experiments this time.

"Here, hold this," I told my passenger as I placed his hand on the steering wheel. His look of horror suggested we might have about six seconds to live.

As he screamed and flailed his free arm, I busied myself fishing for it. The thing I hoped no one in that other rat-trap knew I had. I couldn't remember most of the control commands, and I certainly was not sure if they hadn't locked me out, but it was the only thing I could think of at this point that could buy me precious seconds.

They were gaining on us. Fast. Faster. They'd overtake us.

I raised the gray, cylindrical metal tube to my mouth and spoke.

"Gay Deceiver! Bounce, bounce, bounce!"

I waited until they came up close, real close, and leapt out, all thoughts of peanut butter forgotten. Three of them I took out with a single shot. Call me lucky. Then I went for recreation. I threw the gun aside and smiled at the one remaining guy.

He screamed for mercy, or maybe he just liked screaming. Then I heard the word 'Pardon'.

Pardon him? I’d not stop till he screamed for absolution. I hate punks, and this guy had punk written all over him in bright flashing lights. Hell, I was about to enjoy myself for the second time that night.

“Hey, punk, just who gave you permission to breathe?”

“Piss off, yank!” His last act of defiance was destined to be his epithet—shit—epitaph.

Goddamn commie! I hate reds and I hate punks and this guy was both.

I moved in close, and he squeaked. Then I saw his face full on. It was the pan-handler, the one I'd first ignored and then beaten up. I'd do a better job this time.

It was so easy; I almost felt guilty. Only who gets guilty squashing a louse?

I pushed away a feeble left handed jab, caught a quick glimpse of teeth beaded in sweat, and then my foot was up so hard he passed out on impact. I kicked him again and felt boot and flesh grinding into pelvic bones that no specialist would ever set right again. Then he was down, and I was kicking him, a wild and crazy music rushing through me as I worked.

And then there was no resistance, just a cloud of sour smelling dust and a shape that could have been anything. He’d had enough. Teach him to pick fights with strangers!

I then remembered the peanut butter. Something screwy was going on. I hate peanut butter, but somebody else was writing my script. I hoped they'd be kind.

"That's a wrap!" shouted the Director.

I shook my head. Man, I am such a great actor. I get really into my characters.

I waved at the crew, then walked to my trailer, hoping that my favorite entree, spaghetti, waited for me.

But it wasn't spaghetti. It was another peanut butter sandwich. And without jelly or honey or even banana either. Creepers, I hate peanut butter sandwiches. It sticks in your mouth like glue.

I sat there, eating my peanut butter sandwich with a look of disgust on my face.

All I could think to myself was this:

Why am I filming a Robert Heinlein book? And we're not even sticking to the storyline! Jeepers, how did my agent rope me into this? This will be worse than Starship Troopers!

What. The. Hell? Four corpses and a mouth sticky with peanut butter. Somebody was writing my goddamned script and I didn't like it. Time to find out what was going on. I began searching pockets starting with the stiff nearest too me. One good thing about cadavers—however badly they smell, they don't argue or struggle or do anything much at all.

On the third pocket, I struck lucky—a note with the low-down I was after:

Why am I filming a Robert Heinlein book? And we're not even sticking to the storyline! Jeepers, how did my agent rope me into this? This will be worse than Starship Troopers!

I sat there immobile for a moment, my screwy left eyeball going berserk.

Agents. Commie agents. And the Bolsheviks had starships. America was in trouble and there was only one man that could stop them—with or without peanut butter

I looked into the sky. "Why me? What the hell is going on?!" I yelled.

"Well, I'll tell you, but please stop yelling at the sky, you look like a madman," came a soft voice in my ear.

"Who's that?" I asked as I turned around and around looking for the source of the pleasant voice.

"Me."

"Who's me? And where are you?" I asked, stupified.

"Well, now, would'nt you like to know."

Now, I was getting irritated.

Which as you know isn't exactly a rare thing. I am an irritable person. It's difficult when you're as talented as I am to maintain the accepted level of sanity.

So say the voices anyway. This voice was new, and I didn't like her. She sounded like that bitch in high school who used to stand in the hallways snickering with her clones while I walked by. I showed her, didn't I?

No, they never found her. But that's not what we're talking about here. The voice was messing with me.

"Stop playing games," I said. "If you don't tell me who you are right now, I'm outta here. I have better things to do than play guessing games with some ghost."

"But I'm not a ghost, silly."

"Okay, what are you?"

"Your worst nightmare."

I sat there for a moment or two, taking it in. Maybe I'm a suspicious guy—gal—whatever I am; maybe I had every right to be suspicious. First the questions: Why the peanut butter; why the goddamned voices, and why the hell was I speaking like a goddamned woman? Those were a lot of whys, and I reckoned they were all kind of connected: your worst nightmare, the voice had said.

Thank you, you commie pervert bastard, I snarled, wiping my lips feverishly, wiping them free from Stalin's wet dream: How many American's ate this filthy stuff that made men dames and women punks, punks who heard voices, voices that taunted and mocked. Had peanut butter always been a commie perversion, sucking the soul out of America—and what would be next—apple pie?

And what the hell was going to happen to me? One thing for sure, a high velocity slug would be tearing into the guts of anyone who tried opening the door for me, yours truly, Clay Cross.

Wait, Clay Cross? Who the hell is Clay Cross? Certainly not me, last I checked my name was Isabella, and I wrote about sandwich games with my roommates and the occasional love story that I gave away for free.

Something happened to me after I let that homeless man in my car; something really bad. Since when did I go on manic rants about commie peanut butter? Since now, apparently.

I clutched my head, closing my eyes and hoping that this insanity would soon start to make sense. The dollar, the bum, the peanut butter...when did everything go so far off course? I just wanted to buy a damn lottery ticket.

Isabella...the pieces were beginning to fit. Isabella—my controller—the Kremlin broad who thought she was going to take over my mind. She sounded nice, kind of ditzy and cute, but I knew the reality...a hardnosed dame from Lubyianka, cropped haired and booted, with those tiny metal-framed glasses the butchers of Krondstadt tended to favor. Isabella...well okay, Isabella, this private dick is going to lay low for a while, spy out the land, bide my time before the final strike.

I decided it was bad luck to carry the dollar. What good was it anyway? A useless, germ infested piece of paper not nearly as nice as my gleaming piece of plastic in the form of my debit card. I did the only thing I could; I threw it out the window as the traffic began moving. How was I supposed to know the dollar would land on the windshield of the car behind me, momentarily blinding the driver and causing an eight car pileup?

