Attack of the Muses!!

My Neighbour, Mr. Bates

2011-10-28T09:02:00.002-04:00

by Monica Marier

Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.

Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”

Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.

Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.

But what if I’m right? He asked himself.

His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.

Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.

Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.

Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.

“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”

At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.

“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.

Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.

“I’ve been watching you!”

“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.

“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”

“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”

“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”

“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”

“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”

“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.

“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”

Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.

“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.

Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”

Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.

“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.

“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”

“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.

“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.

“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”

“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.

“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.

“I need your help,” said Andrew.

Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.

“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”

“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.

“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.

“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”

Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”

“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.

“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”

Reruns

2011-10-21T14:00:00.000-04:00

Hi my name is Lilly, and you’re about to see me die about…. Nnnnnnnnnow.

Yep, there I am, running down the escalator—sorry mister—nearly knocking over an old lady and her baby. I’m yelling “shit-shit-shit” as I try to jump on the train before the door closes. They would be my last words. I hope my mother never finds that out. I suppose the ultimate lesson I learn is that a) appropriate footwear is important and b) never run to catch a freaking train. How I got this far in those damn heels I’ll never know. Fuck, I look like Wonder Woman! It’s a little impressive until…. Yeah… here we go.

Door closes on my arm. I can’t even cry for help, I’m just screaming over the whine of gears as the train pulls away, dragging me with it. Other people are waving at the driver to stop. That’s nice of them. It doesn’t work and the tunnel entrance looms closer; I’m about to be bisected by it.

I can never watch this part. You go ahead.

…

I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.
Oh, NOW, he stops the train¬—stupid bastard. And the rest is all people shouting and ordering each other around until the ambulance comes. This part is pretty boring. Still, I can’t leave or go watch anything else. This is all there is. In about three hours, when the stretcher finally takes me away (in a black zipped-up bag) it’ll start over again.

A woman once told me I was a spiritual imprint. How she could talk to me, I don’t know, but she wasn’t the first person. Every now and then my fatal routine is a little different. There are people who weren’t there before watching me—not the me running, they’re watching the me that’s watching me. They sometimes ask me dumb questions: “what year is it,” “what’s my name,” “can I make a noise.” Other times they just look. Sometimes they scream and run away.

And then there’s you. I’m not sure what to make of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to tell anyone my story before. You’re different somehow.

So how do you like it? My eternal prison. Just a dimly-lit tunnel that smells of pee, the whine of passing trains, and every three hours… my own personal show.

I’ve never liked reruns.

The Prodigal's Foole Bloghop

2011-10-16T13:08:00.007-04:00

Monica Marier

Those of you who know me, know that I shy away from book reviews. I only post reviews about books I absolutely adore, usually with no promises beforehand.

When I’m approached by a colleague who wants me to review their book I go into small agonies. It’s like that terrifying moment when an acquaintance says, “Want to see pictures of my newborn baby?” Before the reveal, I’m already crafting non-specific banal compliments to trot out in case Junior turns out to be a Halloween mask with legs. How can I tell an adoring parent that their baby looks like “JoJo the Dogfaced boy?” It’s much the same way with authors and their work. It’s their baby, so I panic —afraid to say mean things about their precious bundle of prose!

I had NO such reservations, however, when RB Wood asked me to review his new book “The Prodigal's Foole,” and host it on my blog. I’ve done work with RB before, specifically for his Word Count Podcast, so I was confident that RB would knock my socks off.

He did.

So here for you today, with a clear conscience and a load of fired-up excitement, I present a review and interview for the launch of...

The Prodigal's Foole

Symon Bryson is part of a rag-tag band of plucky misfits trained by the Catholic Church to fight demons. Then it all goes to Hell (literally). Ten years later, Symon is forced to regroup with his more sober and more mature gang to save their mentor and save the world —kind of a High school reunion from the 8th circle.

Symon is our guide through the book as a Peter Venkman-meets-Scott-Pilgrim mystic, full of giggle-worthy observations and dry wit. RB peoples this book with well-developed characters including interesting women (a MUST for me), and heart-winning mentors. It’s all lovingly depicted in a Cambridge Massachusetts so vivid that I want to go visit. RB also doesn’t shy away from the gross, gritty and the horror elements which were truly terrifying. Not for the faint of heart! The Catholic Church is neither over-praised nor vilified, but handled in a direct, realistic manner that makes this story all the more absorbing and a very rewarding read.

Highly recommended to all enjoy Urban Fantasy, Horror, and a good laugh (I’m looking at you, Dresden File Fans!)

So without further ado, here is RB Wood!

R.B. Wood is a technology consultant and a writer of Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction and quite frankly anything else that strikes his fancy. His first novel, The Prodigal's Foole is now available fo Kindle at Amazon.com. Mr. Wood is currently working on the second book of his Arcana Chronicles series and is host of The Word Count podcast.
R. B. currently lives in Boston with his partner, Tina, his dog Jack, three cats and various other critters that visit from time to time.
You can find his blog, R.B. Wood, Tales of an Indie Writer, HERE

ME: First of all, I have to admit that I was on tenterhooks the moment I realized that your book’s plot centered around the Catholic Church. I’m a practicing Catholic myself and I’ve been burned before by people like Dan Brown and a few others with their books about Catholics. It was a huge relief that you created an honest cast of characters with real flaws and foibles without tearing the Church to ribbons in the process. Any reasons you chose to go with Catholicism and how did you research the subject-matter?

RBW: I figured that Magic had been in the world for a while and was very rare. Who would've wanted to control that power? Well, the Church would have had the resources and the power to do just that. I'm focusing on the Catholic Church, specifically because of their influence for so many hundreds of years. However, there are far older religions that will be having their say as well. Stay tuned. :-)

ME: Your book is also centered around the Cambridge/Boston. I love when authors bring their own backyards into their work.

RBW: The Boston area is one of Thirteen magical hot-spots in the world I've created. Since I live here, research makes it easy. The city is (By US standards) an 'old' city. There is a history of Magic in the area (Salem Witch trials, anyone?). Besides, New York, Chicago and L.A. usually get the crazies. About time for some insanity in Boston.

ME: (You forgot D.C. Whole crap-ton of crazy here in D.C.) Some pretty freaky demonic weirdness in this book. How much was research and how much was pure RB-flair?

RBW: A lot research, then imagination. The Skratta in the book, for example, is the mythological Icelandic hobgoblin and my own imagination.

ME: Speaking of weirdness, I can tell you’re no stranger to the terrifying and bizarre. The images you made my imagination conjure were pretty pants-wettingly frightening in some places.

RBW: Awesome quote…"pants-wettingly frightening." I must use that somewhere. Thank you for the compliment. The world Symon was brought into was 'cool' from his perspective as a youngster. Far from cool, there is some scary sh*t out there in the Shadow-world. I've only shown a very small portion that awaits my poor hero…and that's all you get for now.

ME: ("Poor" is right. You really do like to beat the snot out of Symon. It's probably why I like him so much.)The priests I know have never shied around the subject of mysticism, exorcism and the existence of demons. To the church both are real occurrences in our world. What’s your opinion on that?

RBW: I certainly believe that there are things we cannot explain away easily. Open mind is key. I respect what the Church believes, but I don't necessarily believe in their take on mysticism. I still haven't forgiven them for that whole 'threatening to torture Galileo for being right,' thing.

ME: Since you’re a believer, does it get scary writing about demons and Hell at times? Depressing?

RBW: Depressing, no. I love constructing a story and researching the elements and the details. Scary? Nothing like a good scare to keep you honest! :-)

ME: True that. The characters in your book hint that the turmoil we've been seeing in the world in the last decade(wars, disasters, economic collapse) are a sign of bigger badder things evolving. I've actually heard this from a lot of people from all faiths—Heck I had a Jehovah's Witness at my door yesterday telling me the same thing. What are your thoughts?

RBW: My thoughts are this: Stay tuned, but you're on track.

ME: Okay, fair enough. Final question. Say the world IS all going to Hell in a Honda and you decide to spread the word a la Rorschach in "Watchmen." What does your cardboard sign say?

RBW: "Watch. Listen. Pay attention and ask questions. Otherwise, you might be a casualty."

ME: Thanks again for your time and congratulations on writing and publishing such an awesome book, RB Wood. I look forward to the next installment and good luck on your inevitable success. I leave you all now with my favorite quote from "The Prodigal's Foole" by RB Wood.

“One of Charles’ many repeating themes he preached was that evil was everywhere. I’ve seen it firsthand. It permeates spaces and individuals and things on levels that most ordinary people could never comprehend. Many of the old stories, myths, legends, and yes, even the scariest portions of the Old Testament, are based on truth. According to Charles, only those of us born with magic in our souls can protect the world from falling permanently into the abyss.”

You can purchase The Prodigal's Foole on Kindle HERE

Add Me.

2011-10-14T17:08:00.000-04:00

By Monica Marier

Hannah looked at the screen and moaned.
The jolly icon of “Harry Plotter” had popped up in a Halloween-themed window on her computer.

“You’re doing great! For your last task, there’s safety in numbers! Add three neighbors!”

“Add three neighbors? What the HELL!” she screamed.

Hannah immediately closed the “Wizard University” game application and went to vent her frustration on her home feed. Fortunately her game-buddy, Louisa was on.

“We need 3 neighbor-adds to complete the Halloween task? WTF? XO” she typed into the chat bar.

“I know right? *eye roll*” answered Louisa.

“Well what the crap do I do now??” Hannah asked.

“Go to the ap community and add the people on the page. They got to finish the task too.”

“What the ‘add me and I’ll add you back?’ guys?”

“Yah.”

“But they’re all GOOOOOBERS!!!! >_<” whined Hannah.

“You can unfriend ‘em later if they creep you out.”

Hannah typed ellipses into the chat bar and hit enter.

“Or you could just not give a crap. It’s only a game after all,” said Louisa.

“Oh fine. I was hoping you’d side with me on this. Y’ know. Tell me to storm the castle, etc.”

“Have fun storming the castle! :D” responded Lousia.

Hannah closed the chat log and with a heavy sigh opened the community page for “Wizard University.” Louisa hadn’t been wrong. A LOT of people were trying to finish this “add 3 neighbors” task, especially since the mission expired in 18 hours never to be seen again. Hannah perused the wall, her skin crawling like she was investigating a cockroach nest. The comments on the wall were pitiful at best.

PLZ HALP! NEED 3 NABORS FOR HALOWEEN TASK!!!!!!!!!!

Add me! PLZ!!!

NEED 3 PEALPE KTHNXBY!!!!

<3 <3 <3 <3 Pleez ad me and Il ad u to!!! <3 <3 <3

Hannah’s face twisted up in disgust. Who the crap were these people? How come none of them knew how to spell or type? How come they all felt that by using emoticons, bad grammar, capslock and a million exclamation points they would make a good impression on anyone? Who in hell would look at this feed and say, “Oh yes! This person looks like a kindred spirit! This is someone I want to give access to every thought, link, and photograph I’ve ever posted online,”?

“It’s just a bunch of freaking goobers,” she sniffed. But an hour later, the uncompleted task began to needle at her. The prize for completing the task was a magical wardrobe that fit inside her wizard’s dorm room. It would grant her +8 to all offensive spells and her little wizard (whom she named “Nigel Tautbottom”)could jump into it and retrieve an exclusive wardrobe item! This was a once in a lifetime offer and she didn’t even need to plop down any real money for it!

She knew deep down it was all bullshit. Everything she was placing so much value on was nothing more than a collection of pixels and coding. If she didn’t complete the task the world wouldn’t end, and she’d probably go through this same nonsense during Thanksgiving and Christmas too. She’d clog her news feed with boxes begging people for intangible items in the game. It was all just a big waste of time and productivity.

So why couldn’t she let it go?

She thought hard about how to get around her dilemma. “If I make Pete play, and Louisa can get her husband to do the same, that’s two… I just need to friend one goober and my problems are over… still.”

She booted up her laptop and read the Wizard University wall again.

“Okay,” Hannah said to herself. “The first post I see that uses real words will be my game-whore of choice.”

It took a while to find one. Hannah grimaced at what was obviously the collapse of the English language in progress and wondered if these losers knew how dumb they sounded. But, there, the twenthieth or twenty-first post from the top was a photo of a golden lab and the name ‘Darryl Beamer’. His post simply said, “I’m looking for people who aren’t weird to friend me for this arbitrary Halloween quest.”

Hannah managed a small smile and hesitatingly hovered the mouse over the “add +” button. Gulping she clicked it and exhaled. She then hacked into her husband’s account to set him up on the game. She just had to make sure that she uninstalled the application before Pete got home.
She changed back to her account to check on her wizard’s progress again. A window popped up on the chat bar from her new friend Darryl.

“Hi!”

Hannah’s stomach flipped a little and she debated clicking her online status to “hidden,” but she remembered how well-written Darryl was and decided to give him a chance.

“Hi back atcha! :) ” she said politely.

“At you,” said Darryl.

“Come again?” typed Hannah, wondering what he meant.

“You wrote ‘atcha.’ Atcha is not a word. If you meant ‘at you,’ you should have written it properly.”

Hannah blinked. She knew some grammar-Nazis in her day but this guy took the cake.

“Your disregard for the English language saddens me. I see by your profile that you reside near me in the city of Ashburn. I will be over shortly to kill you. Please wear something appropriate.”

Hannah stared at the screen feeling numb. Was this guy serious? Was he just one of those socially impaired people who confused sarcasm with humor? What was going on?

“What?” she typed.

The chat bar’s text turned to grey as it informed her “Darryl Beamer is no longer online. You may leave him a private message.”
Hannah closed her laptop and unplugged it out of panic
Her eyes darted to the door. Her husband would be home soon. Would Darryl beat him there? Was he really coming after all or was he just pulling her leg? She locked and dead-bolted the door and ran around the house closing the windows. When she returned to the living room there was a heavy knock on the door that made the wood buckle. Was it Pete? Was he having trouble with the deabolt lock?

“Whozat?” she asked in a trembling voice, causing her words to jumble.

“I think you mean ‘who is that?’ Hannah. Clearly you talk as poorly as you type,” said Darryl.

Hannah fell to the floor, sobbing as the lock broke.

Scaredy-Cat

2011-10-06T16:41:00.000-04:00

By Monica Marier
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!

“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”

“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.

“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”

“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”

Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”

“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.

He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.

The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.

Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.

He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!

Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.

“It’s just me,” said Alex.

Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” said Isaac petulantly.

“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”

“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.

“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”

“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.

“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.

“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.

“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”

“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”

“Yeah I know.”

“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."

“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”

“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.

“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.

Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”

******

20 years later…

Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.

“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.

He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”

“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”

Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.

(Based on a true story.)

Jeremy Hunted 5: Sanguine

2011-09-30T09:15:00.000-04:00

This story is fast becoming a serial! Help! I can't stop it!
Anyway, this is part 5 and the other 4 are here.

http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html
Part 2: The Lodger
Part 3: Breakfast Invite
Part 4: Deal with the Devil

Andrew awoke at the sound of a loud shout. It sounded more frustrated than angry or upset. It was followed by a loud crash and series of decidedly modern curse words. On a normal day Andrew would have slept through all this, but he had been rather jumpy since yesterday due to Jeremy. Andrew had encountered many hungry vampires before and knew what they were capable of. Jeremy had never caused Andrew any concern because he’d kicked the habit 40 years ago. Now that Jeremy had fallen off the wagon, altruistic motives aside, Andrew had been in a constant state of anxiety. For the past 18 hours, he’d been jumping at shadows and starting at small noises. To top it off, a newly-acquired neck-brace was impairing his ability to keep a proper watch on his surroundings.

So far Jeremy had demonstrated an impressive show of willpower after a patchy start. Granted he had a tendency to snarl if you startled him and he kept watching Andrew like he was a gazelle on the veldt; but he had saved Frank’s life, and had ridden in the ambulance with him and Andrew. After Andrew had been given his neck brace and Jeremy had given the hospital staff Frank’s passport and ID, the vampire had stomped back into the house and holed himself up in the kitchen. Andrew was too nervous to hang about and so had beaten a strategic retreat to his room. For the rest of the afternoon, he’d sat on his bed with his back pressed hard against the wall while he read back issues of The Beano. He could hardly concentrate on the antics of Dennis the Menace as he heard the loud crashes coming from downstairs and his eyes kept flitting between his comic, the door and the loaded gun next to him.

After a few hours the crashes died down and Andrew, gun in hand, decided to brave the unknown. He found a fantastic mess in the dining room. Every mug in the house was piled on the table in a state of ceramic carnage. Mugs were chipped, cracked, missing handles and several sported large gaps where chunks had been bitten out of the rim. The lucky mugs had simply been reduced to brightly-coloured chalk. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The counters and floors were littered with pots and pans. They were warped out of shape especially the handles, which were all sporting deep handprints. The kettle hadn’t survived. Amidst the cookware were dozens of boxes. Andrew hadn’t expected this though. He’d figured that the boxes and pans would be for sausages or tinned ham or something similarly meaty. He hadn’t expected 8 boxes of PG Tips to be torn open and ravaged. Nor had he foreseen the empty wrappers from twenty packages of McVities digestive biscuits.

He heard the noise of the telly in the sitting room and after cautiously poking his head in, saw Jeremy watching Tomorrow’s World. Andrew gasped. If Jeremy was actually watching the device he’d shunned as the “seizure box,” something was seriously wrong. Andrew took it as an evil portent and ran full tilt back to his room. He’d spent a very fitful night in which his few minutes of sleep were haunted by visions of predatory jaws attacking his throat in a red-tinged gloom. The last night he’d spent like that, he’d been ten years old. Jeremy was the one to help him conquer that walking nightmare. Now Jeremy was the nightmare.

As Andrew awoke in the dim grey light, he jumped to the mirror and examined his body for bites. Nope, he was clean. The neck brace was getting in the way, so Andrew ripped it off and chucked it in the corner. His neck wasn’t feeling much better, but he could turn his head now —besides, he’d dealt with much worse before. The filthy language was still coming from Jeremy’s room and Andrew broke into a cold sweat. Mopping his brow, he took the gun out from under his pillow and methodically scooted the dresser away from the door where it was acting as barricade. With utmost caution, Andrew inched through the door and across the carpeted hall to the master bedroom.

“Jer?” he asked in a dry timid voice.
“Yeah, what,” came the snappish answer. Andrew flinched. It still didn’t sound like Jeremy. Jeremy’s voice had always been melodious and soft, like someone who worked with very small children. This new voice was deep and commanding and (it seemed to Andrew) very tetchy.
“Everything alright in there? Can I come in?” Andrew asked.
“You can if you promise not to do anything bone-headed with that gun,” was the short reply.

Andrew took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then he reached for the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Looking more closely at it, Andrew saw that the knob had been squished into a lump of compressed brass. He then noticed the door was ajar and (after putting the Gun down his jeans) he nudged it open with his trainer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you silly man,” grumbled Jeremy.

Andrew breathed again. That sounded more like the real Jeremy. Walking into the room, however, Andrew abruptly changed his mind. Jeremy looked terrifying. He was clad only in his bathrobe, and its seams were in danger of popping. The reason was obvious; Jeremy’s usually frail frame was now covered in taught muscles and sinew. His skin was flushed and sweating, like he’d been jogging. He wasn’t huge like Arnie, or some other body-builder, but he looked athletic, strong… lethal. His snowy hair was still jet black and shiny, his face still focused and predatory. The vampire’s head swiveled towards him with uncanny swiftness. Dark predatory eyes considered the frightened Andrew.