From the rear view mirror, it didn't seem like there were any injuries. Nothing was reported on the news that night. Despite the nagging ache of guilt, I went to sleep peacefully, knowing I was right. That damn piece of paper was bad luck.

I woke to snoring. Whose snoring? I wasn't sure. Momentarily disoriented, unsure whether my name was Isabella or some Clay fellow, I knew one thing—

I lived alone.

Turning my head, trying to make as little noise as possible, I found the source of the snoring.

The bum.

In his hand, that godforsaken dollar, and a peanut butter sandwich.
Every man has his price, but sleeping with a bum for peanut butter and a one-dollar bill...I gritted my teeth, wondering how this goddamned story was going to pan out.

I eased out of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping bum. He snorted, licked the jar of peanut butter and slipped back into his not-so-peaceful slumber.

I had hit rock bottom. I mean, how much lower could a guy/girl sink?

That's when I noticed the elf sitting next to the window. The look in his beady little eyes told me stories I didn't want to know. This story had completely gone off the rails, and I wasn't sure what I'd do about it.

He snickered at me.

"Ya know, you two make a cute couple." Then he burst into laughter.

"SSShhhhh!!!! You'll wake him. Who are you, and how do I get out of here?"

"Well, that would depend on where here is exactly, my dear."

I just stood there with a dumb look on my face.

He sighed.

"Follow me." Just like that he hopped down from the windowsill and grabbed my hand and yanked me to the closet door.

"Through there, we will find your answers."

So, I followed him. I jumped in head first, which was an awful idea.

We plummeted down through a black tube, the elf laughed hysterically as I tried not to scream at the top of my lungs.

We landed on a stack of mattresses. The smell from the dust as we hit was enough to gag me, the smell of an unwashed ass.

"Where are we going? I need some real answers if I'm going to keep going along with this." I shouted through my gagging, holding my nose.

"We're almost there. Hurry. You don't want to wake up Fluffy."

He pointed in the direction of the pitch blackness to our right. I heard a faint scratching and decided it was time to move it away from this particular spot. I didn't want to find out what Fluffy was.

On top of everything, the ass smell had stuck to my clothes. I groaned and ran after the elf.

Too late. Fluffy had got there before us—only I didn't know where. Something in Fluffy's demeanor told me I would never find out.

"Mr. Cross...or shall I call you Isabella?

Goddamnit, Fluffy's voice had the oiled precision of a Smith and Wesson .44, its tone casting a spell of devastating yet subtle potency, each sentence spun with a wily spider’s art, every silken syllable a snare to the unwary, a web of lies and ugliness made to appear as the very essence of beauty and truth.

I felt a sudden upsurge of a strange, unnatural emotion that I didn’t quite recognize or trust. Although quite alien, it jarred my memory, revealing a glimpse of another world. A world fifteen years younger. Fifteen years wiser. A world viewed by eyes not knowing yet grayness and waste.

And I remembered.

It was love.

I loved Fluffy. I loved his mind, and I loved his poetry. I glanced out of the window that hadn't been there before. Two stately cedars paddled in a pool of incipient sunlight whilst I bathed in the rich and satisfying warmth of this new experience. Love.

If some goon hadn't just bound and gagged me to a chair screwed to the floor, I’d have rushed, sobbing with gratitude, into his arms, a prodigal son. But the elf had tied me up, the lousy punk. So now I was trussed up like a turkey and with as much hope of survival. I’d get even with that smooth talking snake. I hated the bastard. I hated every last fiber in his evil twisted body. Most of all I hated his strangely familiar eyes.

Why the sudden feeling of utter love and devotion to that man? Powerful yet fleeting emotions, gone so fast one would doubt it was ever there.

True, his eyes were familiar, but since when did I have feelings like that for a man named Fluffy? Or any man for that matter?

I smelled a rat, and it wasn't the one chewing on the rope that tied my hands.

Wait...a rat chewed the rope that tied my hands! Perhaps my odds of escape just went up a notch.

Nice rat. The ropes around my wrists loosened. Any minute now, they would slip right off. The room was empty, and I could sneak right out. Nobody would notice.

Finally the ropes fell to the floor.

The door swung open with a loud bang. Framed in the doorway stood my one-time friend and now most hated enemy Reeves. The last time I won the lottery, I had hired him to be my butler. I thought it was cool to have a butler named Reeves until he robbed me every cent, every article of clothing, every bath towel, and every pot and pan in my house.

"So you're behind this!" I gasped.

Reeves just cackled like the evil witch that he was.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

He sauntered off into the next room and waved his hand for me to follow.

Why was I still in love with him after all he did to me?

Silly question, I was in love with him because of all he'd done to me. In fact, I practically begged him to do more. So I followed.

Down a darkened hallway that smelled faintly of Mr. Clean and Jimmy Dean Sausage. Why did that combination always put a hop in my step?

I sniffed loudly, remembering many fun nights with Reeves. I smiled.

He laughed.

"I see you remember our time together."

Oh how his accent always got to me.

This was the total loss of control that I had thought I had lost a long time ago. Well, here it was. I had totally lost it all.

"I've missed you." He turned around and stopped me, facing him. I could feel his heat radiating towards me. My breath raced along with my heartbeat. Who would win that race?

He laughed again. He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead then turned around and kept walking. I couldn't help myself. I followed.

Grrr. I was biding my time. Pretty goddamned soon, there would be a goddamned bloodbath, and I'd be the one holding the knife and the sponge.

Reeves turned right, and so did I, right into a wall. What the—?

Okay, either I was dreaming or this adventure just went from weird to completely unbelievable.

Running my hands over the wall, I hit a switch and the room flooded with light. I blinked and looked around.

Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle, (and if things continued the way they were, that was a possibility), just when I thought things couldn't get worse.

Things did get worse.

I stood in a hallway with nothing but myself and a mirror. It was cold, I had had an incredible, if not insane, adventure, and I was all alone. My reflection smirked at me.

I turned around in a circle three times, repeating that rhyme the girl with the ruby slippers chanted when she was hopeless.

Nothing happened.

Until...

Heh, heh, heh; I was back and everything changed...for the better. The walls disappeared revealing a winter-black forest, and crows, lots of them, circling lazily, some drifting eastwards as though giving directions.

A hint was all I needed. I hefted the Wesson Smith .44 and kissed its cold metal barrel and whispered, “Okay baby, your time has come.” I was after that little pervert Reeves, and I wasn't going to need the goddamned help of Kansas Dolly and her goddamned ruby slippers!

Wait...I needed a reality check. I pinched myself, and yes, it hurt. What the hell was I talking about? Crows, winter-black (is that new?), and ruby slippers?

Yeah, I hefted that gun with the wonky name, and I aimed it, at myself. I would jump off this crazy train. Only one thing would make sure I stayed off.

The silver manacles encasing my ankles snapped me back, enraging me. The leather masked gimp beside me cackled, enjoying my distress as I realized that I was again in an intolerable situation.

What? Where am I? Oh, shit, I'm sorry. My brain wandered away for a moment. That was a different story, a different time...sometimes they blend together. But when you live a life like mine the crazy moments are bound to happen.

Where were we? Right, I turned the gun to my head, and then I saw him. Reeves, the dirty, sexy bastard, sauntering across the field, his shape outlined by the setting sun. So, he thought he could just screw with me and walk away. Not this girl...

Not this girl. Jeez, I guess I was going to have to get used to having this dame in my head for a time. Least I could do was give her a reality check. If you're going to point a gun at anyone's head, first rule is make sure it's not your own, and if you're going to point it at anyone else—especially a dumb-onion pervert like Reeves—you're going to be aiming it at his goddamned balls. The head can come later, when he's registered what you've just done.

The shot was perfunctory. The screaming was not. Then the screaming stopped as a head turned into a red and grey pumpkin.

A red and grey pumpkin? Jeesh, I had to stop licking postage stamps. There's a reason they're all batshit crazy you know.

Acid trip or not, I still had to deal with the situation. What I had now was a ballless...balless...ball-less? Ahem, a castrated pumpkin head that was headed straight at me. Fast. Amazing with all that blood...

...and seeds, dripping everywhere. His laugh reminded me of an old movie I watched as a child.

I grew up... I wasn't a child anymore, and these silly imagination worlds that I went to had to stop.

I tried to do my fool-proof move that would knock me out of whatever world I had ventured to, punching myself in the temple, and fell down.

When I looked up, I was still there. This was real, one of my imagination worlds had come true, and for some reason, I could still hear Reeves.

"Come now, darling; you're going to mess up that pretty face hitting yourself like that."

I looked up, his pumpkin mouth curled into a creepy grin. Blinking, I tried to will the image away. Not only was he a pumpkin, but he was a messed up pumpkin. He wasn't even the right color.

The gun...in my hand. Feeling it in my palm, I closed my fingers around it and smiled up at Reeves.

"I didn't know you cared," I said and raised the gun.

I fired. Pumpkin guts sprayed over my face. God, that stuff was disgusting. Reeves crumpled into a heap next to me. His body rippling into a slimy mess.

"Oh no, you shouldn't have done that."

I turned toward the voice, pushing myself off the ground. For crying out loud, what else could go wrong?

"Reeves was the one man who could have gotten you out of here," the voice continued.

"What the hell, this place don't seem too bad to me. Leastways, plenty of crows to eat."

Now that's what I shouldn't have said. You ever see kamikaze crows? Let me tell you—if the Pacific War could have been won on bird shit, we'd be cleaning our teeth with Sushi, eating noodles in MacDonald’s. Hell, we'd be doing a lot of things different.

I tried to tell the crows that, but they seemed more concerned with keeping me topped up with crap—like some kind of goddamned crow hors d'oevre, hoping I'd fill up before the main course.

I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

The piece of cardboard in my hand would be the perfect shield. I held it up, covering my face. The sound of beeping grabbed my attention, and I peeked out over the top. A black, sleek, seven-door limo pulled to the curb next to the road where I stood.

The chauffer—looked a lot like Reeves—opened the back door, and the bum, dressed in a three piece suit, his hair was pulled back in pony tail, stepped out. I shifted uncomfortably as I waited for him to approach.

“Nice sign,” he said and handed me a dollar.

I read the cardboard in my hand. Will work for food, it said.

Furry Paws

Goodreads group On Fiction Writing has a monthly writing challenge for its memebers. For February, this was the assignment:

We take for granted that some things just ‘are’, and never question them because they have always been. We blindly accept that it is rude to stare, wrong to lie and yet not acceptable to be brutally honest. For a moment consider why nudists are considered outside of the norm, or what makes rich better than poor. This is an exercise to expand your mind, to question your judgment and explore the concept of ‘normal’ and ‘right’.

Imagine waking to a world that was backwards or upside down. What if right was left, wrong was right and north was south? No one is aware of these changes but your character. What would the character think or feel? How would they react? How difficult would it be to adjust to a world where nothing is what it used to be?

For this challenge you will write a scene of a maximum 500 words, in 3rd Person Limited POV, showing an upside down world. Only your character knows it is different, no one else is aware. I want you to try to refrain from allowing your own judgement to show in this scene, leave that to the characters.

Here's my entry:

As he studied the papers in front of him, Betty tried to figure out how he had attached the beak to his face. Perhaps an elastic string or glue, but she couldn't see anything. He looked up at her, his beady eyes drilling her, as if he could take her apart to see all her flaws. The beak opened and closed, and then he cleared his throat.

To keep from staring, Betty glanced down at herfeet in their high-heeled boots, the hem of her black suit dress reaching down to her ankles. What was up with these people? The man had a bird beak; the receptionist had a black goat's nose and horns that curled out of the sides of her head. Great makeup jobs, but this was ridiculous.

"You meet all the requirements for the job," the man said. "You are punctual and precise. Everything looks perfect, plus you are the only one applying for the position. But I'm sorry, we just can't hire you."

"Why?!?! I need this job!"

"We don't hire squirrels." The man looked down his long, long beak at her.

"But—but—but that's racist!" Betty wadded her hands into fists, and her limbs shook like a volcano about to erupt. She imagined biting that big beak of his—she'd chop it off with her teeth and bury it for winter. "And I'm not a squirrel. I'm human!"

He tilted his head. A strange squawking sound erupted from that beak. The bird was laughing at her.

Ice crawled up her spine and tingled the back of her nose. She looked down—two furry little paws replaced her hands.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Come play! Join in the fun, read what's already been posted, and submit your own scene for February's challenge.

Officer Goongola

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, hanging out with the kids, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, when the doorbell rang. I sighed. Who would dare interrupt family time?

"I'll get it!" Makani ran to the door, two little sisters right behind her.

From my comfy nest in the living room, I heard a deep voice. "Is your mother home?"

Great. Just great.