“Still pretty scary, eh?” he asked Andrew, his sharp face softening a little.
Andrew knew that lying was pretty pointless. He only managed a nod.
“Are the eyes better at least?”
Andrew shrugged. “They don’t look quite so… evil,” he admitted. “You just look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I could say the same for you,” said Jeremy. The words were kindly, but in his strong forceful voice, their warmth was lost.
“I…” Andrew began but he abandoned the topic, “…heard swearing and shouting,” he finished, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh,” said Jeremy absently. He pointed to his dresser which was now a pile of splinters. “I keep smashing things,” he grumbled. “Controlling my strength was always difficult in the old days, but after forty years I’m out of practice... That and my clothes don’t fit now.”
Andrew noticed the pile of shredded cloth next to the mutilated dresser.
“You do look a little… bigger,” said Andrew carefully. “Want to borrow some of my clothes for now?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, the way I’m buggering up everything, they’ll probably come back as dust rags.”

Jeremy’s powerful shoulders hunched as he sighed, looking thoroughly embarrassed. It gave Andrew enough courage to approach him. He strode up to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy’s body tensed when the hammy hand touched his body and he dove out of its reach.

“Sorry, just a reflex,” Jeremy said, trying to collect himself.
“No problem.” Andrew had been reaching for his gun, but he played it off like he was only trying to scratch his bum. He didn’t want to hurt Jeremy’s feelings. “How long are you going to be like this?”
“I dunno. A week or two perhaps,” answered Jeremy. “I tried to calm myself down with some tea yesterday. You probably saw how well that went.”
“Did you eventually get a cuppa?” asked Andrew.
“I drank 48 cups,” said Jeremy. “When we ran out of sugar I used golden syrup...and then jam. I also ate all the biscuits, including your secret stash of Penguins. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Andrew with a smile. “Not the worst that could happen, considering. Well, we’ll have to get you some more clothes in the meantime.”
“I suppose it was time to get new clothes anyway,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I’ll say. The fact that you held on to those Victorian togs for so long is astounding.”
“They weren’t Victorian!” said Jeremy defensively.
“Oh c’mon? Where else would you have gotten braces and a frilly shirt?”
“The sixties.”
“’kay . Y’got me there,” said Andrew finally relaxing a little. “I’ll get you some of my old shirts, jeans, socks, underpants...”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “Never mind about the knickers though. I’ll manage.”
“Oh grow up— they’re clean!” said Andrew.
“Only because I do your laundry. I’ve seen what you do to them first,” said Jeremy, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll manage without. At least enough to go to Marks & Spencer and get some more… and a new kettle. I get the feeling I’ll be wanting a LOT more tea.”

The Stain

2011-09-23T08:51:00.000-04:00

This story was inspired by a brown drippy stain I saw on a museum wall.

The coffee sprayed out of Laura’s mouth and onto the rust-colored wall. It nearly hit a Rodin, and Laura gasped at the damage she’d done to the Museum walls.

“Sorry, didn’t think you’d take it like that,” said Ian.
“What did you say?” asked Laura, wiping her mouth. “You’re a what??”
“I’m an Alien. I’m from the planet Klaxon.”
“But I’ve know you since college! You’re from Herndon! You live with your crazy mom and sell hunting knives at the mall.”
“It was a cover. Um. I think we better move, the curator’s coming.”
Laura and Ian ducked into the impressionists wing.
“So…why are you telling me this?” whispered Laura. Her face turned grey as tears sprang her eyes. “Oh my GOD. You’re breaking up with me.”

Ian stared. “Wait you actually believed me? No one’s ever believed me before!”
“You’re telling me this because you want to scare me off?” moaned Laura. The tears were coming hard and fast now as she tried to stem the tide with her sweater sleeve.
“Uh... no!” said Ian looking in fond amazement at his girlfriend’s blind acceptance. “No! I’ve really loved the years we’ve had together,”
“But now you have to go back to your planet and you’re ditching me!” wailed Laura looking as waterlogged as the Monet painting of water lily’s behind her.
“No, you nut! I’m not ditching you!” said Ian.
“Then why, Ian?”
Ian stammered and a fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he fumbled in his pocket.
“Why?” Laura demanded again.
“I just…I thought you should know the truth… before we got married.”
Ian finally managed to extract a small ring case from his pants pocket and presented it to her.
Laura gazed in wonder at the glittering gem that held more colors than a peacock’s tail. It was like no gem she’d seen on earth. It was as if someone had taken a lava lamp and injected it into a crystal.
“Oh, Ian. It’s so pretty.”
“It belonged to my mother… my real mother. The woman in my house is my bodyguard— she takes it kind of seriously.”
Laura said nothing. She was still staring at the ring.
“So will you marry me, Laura?” Ian asked, getting more anxious as he waited for her response.
“YES!” she shouted jumping on him and kissing his astonished face. He held her and his lips found hers shortly.
Laura pulled away. “Wait. Do I have to go to Klaxon?” she asked.
“Well, the planet is going to want to meet its new princess.”
“Whee!”she screamed and hugged him tighter.

***
Gupta the curator had to steady himself as he saw the livid dark stain on the wall. This would get him fired for sure. Thinking fast he grabbed a blank plaque and in his neat handwriting wrote: “Installation Piece, Anon.” He hung it next to the coffee stain and walked away.

Jeremy Hunted 4: Deal with the Devil

2011-09-15T08:00:00.004-04:00

This part directly follows the events of last week.
You can read last week's chapter --> HERE <--

Andrew’s eyes were trained on Jeremy as the vampire kneeled by Frank. Andrew checked to make sure the safety was on and nodded at his friend. Jeremy extended Frank’s bare leg until it was at the level of his head, and with an expression of disgust sank his teeth into Frank’s calf. Frank’s eyes grew wide and he tried to cry out, but he lacked the air to do it. In the next instant he had passed out, from fear or from lack of oxygen. It made no difference to the others, who were glad he wasn’t going to raise a fuss. Jeremy ‘s attention was elsewhere.

In the dead-silent kitchen there Andrew could hear the sucking, slurping noises emanating from the vampire. That would have been funny on an ordinary day, but today it made Andrew break into a cold sweat and filled him with revulsion. Jeremy hadn’t tasted human blood in over 40 years. He’d been totally clean for so long, there was no telling how he would react now that he was exposed to it again.

To his amazement, Andrew noticed a bizarre change in Jeremy. Jeremy normally looked so pale he could have passed for an albino, with white hair and papery skin, he looked like a colour photograph left to bleach in the sun. Now it seemed that colour was suddenly flooding back into him. His skin was becoming rosy and pink again, with a vivid blush on his cheeks. His straw-like hair was changing from bone white to charcoal grey then to raven black. Most noticeable, however, were Jeremy’s eyes.

While his flushed skin and dark hair made him look years younger and much handsomer, his eyes were terrifying to behold. The vampire was becoming so saturated with blood, the capillaries in his eyes were bursting, creating two seas of deep red out of which flashed two cat-like slits for pupils.

Frank was breathing easier now, but his olive skin was growing so pale that he seemed to be turning green.

“Jer, I think you can stop now,” said Andrew in a husky voice.

Jeremy ignored him as he sucked ferociously.

“Jer. Stop, you’re draining him,” said Andrew more forcefully. He tried to lay a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, but the vampire snarled and batted the hand away with a blow that made his bones grind. Andrew cried out, but still managed to jam the barrel of his gun into Jeremy’s neck. The vampire froze and let out a feral growl.

“Drop it, now,” shouted Andrew, feeling sick.

Jeremy dropped Frank’s leg and spun around so fast he was a blur. He snarled at Andrew and crouched low, ready to pounce on his throat. Andrew flicked off the safety catch with an audible “click.”
Just as quickly, Jeremy seemed to recover himself. He straightened up and adjusted his shirt collar. He was still the handsome black-haired stranger with the demon eyes, but underneath it all Andrew could see the real Jeremy guiding it.

“Sorry, Andrew,” said Jeremy in a rich deep voice so different from his usual strained whisper. “I lost control there for a moment. But I think I’ve got…” (he interrupted himself with a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down) “…everything sorted. Is he breathing again?”

Andrew lowered the gun and reset the safety. He then examined Frank with what little expertise he possessed. “Yeah. He looks like he’s breathing comfortably now.”

“I managed to break it up a bit, I think,” said Jeremy. “My saliva acts as blood thinner, so that should help. The doctors can do the rest for him... whenever they bloody get here. We could have walked there by now,” he grumbled irritably.

“You alright?” asked Andrew again.

“I could do with a glass of water,” said Jeremy.

Andrew made to get up but he was halted by a loud, “NO!” from Jeremy. “No, don’t leave me alone with him just now. The impulse is too strong still. Can you put a plaster on him or something?”

Andrew wordlessly drew out the first aid kit from the cabinet in the breakfast nook. It was where they kept the candles, matches, torches, and battery-operated radio for emergencies. Once the blood was mopped up with an antiseptic wipe, it was hardly noticeable on his leg and after Andrew’d put a plaster over the larger marks, it looked like nothing more than a simple scrape. Andrew sighed in relief as he realized that the EMTs wouldn’t be asking about the teeth marks on Frank’s leg in correlation to his copious blood loss.

Jeremy seemed to have calmed down now that Frank was patched up, though his fingers continued to flex and squeeze compulsively while they waited for the anticipated knock at the door. At long last the ambulance arrived and Frank was carted off to the nearest hospital.

“I don’t think Frank’s first day in England is doing so well,” said Jeremy sadly as they watched the flashing red lights drive away.

“Could have been worse,” said Andrew.

“I really don’t see how.”

“He might have eaten the breakfast you were going to make him.”

Jeremy frowned and slapped Andrew lightly on the back of his head. There was a loud crack and Andrew was on the floor yelling in pain.

“My neck! I think you broke my bloody neck!”

Jeremy examined his newer stronger blood-saturated hand, wide-eyed in alarm and chagrin. “Oh, heck! I forgot!” He said to himself as he sped down the pavement trying to flag down the ambulance again.

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

2011-09-09T01:09:00.000-04:00

This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2

Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.

He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.

Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.

As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.

The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.

“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.

“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.

“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.

“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”

“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.

“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”

“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.

“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.

“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).

“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”

“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.

“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.

“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.

“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.

Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”

“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.

“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”

“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”

“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”

“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.

“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”

“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”

Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.

“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”

“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.

“It is?” asked Andrew.

“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”

“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.

Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”

“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.

“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.

Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.

“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.

“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.

“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.

Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.

"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.

(continued next week)

The Shooting Party

2011-09-02T10:59:00.002-04:00

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.

Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

2011-07-29T15:44:00.001-04:00

This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in part 1. For those of you just jumping in, the only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a vampire and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.

Frances “Frank” Timothy Tercero climbed shakily out of the black taxi and stood in front of 23 Girton Rd NW11 8AG. The cab had driven past it three times while they had looked for the house number, and after some arguing and calculations using the other houses, they eventually realized that it must have been here. Frank gripped his suitcases and gulped at the towering hedges that were trimmed to a tidy and forbidding 10 feet. A small “Rooms To Let” sign was stuck in it, drowning in tiny green leaves. Upon inspection, Frank found a low metal gate peeking out from a portal cut in the privet wall. It opened silently and he peered into the gloom. A large ash tree caressed the red-tile roof of a handsome half-timber house and blocked the few rays of sunlight that were brave enough to climb over the hedge. Sure enough a pair of brass numbers glinted in the dim green light. This was number 23.

“Crap,” he muttered. Steeling his courage, and taking a deep breath, Frank marched resolutely up the walk towards the glassed in boot room. He marveled further at the gloomy front yard. Instead of a lawn there was a sea of ground ivy that strayed onto the flagstone walkway and caught at his trouser legs. A sun catcher made of lead and stained yellow glass twirled idly in an unfelt breeze. Frank wondered what on earth the sun catcher was meant to catch, seeing as there wasn’t a speck of light. He glanced up at the windows and smiled at the old-fashioned diamond shapes of the leaded panes.

“Just like something out of Shakespeare’s time,” he said to himself with a grin. Frank had very little imagination, but he had a highly developed romantic mind. He’d never read a lot of novels as a kid or watched cartoons. He’d preferred to read books about history and famous people of centuries past. While his generation was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and “Thunder Cats”, he was pouring over books about the Roman Empire and the Ancient Greece. He’d read about the lives of Lincoln, Jefferson, Bonaparte, Charlemagne and Caesar.

And he read about England. It was a fascinating country to him —it was like all the world’s history had been crammed into an island the size of Louisiana. All his life he’d wanted to visit it. And now that Father Brennan was making him take an enforced sabbatical from Seminary it seemed a good place to find himself. He winced at the memory of that meeting, and with a heavy heart, rang the doorbell.

He waited a while, and no one came. He decided he must not have pushed the button hard enough and tried again, pushing firmly on the button. This time the brittle rubber button became stuck to his thumb and came away from the post, pulling the plastic casing with it. Some wires that looked thoroughly dead and rotten trailed back to the doorpost. Uncertain what to do next, Frank looked around to see if he could spot anyone at the windows, but all he could see were heavy curtains.

Leaning on the glass door it gave way immediately and he wandered into the boot room, twiddling his fingers in anxiety. He approached the heavy white door featuring a brass knocker shaped like the head of Hermes. Frank knocked firmly and the sound bounced off the glass panes. His eyelids suddenly drooped as he unleashed a head-splitting yawn. Checking his cellphone, he noted that back in Baltimore it was 6am, while over here, it was around lunchtime.

He was shaken out of his tiredness when he heard hissing whispers on the other side of the door. It sounded like two people having a heated argument they didn’t want overheard. With a sudden hiss of “shut-it!” the door popped open and two men stood grinning on the threshold. Both of their grins seemed rather forced.

Frank pushed up his spectacles to get a better look at them. They both looked like men in their mid-thirties but their similarities ended there. One looked like a quiet gentleman with eccentric taste in clothing; he wore an overlarge shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers that were held up by very old-fashioned two-button suspenders. He was pale and very thin, almost sickly looking, like some of the chemo patients Frank had worked with — except for a mop of snowy shoulder-length hair. His grin revealed very white teeth with long canines. Frank wasn’t normally put off by these. He was a quarter Italian and all his Mediterranean cousins sported long canines. But in this pale man’s face they were a little eerie.

The other man was his complete antithesis. While the former looked like a slight breeze would knock him over, this one looked like he could punch through a commercial bus. He was tall, muscular and covered in tattoos and piercings. Unlike his friend, he was more moderately dressed in black jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising the band, “Zombie Cromwell” His head was shaved but his face sported a jet-black goatee broken here and there by scar tissue. His grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.

The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.

“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.

“Oh, right!” spluttered Frank in embarrassment. “I’m Frank Tercero, we spoke on the phone.” He extended a hand in greeting, and pale man shook it with a firmer grip than Frank would have supposed.

“Frank, right! I’m Jeremy Bates and this is my friend, Andrew Fletcher. Come on in and we’ll get you sorted. Did you have a good flight?”

Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval.

“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”

“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.

“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity.

“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”

“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”

“Oh, that explains why you don’t have your little collar-thing on,” said Andrew coming up behind them. He was carrying the two heavy suitcases like they were lunchboxes and when he threw them on the bed there was an ominous creak from the springs. Frank was about to explain that pre-candidate seminarians who did wear Roman collars didn’t wear them on sabbatical, when Jeremy’s head whipped around and gave Andrew a pointed look. He charged into the hall dragging Andrew’s bulk with him.

“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.

Frank looked at the door in bewilderment and immediately heard hushed arguing again, like he’d heard on the landing, only this time he could hear every word.

“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.

“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.

“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.

“So am I!”

“Well, he’s a paying guest, so he trumps you on that much.”

“You never asked me to pay!”

“I would never think of asking you to pay, but I think you’d have the common decency to show a little politeness now and then, especially for my tenants!”

“I was being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”

“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.

“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!”

“It’s my house!”

“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our secret!”

“SHHH!”

There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible.

Frank stared at the door non-plussed. He shoved the suitcases on the floor and kicking off his shoes climbed into the bed, fully dressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a gay love-nest by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”

He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely.

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

2011-07-26T19:07:00.000-04:00

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.

“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.

“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.

“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.

Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”

Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.

“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”

Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”

Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!

MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!

2011-07-22T14:00:00.005-04:00

UPDATED NOV. 7 2011

The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print!

At long last Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is available for sale from it's publisher,Hunt Press.

Did you love Must Love Dragons? We know we did! Well, Monica Marier is back with a brand new series and it's now available for pre-order! As always, get it now before it comes out when the price goes up?

Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier

A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World!

Introducing The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly: Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs. One is a washed up, boozing wizard, one is a debonair walking disaster. They’re gentlemen of fortune who realize that the advantage goes not to the biggest hand, but the better bluff. Additionally that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, and chicks dig scars.

Can the pair of them stop arguing long enough to save the citizens of Poulipolis from a watery grave? How will they manage with a shifty working girl and a hardened police inspector dogging their tails? Follow the hijinks of the Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly (and their blue dragon, Philomena) as they unravel clues in a mysterious underwater city!

CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!

Jeremy Hunted Part 1

2011-07-21T13:12:00.000-04:00

Not sure whether this is a 2 or 3 parter, but I think this merits a bit of expansion. Not sure where I'm going yet, so we'll see what happens. ; ) ~Monica
PART ONE: THE OLD DOG

“ARGH!!!”

Andrew had scarcely draped his coat over the armchair (which Jeremy had asked him not to do over fifty times) when heard a cry and crash upstairs and ran to see what was going on.

After a clumsy hike up the narrow stairs, Andrew stood in the upstairs hallway, trying to discern where the noise came from. He checked in his room first. He knew that Jeremy liked to poke around in his room while he worked at the pub. Andrew didn’t like it, but decided not to let Jer know that he was on to him. He wasn’t worried about things disappearing — Jeremy wasn’t the sort to go around pinching things, he was merely curious. He sifted through Andrew’s belongings like an archeologist dug through ruins; he was to find out about the world outside his stuffy townhouse. Jeremy didn’t get out much. The last time he’d gone to the Odeon at Swiss Cottage, “The Shawshank Redemption” had been playing.

Every few decades, Jeremy would get lonely and curious about the world and decide to stick his head out. He’d try to suck up all the information that he could and then he’d lose interest and cling to those facts for the next fifteen years or so. Andrew had observed him one time with a pile of his t-shirts next to the computer. The man was laboriously typing (with two fingers) the band names on his shirts into the Google search engine and would occasionally gasp at the results. The internet was one of the few concessions Jeremy had made to modern innovation; it allowed him to do his shopping without leaving the house.

Andrew peered into his room which was empty and (to all appearances) untouched. He checked Jeremy’s room and there was nothing there either, but something was different that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. He eventually looked in the guest bedrooms, which were resolutely empty despite the “Rooms to Let” sign by the privet hedge. It was in one of these that Andrew saw a fallen curtain rod and a pile of dusty cloth in a large pile. There was something thrashing under it muttering a stream of Victorian obscenities.