At the door, I found myself face to face with a tower of a man in a black suit, broad shoulders and large meaty hands, too wide and too tall to see all of him through the door. One of those big hands could've encompassed most of my throat. Eyes smoldered from a face that looked like it was chiseled out of stone. A chill ran down my spine.

"Ms. Webb?" he said. "I am here to ask a few questions."

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"Officer Guindaloon, ma'am." He flashed a badge, but so quickly I had no time to see what department he worked for, let alone if the picture matched. "I want to know what you can tell me about the Sandbox."

"You have a warrant?" It was a delay tactic; my mind raced. How was I going to get out of this mess?

"I'm a Fed." He sneered. "I don't need a warrant, ma'am. Not cooperating will be assumed as hostile behavior, and we will take you into custody."

"Officer Goongola, did you say?"

"Officer Guindaloon." The mountain pouted. It's hard to watch such a big man act like a baby.

"Look, Goongola," I said, peeking out onto the street. You never knew who might be listening. "Why don't you come in for some coffee? I don't think this is an appropriate place for this kind of conversation."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The giant dwarfed my kitchen table, and the mug looked like a toy in his hands. He took a sip and I put a few cookies on the plate.

Rita: What type of donut do you eat? Do you dunk it in milk or coffee or nothing?
Officer: Boston cream is my favorite. I don't dunk at all. feds
don't dunk, too messy. Everything must be tidy.

Rita: Why haven't the Feds caught the terrorists yet?
Officer: Well, having 7 doppelgangers, we were chasing spooks, but that number is dwindling down. We're getting close.

Rita: I have 3 kids, officer, and we've already had an unwelcome Christmas Eve guest. What kind of measures are being taken to prevent any further terrorist attacks?
Officer: That information is classified right now.

Rita: What is your favorite color?
Officer: black and blue...which is what the terrorists will be when we're through.

Rita: Will the feds work in cooperation with the Sandbox? Or will they oppose this rogue group?
Officer: The Feds will accept any help whatsoever in conjunction with this investigation. However, if we find that The Sandbox or any rogue group withholding information; that will be considered as obstruction of justice. To which, we take very seriously and will prosecute any who do so.

Rita: What do you see when you look at this blot of ink?
Officer: Breasts, sumptuous breasts.

Rita: What do you know about the alleged ring that GergisKhan wore?
Officer: Looks like something that opens up a portal of such... we're investigating the ring...

Rita: Thank you for your time, Officer.
Officer: No, thank you. I WILL need some DNA for identification purposes, as you know.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

And here I thought I had pulled the wool over his eyes. At least, I didn't have to answer any questions about the Sandbox or CJ or Rico.

However, he took a blood test, and the results were inconclusive. They cuffed me and put me in the back of a dark gray truck.

Once again, I found myself driven around town and thrown into a lab. Where, I don't know. They took another blood sample, a patch of skin, a bit of hair. Then they left me in an examination room for hours. The door was locked; the cupboards were bare, not even an old bone to chew on; and no place to sit but the cold, hard floor.

The only thing to do was to read a copy of a book titled Ménage à 20, Tales with a Hook. Rather an entertaining book, I might add. I highly recommend it.

Finally, the doctors determined I was safe and sent me home.

"We'll be watching, Ms. Webb," Officer Goongola said before he left.

"Big Brother usually is," I grumbled as I unlocked the door. Whatever surveillance they had on me probably picked that up. Oh well.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story, written by reader input. To read more, click here and start at the bottom.

Thanks to those who have cooperated and added to this story. Thank you, Officer Goongola Guindaloon, for a great interview.

This story is dedicated to the online Goodreads group On Fiction Writing and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

Interview at Gunpoint

It was a dark night, no storms, just a bitter wind that howled like a lonely wolf. The streets were deserted, strange for Manhattan, even in the middle of the night. Or so I assumed. I had never been in Manhattan before, but the anonymous instructions I had received told me stand under this lamp post on this street at 3 am January 2nd, 2010.

I was wearing a trench coat and gray hat with a red carnation in the band, and in my arms, I carried a book--the Menage a 20, Tales with a Hook, all according to the details in the anonymous email.

3:05 a.m. Nothing happened.

3:10 a.m. Nothing happened.

3:15 a.m. I fidgeted with my watch.

3:20 a.m. I started to walk away when a black sedan with tinted windows pealed around the corner, tires squealing.

Men in masks jumped out, and I tried to run. But they grabbed me around the middle and tossed me into the back seat. Terror clawed its way up my throat as I tried to scream, but all that came out was a garbled cry. Maybe this time, I took this search-for-the-truth-no-matter-the-cost a little too far. Maybe this time, I won't make it home to my husband and kids.

Hands tied a blindfold over my face as the car sped away with me in its belly.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

But all I got in response was a guttural, "Shut up." A gun was pressed into my back, and I snapped my mouth shut. Sometimes you learn more in silence, especially if it keeps you alive.

We drove for what seemed like an eternity. I tried to keep track of the turns, but for all I knew, we could have driven down every road in Manhattan only to return to where we started. The car finally stopped, and those rough hands pushed me forward. I was pushed into a metal chair and the blindfold removed. Above me, a harsh light blinded me. Dark shapes approached from across the room, and I blinked trying to make them out.

Before me stood a man with curly hair and beard, but despite the season, he didn't look anything like Santa. There was too much cold, dark cynicism in those eyes. He held a gun pointed at my head.

"We received your request for a meeting, Ms. Webb," he said.

Now I knew who this must be. The Sandbox Investigations Director. "Mitton, I presume?"

"You can call me that for now."

"I wasn't expecting to be treated so harshly."

"You'll survive."

"Will I?"

"You're here to ask questions."

The threat behind those words made my skin crawl. Think fast, I reminded myself.

"Uh," I started, "do you mind if I record this? Prevents misquotations."

He nodded.

"Okay, I'm going to reach into my pocket."

"No funny business."

"Of course not." I pulled out the tape recorder and hit the button.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Webb: What can you tell us about this secret organization known as the Sandbox?
Mitton: First, let me point out that my appointment is not a political one, it is an operational one. This means, that for reasons of security, I cannot possibly comment about any secret organization that I may, or equally may not, be a member of, far less a Director. I mean, how secret would any organization be if I were to reveal any of the secrets that I may, or then again may not, know?

That said, I can actually tell you this:

No comment.

Webb: What type of donut do you eat?
Mitton: Since I see little threat to operational security in this, I can answer more fully. I'll eat any type of donut that does't leave my fingers sticky. I particularly dislike the sort that has jam squirtng out all over my three-piece suit when I take a bite.