“Jer?” asked Andrew, picking up the pile of cloth. The awkward bundle weighed as much as a small child, which would have given the anemic Jeremy some trouble. It was immediately apparent to Andrew, however, that Jeremy’s main struggle was with the cast iron curtain rod that had skewered him through the chest.

“Jer?” cried Andrew in alarm.

“Little help?” gasped Jeremy, his face screwed up in pain.

Andrew immediately grasped the heavy rod in his hand and yanked it out of Jeremy’s ribcage with a sickening “crunch.” Jeremy uttered a sharp cry and shuddered, but he seemed to shake it off shortly and sat up. His punctured shirt was damp with clear plasma, as was the carpet beneath him.

“You alright?” asked Andrew in alarm, kneeling next to his friend.

“I’m fine. It missed my heart by a few inches, but that was a close shave.”

“I would think you’d have been a little more careful about your choice of décor, Jer,” said Andrew, eyeing the menacing spear on the end of the rod.

“It was an antique,” said Jeremy with a shrug.

“So are you,” said Andrew shaking his head. Already the hole in Jeremy’s chest was getting smaller, and Andrew could see paper-white skin through his rent shirt.

“What were you doing anyway?”

“I was taking the curtains down to be cleaned. Need to tidy up for the new lodger.”

“We’re getting a lodger?” asked Andrew.

“Yep, should be here tomorrow. He’s an American fellow here on a sabbatical.”

“A yank lodger?” asked Andrew in surprise.

“Americans need rooms to stay in like everyone else,” said Jeremy with a shrug.

“You going to be…”Andrew trailed off uncomfortably. “Okay with it?”

“I need the money, Andrew. Vampire-hunting doesn’t pay the bills, and things have been getting tight.”

“No I mean with the…” Andrew stared at Jeremy’s chest as his wound shrunk to the size of a pea and then disappeared, leaving behind only pale, blue-veined skin, still damp with yellowish plasma.

“Oh, you mean, am I going to drain his blood like it was Ribena?” said Jeremy with a shrug. “Oh please. It would take more than some American priest to make me go berserk.”

“He’s a vicar?” asked Andrew agog.

“No, he’s a papist something-or-other. He’s a deacon or a seminarian or something… I forget which he said it was.”

“A religious nutter? Are you barking?”

“I don’t really care what he is as long as he pays rent. Help me carry these to the laundry room.”

“And you think he’ll be okay with living with a vampire?” asked Andrew with a frown. He shouldered the dusty bundle with a violent sneeze before following Jeremy downstairs. Apart from a few stiff jerks and quiet groans, Jeremy seemed otherwise fine again.

“I don’t intend to tell him I’m a vampire, Andrew,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes. “And you better keep mum too, got it?”

“Oh, because I’m Mr. Subterfuge, ain’t I?” said Andrew with a snort.

Jeremy paused and gripped his head. “…I can see where this may lead to some difficulties.”

“I’ll try to keep it secret,” said Andrew with a shrug, “but you know me.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy looking nervous. “Just put the curtains down there. I’ll have Olivia take care of them,” he added, pointing to the stone floor in the laundry room. Andrew complied and tried to wipe his dusty hands off on his black jeans.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Andrew eyeing Jeremy anxiously. He only realized now that the curtain-rod had gone completely through Jeremy’s sternum. There was a twin hole through the back of Jeremy’s white shirt as well.

“Bit peaky. And frankly starving,” said Jeremy grimly. “It takes a lot out of me to regenerate like that.”

“You want me to go get food?” said Andrew.

“Would you?” asked Jeremy, looking hopeful.

“Yeah. Who do you feel like hitting up then?” asked Andrew. “Singh?”

“No, I can’t do Indian on an empty stomach,” said Jeremy with a grimace.

“How about Maarouf?” asked Andrew.

“Yeah. Lebanese would hit the spot,” nodded Jeremy. “Get some lamb kebabs (rare) with rice, falafel, tabouli salad — oh! And get that really good hummus with the pita bread,” said Jeremy eagerly.

Andrew’s face spread in his usual lopsided grin full of chipped teeth. “Yeah, sure, Jer. See you in a bit, eh?”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy.

“No problem. I was hungry, myself,” said Andrew.

“No, I mean thanks for… well, everything. I’ve been feeling a lot… better since you moved in,” said Jeremy.

“No man is an island, Jer,” said Andrew. “I think being around other people is good for you. Even if ‘other people’ is only me.”

“Oh, you’re good company, Andrew,” said Jeremy. “You just listen to rubbish bands.”

Andrew shook his head and grabbed his coat again on his way out the door trying to remember Jeremy’s order. “If that priesty-nutter starts to suspect, he can just watch you eat all that GARLIC and relax,” he mumbled.

Next week: PART TWO: Lodgers

Morning People

2011-07-15T16:50:00.001-04:00

Today has been made of suck for me, but I stumbled accross this passage from a WIP I abandoned called "Go Forth and Discover, Young Americans!"

I stumbled into the kitchen with a pounding headache. Kev grimaced as he noted my floppy pajamas, and unwashed hair. He was completely ready for work (except of course for the last ten minutes of running around asking 'April, where'd I leave the fill in the blank ?') The kids, however were still in their pajamas and asking for food.

"'S there any coffee?" I mumbled.

"No," said Kevin.

"Can you make there be coffee?" I whined.

"Yes," he said cracking a small grin. Apart from the fact that he obviously forgot to brush his teeth, he really was rather cute. I suppose it was inevitable for me to fuck up the moment.

"Why isn't there any coffee? You know I can't function without it! You're always up before me and it’s the simplest damn thing in the world! Would it kill you to just remember to make a pot every day?"

I glanced at Lee jumping up and down to the Wiggles.

"Why the Hell aren't the kids dressed? My GOD, Kev! You do this every morning. Lee's diaper is huge! Did you give Ursula her cereal? Turn some lights on! Good grief! It's like a bloody cave in here, how is anyone supposed to wake up with no lights on? What the HELL are all these dishes doing in the sink? The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty, for Christ's sake! Did you check? I'll bet it didn't occur to you to check and see if the dishes in there are dirty! I see you left last night's frying pan on the stove! GOD! I guess I have to do it all myself, again!!"

Kevin's smile slipped down around his ankles, as he cowed under my assault. He rolled up his sleeves, brushed past me roughly and turned on the water as I kept flooding him with complaints. I didn't stop either. I just couldn't shut-up, I was in the middle of a sermon about how no one helps me out, and how everything is plopped in my lap like it's my job.

I was aware of a hot uncomfortable feeling in the back of my eyes as my list of complaints gets longer and louder. Lee started imitating me, while I changed his diaper.

"Keeeevaaaaaaaan," he whined nasally.

Kevin shuffled around, cowed, while he emptied the trash and the diaper pail. He looked at the floor and said nothing. He was brought up by his mother and three sisters to listen and obey. Something in his genetic makeup just made him react to a female voice like a dog-whistle. A very tiny voice in my head told me I was going too far. I couldn't push him like this, not if I wanted him to respect me. I had never listened to that voiced before, and I don't do it now. Years of training from my Mother were blossoming into fruition.

It was only after Kevin gave me a peck on the cheek, kissed the kids and walked out the door, that I shut up.

I then realized that of the 2 hours we had shared that morning, I had spent the entire time giving him orders. We hadn't talked, we hadn't blissfully prepared for the day ahead together, I wouldn't make him his sandwich. I had shouted, "make your own damn sandwich! You got hands!" We hadn't even had breakfast together. What was happening to us? I thought glumly.

Then I realized. We NEVER did mornings together. When we'd first got married, Kevin would get ready for work and leave me sleeping. If I ever made his lunch, it's because he was eating what I had made for dinner the previous night. I shook it aside and said, "I'm just not a morning person, that's all."

The tiny voice said, "Maybe you're just not a marriage person."

I told that voice to go to Hell.

The next morning, I got up as early as I could and stumbled to the kitchen. Kevin was frankly surprised. Normally I didn't get up unless the kids were up, and they were still asleep, tired out from staying up late last night. I gave him a weak smile as he pulled me into a warm hug; my chin scraped against his scratchy unshaved face and he ruffled my dirty hair. I inhaled his smell and sighed with content. It had been worth getting up early for this... Until I saw the cold coffee pot... and the cold slimy dishes... and the pork roast from last night left out.

"Keeeviiiin..." I began. And then stopped.

"Whaaaaat?" he countered with a pained expression. I gritted my teeth, and took a shaky breath.

"Nothing...uh I was just going to ask if you had taken your shower yet?" I said, thinking quickly.

"What, really?" Kevin looked around uncertainly, like he was searching for hidden cameras.

"Yeah, go ahead, I'll take care of this and get the kids up and dressed," I said, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Really?" asked Kevin in the manner of a man probing a canker sore. "It's just that when you said 'Keeeviiiin' like that, I thought you were gonna yell at me for something." I laughed this off as lightly as I dared.

"Noooo!" I said, giving him an affectionate pinch. "What would make you think that? Go on, before Lee wakes up!" I said shoving him towards the bathroom. Kevin wasn't fooled for a minute, of course, but he understood, and gave me a wink.

"I love you," I said, meaning it.

"I love you too," he returned, flashing me a brighter grin than I'd seen in a while.

Of course when he left, I was faced with the gooey dishes and no coffee, but I took a deep breath and plunged in. Hindsight being 20-20, I should have started the coffee so it'd brew while I was doing the dishes. Being short on coffee in the first place though, I wasn't thinking very clearly. I was about to wash out the cold coffee from yesterday, when Lee started banging his crib against the wall and Ursula started crying.

"Kevin?" I called out. Nothing. Damn. I'd have to get them myself.

Moving slower than tectonic plates, I slowly changed diapers, wrestled the kids into clothes, and plopped them in highchairs with a handful of Cheerioes each. This bought me time to make the coffee before they demanded breakfast.

I realized, I couldn't wait for the fresh coffee, I'd never make it, so I emptied the cold dregs into a bucket-sized mug and shoved it in the microwave for a minute while I made the fresh pot. My progress was halted when I heard popping and hissing from the microwave. I'd left my spoon in the mug, and it was sending up sparks. I took out the scalding hot, incredibly bitter coffee, and looked for some milk to help it go down easier. I'd done this before. When you added milk to day-old coffee, you often couldn't see the difference. It might change in color from pitch black to charcoal gray, if you were lucky.

A quick look in the fridge told me we were out of Milk. I was about to whine "Keeeeviiiin" again, and halted in my tracks. I would just deal with it. I looked around for a substitute. My best bet was some ancient, freezer-burned vanilla icecream from the freezer. It worked pretty well, and at least it brought the coffee down to a temperature safe for human consumption.

Lee looked up, saw the icecream container and pointed. "Bite? Bite? Icebeam! Icebeam tone!" he chirped.

"No honey," I said calmly. "No Icecream cone. How about juice? Okay?"

Lee frowned. "No Juice! Icebeam! Icebeam! Icebeam tone!"

I cringed, "Lee-honey, Icebeam's not for breakfast. You want some toast? Toast for breakfast?"

Lee paused, his elfish face screwed up into a scowl. He started to make whimpering noises as his cheeks began to turn red.

I decided to give in, it wasn't worth fighting. I scooped out some ice cream and plopped it in his suction-based bowl. To make it more breakfasty though, I poured Rice Krispies on top.

By now the coffee maker was done trickling, and I had that glorious first cup. The anticipation made it transcendently good. I look around at my clothed, and eating children. Kevin strode in, fresh from the shower, and we sat at the table and ate our breakfast, making small talk while Dora the Explorer played in the background. I could get used to this, I thought. I then and there resolved to get up early every morning.

The next morning I pretended to be asleep so Kevin would leave me alone and get the screaming babies. I then lay in bed for an hour until Kevin brought me a cup of coffee. I burned my tongue and spilt it on my covers.

Maybe I'll get up early on Tuesdays... I'll start with Tuesdays.

The Night Job

2011-06-30T22:50:00.001-04:00

My dear friend Icy got me thinking about England this week. Andrew and Jeremy were characters I'd invented during my short study-abroad at Cambridge. I simply like Andrew for being a large lovable hooligan. I don't have many characters like that.

Andrew felt himself waking up and fought it. He lost rather quickly. With supreme effort he tried to unglue his eyelids. He blinked red-eyed in the dim light that signified it was the wee small hours of the afternoon. He was suddenly aware that this was not his bed. It was a familiar bed, and by familiar it didn’t fall into either category of girlfriend or one of his drunken mates. Instead he recognized the leaded windows and oak-beamed ceiling of Jeremy Bates’s house. How the hell had he wound up here? Jeremy was an old friend to be sure, although they hadn’t worked together in ages, but why here? HOW here?

He’d left the bike at the flat, he was sure of that. He couldn’t remember getting on the train last night and taking the Northern Line to Golders Green (that would have involved two transfers!). Nor could he remember stumbling down Finchley Road trying to look sober. That walk would have taken hours at any rate. Had he really gotten THAT pissed last night? That wasn’t like him. Realizing he was fully clothed, Andrew stuck his large clumsy hands in his pockets to look for clues.

When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.

Kicked him out, come to think of it—that was a first. He wondered what protocol was for getting his stuff back. Most of it was Sasha’s and a lot of it wasn’t worth bothering over, but he really wanted his motorcycle helmet, and the commemorative 1966 World Cup Champions mug that had been a gift from his Uncle Arthur. Maybe Jeremy knew how the standard “I’m-really-sorry-and-I-know-you-said-you-never-wanted-to-see-me-again-but-can-I-pop-in-and-get-my-rubbish” transaction went. Did he have to bring a “second?”

He thought more about Sasha and fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t too hard; he’d had a lot of practice after 36 years.

Unable to go back to sleep, and not sure he wanted to in any case, Andrew wound his way down the narrow staircase. He heard a clattering in the kitchen and made his way towards the large and very old dining table, currently set for one.

Jeremy was in the kitchen, heating up baked beans in a saucepan. Two pieces of bread suffering from third-degree burns were smoking pathetically on a chipped plate. Andrew managed a half-grin. Only Jeremy could have buggered up beans on toast.

“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.

“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. Gloaming perhaps?”

“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.

“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes

“So…er…uh…”

“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.

“I found you this morning while I was getting the paper. You were at the street corner trying to bash in a postbox. You kept screaming, ‘this bloody thing took my money and won’t give me a Kitkat.’ Sound familiar now?”

“Uh. No.”

“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan. “I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.

“Yeah. We broke it off,” finished Andrew. He watched Jeremy try to chisel the remainder of his beans out of the pot with a lemon zester.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy.

Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You never liked her.”

Jeremy had the pained expression of one determined to make a clean breast of it. “She was an illiterate chav with more piercings than brain cells who thought that the greatest contribution to modern civilization was Heinz’s line of microwavable puddings.”

Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.

“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room.

“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.

“That’s because you need glasses.”

“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”

“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean. “Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot better than Sasha.”

“You’ve never liked any of them, Jer.”

Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”

“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.

“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”

Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.

Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly.

“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.

“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”

“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”

“Torch-what?”

“It’s just a show.”

“On the wireless?”

“No. I keep telling you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a wireless,” he added.

“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.

“She said, ‘How in the hell after all this time can you come out and say such utter plonk? Telling me you were seeing another girl woulda been more honest than this rubbish about bein’ a vampire hunter!’”

“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”

“Eh?”

“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”

“ Yeah. One of those. I’ll admit it’s a first. Usually they call an ambulance and I’m under surveillance for a few days.”

“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”

“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”

“On the contrary— you don’t look young enough to be my son anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.

“Brother?”

“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.

“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.

Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”

“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.

“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”

Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere.

“Er… so how much money did I shove into that postbox?”

The New Guy

2011-06-24T13:02:00.001-04:00

(A Frique & Fragg Story)

By MONICA MARIER

“You want a what?” asked Frique.

“A mind-control device. Your budget is two-thousand dollars.” said Schmitz.

“Two thousand? That won’t even buy the parts and solder!” moaned Fragg.

“Excuse me,” piped up Dr. Twain, the new guy. Frique and Fragg exchanged glances of mutual bemusement.

“What is it, Dr. Twain?” asked Schmitz.

“What would you want a mind-control device for? The only application I could think of would be to make people do whatever you want.” Twain laughed out-loud— the laugh of a man standing over a precipice. “But (heh-heh) that’s would be ridiculously unethical! (ho-ho) Right? You wouldn’t do that. (ah-hah....ha...)”Twain’s laughter died in the dead silence caused by three people staring at him, dumbfounded.

Even in the limited light casting a shadow over Schmitz’s features, it was evident that his brow was furrowed in disbelief. He looked at Frique and Fragg who just shrugged.

“Just where did they dig you up?” Schmitz asked Twain.

Twain shifted nervously. “I transferred from a company that makes talking robot vacuum-cleaners.”

Schmitz turned to Frique and Fragg, choosing to ignore Twain. “So how soon can you have it ready?”

“Probably a wee—” began Fragg before Frique elbowed him in the solar plexus.

“A month,” Frique said with a dead-pan expression as Fragg wheezed behind him.

“You have five days,” said Schmitz icily.

Frique glared at Fragg who was now puffing on a Ventolin inhaler.

“Now get lost, I’m busy,” grumbled Schmitz. He pushed a button on his desk and the previously dead-locked doors unlocked and swung outwards.

“I’m sorry,” began Twain, frowning, “but I can’t be a part—”

As a single unit, Frique and Fragg clapped hands over Twain’s mouth and forcibly dragged him from Schmitz’s office. Everyone in SchmitzCo knew that when Schmitz let you leave his presence intact, you didn’t stand around yakking.

As soon as they were in the safety of the R&D dept. again the two veteran scientists turned on the rookie. There was a fair amount of malice involved since it was evident that Twain was not a typical sweaty pimply basement-lurker like most scientists. He had wavy hair that was shiny and neat. He had it pulled back in a pointy-tail like Frique’s, but while Frique’s just made him look like a douche-bag, on Thomas Twain it looked bohemian and macho. He probably used conditioner.

He also suffered from perfect posture, a strong chin, white teeth, good breath and a goatee that was short and well-kempt. Clearly Twain wasn’t going to fit in.

“Alright, noob,” sneered Frique poking Twain’s chest (which was as high as he could reach). “You have a couple of things to learn about SchmitzCo.”

Twain listened dutifully, eager to learn, which irritated Frique even more.

“Now it seems to me that you’ve got something very bad for this business called a ‘moral compass’,” Frique continued.

“Of course I have a moral compass!” snapped Twain getting riled.

“Yeah, in this job, that’s something you should have left in your car before you walked in,” said Fragg mildly. He was less confrontational than his cohort.

“I commute by train,” mumbled Twain.

“Uh, yeah,” said Frique, unamused. “Which brings me to another of your faults. Is it possible for you to think something that you DON’T say aloud? Or is your brain simply hard-wired to your mouth?”

“I dunno,” said Twain coldly. “I’m thinking some pretty strong things right now that I’m not saying.”

“Hey, he’s learning!” said Good-cop Fragg.

“I just believe in being honest,” said Twain. He was getting flustered and his voice was losing that caramel-coated tone it usually held.

“Honest?” asked Fragg looking questioningly at Frique.

“Never heard of it,” said Frique shrugging. “It sounded to me like you were being a blunt asshole.”