Not that I wear three-piece suits. Or if I did, they would be perfectly anonymous ones.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

For a moment I almost smiled, forgetting the gun. I hate jelly donuts too. But then he cleared his throat, reminding me that I had an interview to finish.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Webb: When will the Sandbox have CJ or Rico Suave in custody?
Mitton: We are pursuing several promising lines of enquiry. We hope to be able to make an arrest in the near future.

Webb: How often do you visit the dentist?
Mitton: It's a well known fact that most dentists belong to a world-wide conspiracy aimed at polluting our bodily fluids. They have a hidden agenda. Plus, the magazines in their waiting rooms are always several years out of date. So, in answer to your question, I only visit a dentist when something in my mouth turns black or drops out.

I admire their techniques for inducing pain, but their interrogation techniques leave something to be desired. I mean, what information can you be persuaded to divulge with a mouthful of dental implements? All you can say is 'mmnngh-ffhuth...'.

Webb: What is the Sandbox's next moves?
Mitton: Pawn to Queen three. Other than that, I have to refer you to my previous answer about operational security.

Webb: Are you aware that tooth decay is the leading cause of death among beavers in Botswana?
Mitton: I would have thought the absence of trees in Botswana would be a greater cause for concern among the indigenous beaver population of that country.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Does nothing trip this man up? Smooth as cream pie.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Webb: How do you eat your bananas? Plain? As part of a Peanut Butter sandwich? Frozen and dipped in chocolate? Or in your cereal?
Mitton: Monkeys eat bananas. And apes. What are you implying? Are you one of those hysterical liberals who views any part of the military and intelligence community as knuckle-dragging Neanderthals? Are you? You talkin' to me? Are you?

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

He took a deep breath, calmed himself with an effort, the gun waving wildly. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Mitton: I cannot coment on the use or non-use of bananas for reasons of National Security.

Webb: What have you discovered about the ring?
Mitton:

Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,
Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

Oh,sorry, you meant the ring in the picture. For reasons of security, I can make no comment at this time.

Look, are we off the record? I mean really off the record? OK, for your ears only...

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

I flipped the switch to turn off the recorder and leaned forward in my chair.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Mitton: The ring shows a scarab beetle, wings extended. This was, of old, the symbol for the leader of a cult. The cult of the Old Man of the Mountains. This of course was the sect that spawned the Hashasheen - now known as assassins. First active at the time of the Second Crusade. I know this, because Dan Brown told me, so it must be true.

The cult also dabbled in necromancy, though it is thought they gained those practices from a far older cult in Arabia - if I mention Abdul Alhazred and the Necronomicon, then those who need to know will be forewarned.

Harry Houdini revived this cult in the 20s and 30s, for reasons best known to himself. But let your readers know this: beware of escapologists. And mime artists. Clowns are suspect too.

We thought Montgomery smashed the cult, eliminated the ringleaders, shortly after El Alamein. Now, it has resurfaced. It suggests a link between CJ, possibly Rico Suave, and the Middle East, which is where we're concentrating our efforts.

Of course, you can't tell anyone that last bit. Tell them we're focussing on Greenland. They might get complacent then, come out of their holes.

The rest, just attribute to a well-informed Government source, or something like that.

Webb: Thank you for your time, Mr. Mitton.
Mitton: No, thank you for the opportunity to explain our apparent inactivity. What can I say? Wheels within wheels...

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Blindfolded again, I was led out of the building, dropped off in Manhattan. If indeed there was a building. If indeed New York exists.

No dentists were harmed during the making of this interview.

When I returned home, I discovered that the recording device had continued to record even after I had turned it off. At great cost to myself, I have enclosed this interview in its entirety. If I end up missing, tell the cops that the Sandbox got me.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story, written by reader input. To read more, click here and start at the bottom.

Thanks to those who have cooperated and added to this story. Thank you, Paul, for a great interview.

This story is dedicated to the online Goodreads group On Fiction Writing and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

The Christmas Eve Intruder

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

A beautiful story if a bit unrealistic. In our house, the kids zipped about, chasing each other up and down the stairs, hollering and singing and dancing. They get it from their father. I blame it all on him.

It was late before I finally got them to sleep. Because I told them Santa wasn't real, I can't use the line, "Go to bed or Santa won't come." There's no manipulating them into early bedtimes.

And before you scold me for ruining the Christmas spirit, these three little girls with their vivid imaginations create the magic of Christmas all on their own.

OK, the truth is I'm not any good at lying. Since my own parents thought that Santa was against their religious beliefs, I never believed in him (never went trick-or-treating either). So I never got the whole Santa thing. I don't understand why people make such a big deal about him.

Finally curled up in bed, snuggled up warm and tight to TJ, I dreamt of something like sugarplums in my head, but a thud clattering down stairs woke me. I poked TJ. "Someone broke in," I said.

"Grahgrahgrahgrum," he answered and rolled over.

I grabbed my robe and snuck down the stairs. The last thing it could be was Santa. After all, I just said how he didn't exist. Careful not to kick a toy, step on the cat, squeak a floor board, I crept closer, one step at a time, and peeked over the railing. A man wearing combat boots and red Santa hat was sifting under the tree, picking up boxes, shaking them, and tossing them back over his shoulder. In the light from the window, I could only make out some dark hair, a scowl, and a ring glistening on his finger.

Who was this guy?

He wasn't CJ. At least, he didn't seem to have CJ's catlike grace. He wasn't invisible, so he couldn't have been Rico Suave.

Then—oh crap—it dawned on me. GergisKhan!

What was he doing in my living room? Going through our presents? He must have thought there was something hidden here—something that obviously didn't exist. I mean, come on! Why would I hide a dangerous package in my house, under my Christmas tree?

I snuck back up to my room and grabbed my camera. Hey, I may be brave, but I'm also smart enough to know when I'm outmatched! If I could just get the pictures into the right hands (ahem, the Sandbox Investigations Director Paul Mitton)…

Coming back down the stairs, I tripped, tumbling down, and tackled the poor, innocent cat. My mysterious intruder looked up, surprised, giving me a good look at his dark eyes. Then he turned and ran.

I jumped to my feet and raced after him, snapping pictures as fast as I could…

through the school room,
into the kitchen,
past the dining room table,
around the rocking chair,
down the hall,
out the front door…

Then he jumped into a silver car and sped away. License plate started with the characters "7DRA."