“I was being truthful!” said Twain. A crimson flush was spreading over his cheeks.

“Same thing,” said Fragg. “You could use a little training in diplomacy.”

“How can I be diplomatic about mind control? It goes against everything I believe in!” shouted Twain, rubbing his temples.

“You want to know how?” asked Frique in a sardonically sweet voice. “It’s like this. Schmitz says, ‘make me a mind-control device’ and you say, ‘okeydokey!’”

"Over my dead body," hissed Twain.

"Whatever floats your boat, Skippy," Frique muttered before stomping off and shouting, “Elliot, where did you put those notebooks?”

“They’re in the storage vault,” answered Frique. He was about to join him when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Brushing the white hair out of his burgundy-colored eyes, he turned to look at Twain’s pleading face.

“Fragg, you seem to be a different sort of man than Frique,” Twain said in a half-whisper. “How can you honestly put aside all your ethics like this?”

Fragg looked at the Twain’s wavering blue eyes. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t’ understand what the job did to you over time. He’d learn. The kid was only a few years younger than him but Elliot Fragg was a world away from Dr. Thomas Twain — separated by a gulf that spanned more than years.

“It’s a paycheck, Twain, nothing more. We’re not out to save the world or anything.”

“Yeah, but destroying the world?” insisted Twain.

“That’s all about perspective,” said Fragg, shrugging.

“Hey Fragg!” called Frique from the Bunsen burner station. “Was that Lucite ball by the test-tubes a liquid-oxygen hamster-ball or that deadly neurotoxin we were working on?”

“I dunno. Why?”

“Cause I just dropped it.”

“I guess we’ll find out in a minute then,” said Fragg stoically.

Twain looked around at the room as the three of them held their breaths and reflected on their lives. His mind was beginning to unhinge as he watched Frique’s and Fragg’s faces start to go blue.

His last thought before passing out was, No wonder they don’t care anymore. Morals require fear of something. And these two aren’t afraid of anything. Not death, not retribution, not anything… They have nothing to lose.

Twain was wrong of course. The secret wasn’t a lack of fear. It was about locking it up until you went insane.

Free Tuxedo

2011-06-03T11:28:00.001-04:00

By Monica Marier

This is based off a comic I started in 1999. It was called "Tomorrow the World" and was basically chronicling the personal lives of employees working for a Bond-ian villain with aspirations of global domination. I put the comic on the back-burner for now, but I plan to pick it up again later. (MUCH later.)

Stone Fox, AKA Jonny Fawkes, secret agent, pulled the diving mask off and climbed out of the shark tank. Floating in the tank were the mutilated remains of the two henchmen who had tried to jump him, and the sated sharks were docilely sleeping off their heavy dinner.

Fox kicked aside the fins and oxygen tank as he unzipped his diving suit to reveal his flawless tuxedo. Shaking the water droplets out of his luxurious hair, he looked around the secret underwater lair. On a platform was a large computer console — a jungle of screens, dials, and keyboards. And at the centerpiece, the computer mainframe… was a beat up DELL with a cracked screen. The screensaver was cycling through pictures of Christina Hendricks in provocative poses.

Stone Fox rolled his eyes as he logged in (using the password he’d gotten in his fortune cookie) and accessed Agent W’s desktop. He dragged the folder from the Dell to W’s drop box and watched the progress bar count down.

28% completed.

“I was wondering when you would arrive, Stone Fox,” came a sonorous voice from the far corner of the lair.

Drawing his Walther PPK from his tailcoat, Fox spun around to face... THE SCHMITZ.

The Schmitz stepped into the light, flanked by his two right-hand men, Erik Sigurd and Osamu Hidekei. Schmitz was trimly dressed in a caramel-colored jacket with a mandarin collar, his face still carefully in shadow. He wasn’t stroking a white Persian cat, but that was simply due to allergies.

“You’re finished Schmitz,” said Fox, eying the beat-up laptop — 41% completed. “We’ve got all the evidence and schematics we need to shut you down!”

56% Completed.

“However did you get past the whirling knives?” asked Schmitz, impressed.

“You should have gone with Ginsu, Schmitz. I found the knives to be rather… dull,” Fox quipped.

62% Completed.

“And the laser net?” asked Schmitz.

“I discovered the pattern immediately,” bragged Fox. “Nothing like a little hopscotch game.”

76% completed.

Schmitz nodded . “And poor Gregory. He couldn’t stop you?”

“Gregory? I found him rather ‘armless,” quipped Fox.

84% completed.

Shmitz and Fox stood in mutual silence.

92% completed.

“Sigurd? Hidekei?” said Schmitz. His two male-model cronies stepped forward.

“Sir?” they said in unison.

99% completed.

“Shoot,” said Schmitz.

Both men raised their glocks and fired. Sigurd hit Fox in the head. Hidekei shot the Dell.

The last thing Fox said as the world went red was, “That’s… cheating….”

***

“DUDE! I found another one!” shouted August. He yanked open the gym locker as far as he could. His quarter jangled in the key-slot. Keeping the spring-loaded door ajar with his shoulder, August reached in and pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in shrink wrap.

“Another tuxedo?” asked Rosario (called Zari).

“Yeah! This is like the third one, Zari!” shouted August, trying to peel off the sticky tape seal.

“Where do they all come from?” asked Zari peering in the locker with suspicion. It was like every other locker in the Employee Fitness Center. It was just a coin-operated metal locker with razor-sharp corners. No secret panels, no gateways to Narnia, just petrified gum and an old Band-Aid.

“Maybe some guy keeps leaving his dry cleaning in here,” suggested Zari.

“Then why is the key back in the lock?” asked August. He was now trying to bite through the cellophane.

“Maybe he didn’t want it anymore,” said Zari.

“Hope not, cause this is mine,” said August finally freeing the clothing from the bag and shaking it out “Ooh! Armani! Ver’ nice!” It smelled freshly laundered and the rich fabric shimmered under the florescent lighting. He examined the tag on the trousers.

“Aw MAN! 32 waistband,” he moaned.

“I wonder who it belonged to,” mused Zari.

“Whoever he was, he didn’t eat Lil’ Debbie’s Oatmeal Cream Pies for breakfast every day,” sighed August.

“Like you?”

“Well crap, I’m never going to find a 36.” sighed August. “You want it?”

“I’m a 34,” said Zari. “You can at least keep the jacket.”

“What the hell am I gonna do with a jacket and no pants?” said August in annoyance.

“You could wear a kilt with it.”

“A KILT?”

“Yeah, like Sean Connery.”

August snorted. “My family’s Dutch/German. We don’t do kilts. Well I already paid my quarter for this locker, so let’s cram our stuff in and hit the pool.”

August shoved his spare clothes into tight space and tried to cram his shoes in the upper shelf with no luck. “There’s something up there.”

Zari stood on a bench to peer in. “Oh, I see what’s doing that,” he said reaching in. “This was in the way.”

August glanced up as Zari pulled out something off-white and round. Zari proffered it to August to examine.

It was a human skull.

“Oh. That explains it,” said August nodding. “Is it clear now?” he asked, indicating the upper shelf.

“No, there’s a bunch of other bones. Femurs and junk.”

August sighed in frustration. “Forget it. I’m not cleaning all that crap out.” He tossed his shoes in and slammed the locker door shut before they tumbled out. Wrenching out the key, he shoved the elastic band over his bulky wrist.

“Come on,” said Zari. “We’re wasting valuable pool time.”

“That reminds me. Did you finish collating those mailing fliers for Monday?” asked August.

“I’ll do it Monday morning,” grumbled Zari.

“You better. Riggs will have my ass if they don’t go out before the new insurance packages take effect.”

“Aw come ON! Like SchmitzCo really hinges on the insurance benefits briefings.”

“I dunno. This company has a LOT of employees. We’re going global next week.”

“Big deal,” said Zari. “Do you even know what the hell this company does?”

August pondered this for a moment. “Bonds?” he looked at Zari questioningly.

Zari only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I dunno either.”

August shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, it probably has nothing to do with two cubicle monkeys like us.”

“Yeah. Remind me to steal some more pens when we get back on Monday.”

“Will do — Hey, Erik! Hey, Ossy!” August waved to Hidekei and Sigurd as they came in from the lobby, gym bags on their shoulders.

“Hey,” said Erik with a slight smile.

“Sup!” said Ossy, grinning.

August and Zari walked across the slick tiles to the pool.

“I like them. They’re so nice,” said August in admiration.
He tossed the skull in the wastebasket.

Bedtime for Bedlam

2011-05-26T16:54:00.002-04:00

This is based off an ACTUAL book my daughter has. It features a dog prominently in the story but there is neither name nor even mention of said dog in the narrative. It's driven me to distraction why that's the case. It's Chekov's dog, I guess.

Linus sat on the edge of Fia’s bed and enjoyed the momentary peace of it all. His young daughter was freshly laundered and smelling of soap with lavender, she was in a clean nightgown and sitting calmly under the worn quilt on her trundle bed. They’d mumbled through a quick prayer together in mutual uncertainty and he’d tucked her in.

It was now story time.

“What would you like to read?” he asked Fia.

“I want that new book that Aunt Rumia bought me,” chirped Fia

“Alright then,” said Linus picking up the new book. Like all the others it was printed on coarse linen and bound with worsted. Unlike the others, the pages on this were free of food stains, handprints and bodily fluids, the pictures were clear and crisp, and the pages could actually bend.

“The Princess and the Glass Mountain,” he began in his strong baritone. “Princess Beatrice lived in a castle with her Mother and Father, the King and Queen of Ashburn.”

“I can’t see the pictures,” said Fia pulling his arm closer.

“Here,” said Linus showing Fia a picture of a lithe little girl with the typical blonde hair and blue eyes that all princesses had. Fia nodded in approval. This one even had a pointy hat with a scarf on it.