Disappointed, I went back inside to check the pictures. I had snapped 10 or so and only one of them came out—




—a picture of his hand with the ring as he swung around the rocking chair.

Now let me just say that my digital camera is not the best. I got it on sale for $80 a few years back. I was proud to have it—my first digital camera—but there is this 2-second delay between when I click the camera and the picture is actually taken. In that time, any moving target is gone.

Hey, if you have a problem with that, I'll email you my address, and you can ship me a new one. I mean, geez, I risked life and limb to bring you this story!

If anyone has any information about this ring or why GergisKhan was searching the Christmas presents under my tree, please let me know.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story, written by reader input. Thanks to Carlos, Gwen, Renee, Joe, and Henry for their cooperation. You all have made this a joy to write.

This story is dedicated to the online Goodreads group On Fiction Writing and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

CJ Exposed

The room was dark with just enough light to keep me from bumping into anything.

A noise in the corner, like a shoe scuffing on the tile floor, and my heart leapt into my throat. I could barely breathe.

I stood still, hoping whoever it was didn't know I was there. My ears searched the room for the tiniest sound. Nothing. All was quiet.

I took another step and tripped over a chair in a loud clamor of clanging metal, cursing, and "ow, ow, my toe." It was too late to be quiet anyway.

Then with a knife to my back, I clamped my mouth shut. The pain in my toe was gone, forgotten.

"CJ, isn't it?" I whispered.

"Yes." His voice was husky. Maybe if I didn't have a knife to my back, I might even say sexy.

"You going to kill me?"

"Maybe."

Maybe it was the training, years of drills with the Sandbox, but I couldn't help digging for more information...

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Rita: Who are you really?
CJ: I could answer 'a dreamer' but I would be playing with words. I'm a young man with old eyes.


Rita: Are you handsome or dark and brooding with anxious eyes?
CJ: Probably both. The great majority of the men and women I know have described me as a fascinating, if a little scary individual; cultured tramp, refined bum, sophisticate hobo; the man of such wit and devilish charisma that women want to mother and men to punch in the face. But the few people who know me, usually leave it at a man with the soul of a poet, the hands of a lover and the eyes of an artist.


Rita: If dark and brooding, can you be saved?
CJ: Since I don't believe in salvation or damnation the question is academic.


Rita: Who is currently in charge of the cult? You, Rico Suave, or GergisKhan?
CJ: Gengis Khan thinks he's running the show, but Rico Suave pulls the strings, as usual.


Rita: Do you peel your banana from the top or the bottom?
CJ: From the bottom, naturally. Tops are overated, I'll take bottoms anytime.


Rita: What will your next steps be? Revenge, take over the world, secure the harem?
CJ: Since the world is a huge harem, I might as well take it over.


Rita: What is your favorite type of donut?
CJ: The one sampled in small bites, in that delicious twilight between sleep and wakefulness to the contented purr, next to my ear, of a two-legged feline.


Rita: How do you take your coffee? No, we're not asking because we're going to poison it.
CJ: Shared, creamy, and preferably to dunking the aforementioned donut.


Rita: Who was the mysterious man that died when taken into custody after the police mistook him for you?
CJ: Balthazar Ho, a Sino-Jordanian professor of subliminal callisthenics at Upper Volta University, was an extraordinary man. Slight of body, with piercing eyes and a clown smile, he would stroll under the stands of acacias flanking the campus, listening to the rustle of leaves and the clicks of insects. Throughout his life, he searched for a woman, a unique woman with whom to share meaningful silences, and welcome dawns holding hands as the stars fade before blushing clouds. Someone had beaten him to her, so he searched in vain. Disheartened from his hopeless quest, he considered monastic life. I convinced him that the slammer was more fun and he jumped at the opportunity.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

I was out of questions, and the knife pressed closer. I could tell that this would be one of those days that I'd regret not wearing that methril coat for special occasions.

Just then the curtains blurred as if blowing in the wind, and then they detached from the wall, coming at me like a ghost. CJ spun about and ran from the room, the blur chasing after him.

I reached for my back. There was a hole in my shirt, but my skin was intact. I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, I had eluded death.



Disclaimer: This is a fictional story, written by reader input. Thanks to Carlos, Gwen, Renee, Joe, and Henry for their cooperation. You all have made this a joy to write.

This story is dedicated to the online Goodreads group On Fiction Writing and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

The Chase Is On

Paul Mitton, the Sandbox Investigation Director, announced yesterday in a publicly released statement that the stolen corpse was not the body of the cultist/terrorist CJ. The DNA sample still available in the morgue revealed that the man was John Doe, a cult member whose face had been altered with plastic surgery.

On December 2, 2009, police caught John Doe when he attempted to elude authorities. Doe died after swallowing a red earring that contained poison. The body was stolen after Doe's funeral on December 9th.

Currently, authorities search for CJ across continents. Sightings of the elusive CJ have been reported throughout the world. It is believed that many of these reports are erroneous. "There is no way that CJ could possibly be in Moscow and in Washington DC on the same day," reported Mitton.

Some rumors have been circulating that an unknown entity cloned CJ, but this cannot be confirmed or denied. Scientists are currently investigating a medical facility in the South Pacific.

In other news, Rico Suave was last seen in Boston, MA, where he shortly disappeared. No further sign of him has been discovered at this time.

If you have seen either CJ or Rico Suave or know their whereabouts, please do not confront them. I repeat, do not approach these very dangerous individuals. Please contact your local authorities or leave a message here. All information that you give will be compiled and given to the FBI/CIA for further investigation.


Disclaimer: This is a fictional story, written by reader input. Thanks to Gwen, Renee, Joe, and Henry for their cooperation. Thank you to Carlos for his sense of humor. At least, I hope he has a sense of humor.

This story is dedicated to the online Goodreads group On Fiction Writing and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

Where in the World is CJ?

In the news article Police Caught Cultist Responsible for Idaho Terrorist Act, an anonymous message was left indicating that CJ may yet be alive.

Anonymous Said...
How dare you? You though a bunch of puny SWAT jokers could get rid of me?

My döppelganger fooled you all with his capsule-in-a-ring routine--rest in peace.

The itches will start soon from the mites and bedbugs infestation I've sent your way... about now. And this is only the beginning.

My revenge will be terrible.

CJ

If anyone has spotted or knows the whereabouts of this villain, please leave a comment. The Webb Times reporters are currently trying to track down this criminal.

Rico Suave

Messages left after Renee's interview indicated that CJ's acolyte Rico Suave had taken over the cult:

Information has come to light indicating that he was training an acolyte to assume his mantle after his demise.

We have npo [sic] conclusive proof of the inheritor's identity yet, but know that he sometimes answers to the name of Rico Suave

--Anonymous Poster

After much research, Webb Times reporters found an email address for Rico Suave and sent the new cult leader some questions.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


Rita: What was it like as an acolyte under CJ?

Rico Suave: Unnerving, exhilarating, impelling and I would dare to say, alluring.

Rita: How did you get involved in this cult group?

Rico Suave: I do not know. I know only that once I was a man, with a mind of my own. I had a job, and a cozy apartment I called home. Day after day I toiled in one of the towers at the heart of my city, making the numbers balance for one of those pointless endeavors men called "business".

One day I dreamed of being a writer. It was then that CJ came. From where I do not know, although a vague memory tells me of a time when I heard of a "Perfect Circle" and "The Prisoner" destined to be free.

"This is good," I thought. And it was indeed good.

Then the world changed, and it got quiet, and CJ sent us out. We walked and we laughed and we thought our actions were our own, but they were not. We would gather in places without knowing how it was that we knew where to go; my days became haunted by images of events, terrible events involving fire, and animals, and other...things. They were like dreams, only that deep in the crevices of my mind I knew they were not. I would look at people I didn't know, but know nonetheless. We would share a knowing glance, for we knew what the other thought.

CJ. He has come. It was he that lead us on, an army numbering in the millions, guarding his harems, doing his bidding. All of us mindless, voiceless, a whole whose soul was CJ.

Wait what was the question?


Rita: As the new cult leader, what can the public expect?

Rico Suave: Mwahahahahaha!


Rita: What kind of donuts do you like?

Rico Suave: Boston Cream!!! Anything with coconut comes a close second.


Rita: If you could be a fruit, what would it be and why?

Rico Suave: Banana.

What?


Rita: Well, there you have it folks. The Banana known as Rico Suave is ready to take over the world.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story and in no way represents real events.

Written in honor of the members of the On Fiction Writing group. Thank you to Renee, Carlos, Wendy, Paul, Joe, and Henry for their cooperation.

Please check out the Ménage à 20 for more great stories by Twenty Goodreads Authors, some of which have contributed to or have been referenced in this story.

Sandbox Interrogation of the Mysterious GergisKhan

The body of cultist CJ was stolen by a mysterious character known only as GergisKhan, according to comments left in response to an interview with the Sandbox member Renee.

GergisKhan said...
Silently, stealthily, the figure moved towards the goal. To the casual observer, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just another tech wheeling just another body to a non-descript room in a no-name mortuary in some podunk town.


Yet, what is ordinary, in death? Is death not that ultimate voyage from which no one has returned, at least in recent history, to tell us the tale of what lies beyond?


And so, in a most un-ordinary fashion, what seemed like the standard preparations for a viewing turned into something far more sinister. The casual observer saw a mortuary technician wheeling a body, draped with a sheet, from one room to another. Few people suspected, let alone knew, that it would be the last time either were seen. And it only took five hours for anything wrong to be noticed.

Going deep undercover, reporter for the Webb Times intercepted the following conversation:


The Sandbox: State your real name, rank, and serial number.

GergisKhan: Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Rank - Admiral. Serial number 656-5827B


The Sandbox: Are you a threat to the security of The Sandbox?

GergisKhan: What is secure? How do you define 'secure'?


The Sandbox: Don't be smart with me, Mr. Khan. Answer the question: Are you or are you not in contact with Rico Suave?

GergisKhan: I am not familiar with the man formerly known as Gerardo.


The Sandbox: What is your stake in this situation? Why did you steal the body?

GergisKhan: Steal what body? Body? I ain't seen no body!


The Sandbox: Where were you on the night of January 22, 2006?

GergisKhan: Hmmmm. I actually know the answer to this one. I was on my couch, I believe. I was recovering from a back injury.


The Sandbox: If you could be any animal what would you be and why?

GergisKhan: I already AM an animal. Animalia Chordata Mammalia Primate Hominidae Homo Sapien. And I have no choice but to be one in the matter.


The Sandbox: Smartass. What type of donut do you like with your coffee?

GergisKhan: Crullers are nice.


The Sandbox: Good thing you didn't pick plain; we'd have had to kill you instantly. Do you like shark soup?

GergisKhan: A more appropriate question is whether sharks like Khan Soup.


The Sandbox: You imagine yourself to be a dangerous man, Mr. Khan. I don't recommend that you play games with us. Answer our final question or die: what island in the Caribbean would you prefer to live?

GergisKhan: 25N 71W


The Sandbox: Clever. Thank you, Mr. Khan, that is all we need for now. Please, don't travel too far for a while. We'll be watching. In the meantime, please read your copy of the Ménage à 20; perhaps all could be forgiven.

Special Report: The Body of Cultist CJ is Missing

Funeral Picture by Luis Cano,
Back Cover Picture of the Ménage à 20 anthology

After the funeral for cult terrorist CJ, held yesterday, December 9th, 2009, the body has disappeared, reports the funeral director, name withheld. "I went to cremate him after the funeral," the director said, "but the casket was empty."

The CIA and the FBI still refuse to answer questions. It is unknown whether authorities believe CJ to be alive or dead at this time.

In the meantime, please check out the Ménage à 20 web site for your free download or purchase your paperback or hardback copy.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


This series of short stories is dedicated to Renee, Carlos, Paul, and Wendy. You can read more here:

Terrorist Attack in Pocatello, ID
Police Caught Cultist Responsible for Terrorist Attack
Exclusive Interview of Renee, Sandbox Member

Exclusive Interview with Renee, Sandbox Member

Authorities are still at a loss to explain the recent events that led to the mysterious suicide of the cult terrorist CJ. Renee Miller-Johnston, a member of the secret society The Sandbox, a human-interest group, reluctantly agreed to an interview with Webb Times. Perhaps she can shed some light on the Pocatello attack that occurred in the summer of 2009.

Rita: The question of the decade: Who is the mysterious CJ? Everyone wants to know.

Renee: I'm afraid we must keep CJ's identity a secret, for his identity could expose the Sandbox. I will say, he is a very talented and respected author. He has a way with the ladies; I'm not sure I've ever seen one come away unscathed, or quite the same after an encounter with him. This is why it was imperative that he be stopped. Can you imagine the power he would hold should he manage to seduce a larger portion of the female population? Terrifying.


Rita: How did the Sandbox get involved in solving this crime?

Renee: Several members of the Sandbox happened to be watching a friend's farm while she was away. Little did they know the madness that would ensue next door. CJ went nuts, drunk on his own power, painting barns, plucking chickens, burning piles of manure. His followers would do whatever he asked; it was escalating out of control. I can't imagine what would have happened if we hadn't been there. I'm sure the pigs would have been next. We wanted to take him alive, to examine him and figure out just what it is he has that these women want and how much he really knows about the Sandbox. Now, we'll never know.


Rita: You mention the Sandbox a lot. They seem to have eyes and ears everywhere. Who are these secret people in this secret society known as the Sandbox?

Renee: The Sandbox is a secret society of writers. Of course, we do much more than write, but our other activities must remain secret. I'm sorry, but I'm sure you understand. Should I reveal what we do I could vanish without a trace. I don't want to do that. I'm not at liberty to reveal the other members' identities. Some of them are in deep cover, so to name them would ruin their current operations. Perhaps some day we'll be able to come out more fully into the open. I don't do undercover work, so my identity isn't secret. I'm far too public to do undercover. People always find me out.


Rita: Now that CJ is dead, what will the Sandbox do next? After the funeral, of course.

Renee: As for what we'll do now--we're waiting until after the funeral to decide. There are several members of CJ's harem waiting in the wings, hoping to get even. Then there's the matter of the body. Until we see a body, we will not have confirmation that CJ is in fact dead. He is a slippery individual. Those women would do anything for him. I wouldn't put it past them to stage his death using some other poor fool in his place. The plan is to confirm that he is dead, and then move on to other lesser threats. Maybe we'll write something. It's been a while since we've had time to do that. CJ has kept us very busy.

Written in dedication to Renee, Paul, Wendy, and Carlos. Thanks for your sense of humor.

Also dedicated to OFW and the authors of the Ménage à 20.

Police Caught Cultist Responsible for Idaho Terrorist Act

A member of the human-interest group The Sandbox reported vital information last week to authorities that led to the whereabouts of the famous cultist that was allegedly responsible for the terrorist attack of a farm outside Pocatello, Idaho.

"He was lurking in some online chatroom," Mark Anderson, sheriff of Pocatello, said in an exclusive interview with Webb Times Newspaper. "We lured him out, but he caught onto us and slipped away."

After leading police on a high speed chase through the Idaho country roads, the cultist known only as CJ died shortly after being taken into custody. The coroner's report revealed poison.

"A secret compartment in his ring held a red capsule," Anderson said. "There was nothing that we could have done."

The police are still baffled as to who the mysterious cultist, code name CJ, is. The trail led to Barcelona, Spain, and then died. "It is as though he never existed prior to the week before the attack," Anderson said. Local authorities are currently talking to the FBI and CIA, which have refused to answer questions.

Funeral arrangements for CJ have been arranged by The Sandbox and will be held December 9th. Speaking with Webb Times anonymously, one Sandbox member said, "No one, not even a terrorist, should be buried without a proper service."

Written in dedication to Renee, Paul, Wendy, and Carlos. Thanks for your sense of humor.

Also dedicated to OFW and the authors of the Ménage-à-20.

Death By Chocolate

Imagine this:

You have given up bread, brownies, cake, ice cream, pasta, but there is one thing that you get to keep that makes it all worth while: chocolate. Rich. Dark. You know how it tingles with sensation. You take a morsel and wrap your tongue around it. It melts, giving you a shiver of pleasure down your back. You smile. This is the life. This takes all that you've given up worth it.

Then that strange sensation spreads up your body. You feel dizzy as if the chocolate was drugged with some kind of sleeping pill. Your neck tightens and your head is fuzzy. People talk to you, but it seems so hazy. Your children ask for you to read a book, and you sigh but say okay. At least they're not wanting you to run and play because now all you want to do is lay down on the couch. Your eyes slide over the words, going out of focus. On the edges, darkness creeps in.

Midsentence, you fall asleep. "Mommy! Wake up."

"I think my chocolate is poisoned," I tell my husband.

"Yes, dear." He shakes his head. "Just go to sleep. It'll all be better in the morning."

As the world goes black around me, I think that perhaps I should boycott Ghiradelli.

Got Any Werewolf Short Stories?

Chatting on goodreads about my upcoming contest, I learned that Swedish author Malin Larsson wrote a werewolf short story for Hub Magazine. I've read some of Malin's work, which I have greatly enjoyed. Check it out.

If you've written any werewolf stories and have posted them online, please leave a comment below to share it with the rest of us.

Possible Terrorist Attacks in Pocatello

Police continue to investigate the incidents that have surrounded the quiet countryside just outside of Pocatello, Idaho.

On June 27, 2009, an unknown group descended on a farm, wreaking havoc in what started as pranks but turned into a possible deadly situation when emergency vehicles were rushed to the seen to put out fires. By then, the culprits had already disappeared.


"Everything was just a mess," local firefighter John Twain told reporters. "They plucked the chickens, shaved the sheep, and smeared all the animals in manure. The kind of behavior you'd expect of a bunch of stupid kids. But then we found this." Smith had a pile of evidence which included bombs, a sonic cavitation device, and a wad of cash. "We think that they were paid by Al Qaeda to destroy American peace."

However, the damage does not end there. Samuel Clemens, the owner of the farm that was attacked, lost his home in the resulting fire as well as his livelihood. The farmyard was flooded, the animals killed, and the fields destroyed. "Hey, at least, they left my barn in tact," Clemmons said bitterly. "They painted it pink, but at least it's still standing. It gives me a place to sleep while I get this trouble straightened out."

"I think it was some sort of satanic cult activity," said local farmer who refused to reveal her name. She had been away on vacation and is thankful that her home remained unharmed. She gestured toward the inflatable pyramid with the tractor inside. "That looks like a temple to me, and with the snakes and the African bees, it seems more like some kind of psychotic ritual."

Zoo Boise officials have already picked up the stolen elephants and returned them to the Elephant House. The elephant exhibit has been closed until further notice. Zoo officials have not made a comment at this time.

The police have questioned some suspects, but no arrests have been made at this time. In a released statement, police chief Mark Anderson said, "We believe these actions have been performed by possible terrorist cells operating here in Pocatello."

The police encourage Pocatello residents to keep their eyes open for any suspicious activity. "You can't be too careful in times like these," Anderson said.

If you have any further information to report regarding this incident, please email the Webb Times Newspaper at rita@ritajwebb.com.

Written in dedication to Renee, Paul, and Wendy. May your imaginations never die.