“One day, she was playing in the castle courtyard when she slipped and dropped her crown,” Linus read.

Fia was gazing in rapt attention at the vivid picture when she stabbed the page with her chubby finger.

“She’s playing with the dog,” observed Fia, interrupting her father.

“That’s right,” nodded Linus. “When she slipped and dropped-"

“What’s the dog’s name?” asked Fia.

Linus was nonplussed. “Why’s the dog important? “ he mumbled. “I don’t know, Fia.”

Fia frowned. This answer was CLEARLY not good enough. “What’s the story say about the dog?” she asked.

Linus sighed and glanced at the page. “It doesn’t say,” he said.

“It must say!” insisted Fia.

Linus grunted and scanned the rest of the book. There was a jade needle, three faeries, a swineherd, an old hungry man in the forest, a handsome prince, and a talking badger… but no mention of the mystery canine or what its name might be.

“It really doesn’t say. Can we get a move on?” asked Linus. Fia scowled but nodded acquiescence and Linus continued the narrative when there on the next page was the dog again.

“THERE!” cried Fia. “The dog again! It MUST say what his name is! Check it!”

Linus groaned. It was going to be one of THOSE nights. “It doesn’t say, Fia.”

“Why not?” demanded Fia.

“I don’t know,” groaned Linus, rather sore at the Dunray Kiddie-Rag Publishing Company. Why would ANY children’s book put a dog in the story without mentioning it or naming it? Didn’t they realize that parents had things to DO at night?

“Can’t we just forget the dog and go on with the story?” he pleaded.

Fia glared at him and pursed her lips in a perfect imitation of her mother.

“There’s a talking badger,” he coaxed.

It didn’t work.

“Fine. Fia, why don’t you name the dog?”

Fia thought for a moment, “The dog’s name is Ruff,” she said.

“Jolly good. Let’s back up a bit and get on with it, One day, she was playing in the castle courtyard—”

“With Ruff,” interjected Fia.

“—with Ruff— when she slipped and dropped her crown. The crown was horribly bent by a stone and Princess Beatrice,”

“Was he her dog?” asked Fia.

“What?” Asked Linus.

“Ruff. Was he Princess Beatrice’s dog?”

Linus swallowed a loud curse. “What do you think, Fia?” he asked, his 'gentle voice' fraying at the edges a little.

“I don’t think he’s the princess’s dog because she didn’t know his name,” said Fia after a gargantuan pause.

“Ther you are then,” snapped Linus before reading again. “The crown was horribly bent by a stone and Princess Beatrice—“

“Who did he belong to?” asked Fia.

“And Princess Beatrice was very upset. She cried by a duck pond until a friendly duck hopped out of the water and shook the water out of its feathers,” Linus read, ignoring her.

“Daddy?”

“’Why are you crying princess?’ asked the Duck.”

“Daddy?”

“I’m crying because my crown is bent and I’m afraid to tell King Papa!’ said the—”

“DADDY?”

“said-the-princess-the-duck-quacked-happily-and-said-‘cry-no-more-for” Linus rattled off at a furious pace before Fia shouted, “DAA-DEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“WHAT??” he snarled at her.

Fia only blinked, used to her father’s outbursts. “Who does Ruff belong to?”

“Linus glanced at the page and noticed a non-descript man in the background castle activites. “Him,” he said pointing.

“Who is he?” asked Fia.

“That’s… er… Ted.... Ted the Falconer.”

“Does he live in the Castle?”

“Yes.”

“Where in the castle?” asked Fia.

“Above the East Gate… right above the moat,” said Linus, inventing madly.

“Does Ruff like the moat?” asked Fia.

“Yes. He likes swimming.”

“In the moat?” asked Fia. “Don’t the crocodiles get him?”

“Well this moat isn’t stocked with crocodiles.”

“What’s stocked mean?”

“I mean there aren’t any crocodiles. Only fish.”

“Why?”

“… erm.. Ted and Ruff like to go fishing.”

“It’s the King’s moat, Dad, not his,” said Fia, probing the hole in his logic.

“The King comes too. The Queen makes them a picnic,” said Linus, feeling his brain teeter a little. “Can we get back to the story about Princess Beatrice?”

“No thank you, Daddy. I want to hear about Ted and Ruff and the King going fishing and having a picnic.”

Linus sighed and held his head in his hands.

“How’s about YOU tell the story, and I go to sleep?”

Campus Spirit

2011-05-19T18:39:00.000-04:00

By MONICA MARIER

“You’re a witch?” I asked, goggle-eyed.

Sandy just shrugged and pulled a lock of ash blond hair away from her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said.

It took a while before I could say anything else. One fact kept poking me in the back of the head like a pencil.

“BUT YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!” I blurted out.

Sandy snorted and rolled her eyes. “So? Doesn’t matter.”

“I thought you couldn’t be both,” I insisted. There was something about Sarah Palin the NRA paired with incense and crystals that didn’t mesh.

“Look, you’re born a witch. It’s not a lifestyle choice like who you vote for or what color socks you wear,” she told me.

I shrugged, but I tried to thoroughly examine my roommate without staring.

It still looked like Sandy Parks: a skinny but rather plain-jane physical therapy major, with horsey teeth and freckles. She still had a drawl after moving here from Norfolk VA —not that it mattered. Her genuine snakeskin boots (that had seen better days) and straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway.

She told me that she envied my “striking features” and overflowing EE cup, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Who’d want to be a big fat marshmallow when they were a size 2? You can fix bland features with a little makeup (which Sandy never tried to do) but you can’t fix fat.

And then this happened. We were on the floor, eating Milanos (hers) and watching The Last Unicorn (also her movie on her TV) when we suddenly announced she was a witch.

“Alright prove it,” I said, REALLY hoping she wouldn’t.

“’Kay,” she said. She pointed to a box of Pop Tarts (hers) on the shelf and said, “Cthinos h’yel meh taftut.”

If anyone ELSE had said it without a thick Southern Accent it probably would have sounded really cool.

The box flopped over and remained on its side.

“Pshh. Is that it?” I asked.

“Just wait,” she said and my eyes returned to the box. A rustling sound indicated that something was happening to one of the shiny foil packages. I stared as the rustling got louder and louder until—

“HIT THE DECK!” shouted Sandy suddenly.

Sandy and I ate the carpet as two shapes went whizzing overhead. There was a dull thudding sound as the room shook and I tentatively got up.

“Sorry,” said Sandy looking abashed. She rose and straightened her denim skirt. “I lost control a little.”

“A LITTLE?” I asked looking at the white cold walls.

Sticking out of the cinderblocks, like ninja throwing stars, were two perfectly toasted s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts. I gingerly pulled one out of the wall, after it was cool enough to touch. The icing was now a caramelized brulee, but otherwise intact. How it managed to fly into the rock-hard wall without crumbling and showering us with molten sugar was beyond me. Gingerly I bit off a corner that wasn’t covered in plaster. It tasted fine.

“Cool,” I said warily. “So what else can you do, other than fire ballistic pastries?” I asked.

She winced at my comment and I felt ashamed of myself.

“Sorry. I can’t turn the snark off sometimes,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, I know,” she said shaking her head indulgently. “Well, there’s a reason I told you I’m a witch, now that you ask me.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“I need your help with something.”

“Like what?” I asked, uncertainly. I was worried this was going to get uncomfortable and fast.

“I need you to help me get to a book,” she said.

Oh, thank GOD. She doesn’t want me to do something dumb with colored candles and silver knives, I thought.

“What kind of book. Is it expensive?” I asked.

“It’s priceless,” she said nodding. “It’s kept under lock and key at the library and only certain majors can get access to it.”

I nodded. There were a few of those. Our University was one of the oldest in America, which was really one of our only claims to fame these days apart from a champion ping-pong team.

“So where do I come in?” I asked.

“Well you’re a history major, minoring in archaic lore, right?”

“Yeah…” I said, growing nervous again.

“The book I need to get access to is the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I think MU has a copy of it in the Library.”

“Oh,” I said my stomach sinking. Maybe colored candles wouldn’t have been so bad. “Well, see, that’s going to be tricky. They kind of don’t let any students see that book anymore.”

“But they used to!” she cried.

“Yeah, but every time they did someone went bonkers! I think they were theorizing that the book had lead ink or fungoid spores in it — something that was making people go nuts. It’s sealed up in storage now.”

“Shit,” Sandy cursed a rare thing in itself. “Now what.”

“Well, they sell the English version in the campus bookstore,” I said.

Sandy looked up. “That might work,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “We can try anyway.”

“Well, okay. Let’s go — I could use a latte. What do you want it for any way?”

“Well you know how kids have been attacked on campus at night?” she said slowly.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I think the book might give me some clue as to how to stop it.”

I stopped dead as I strung the two factors together. Kids were getting attacked on Miskatonic campus behind the science buildings and Sandy wanted access to occult literature.

“What… are you saying something …weird is attacking students?”

“Rosemary West, what do you know about the reanimated?” Sandy asked me.

CHICKEN SH*TFACED PART 2 of 2

2011-05-13T16:20:00.000-04:00

By Monica Marier

This is the conclusion of last week’s story, which can be found HERE

A special thanks goes to PJ Kaiser for helping me post this on her blog today in a time of techno-drama.

The night was in full swing when the two men trod shivering through the black soup of darkness. The lantern swung erratically in large arcs casting ghostly fairy lights and demonic shadows across gnarled trees. He and Vilori had followed the tracks as they led with distinct purpose to apple orchard that marked the edge of Uncle Red’s farm.

“Think the chickens got peckish and decided to have a late tea of apples?”

“Chickens don’t eat apples, Vilori,” said Harcourt. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “But I hope for our sakes they’re trying.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause if they haven’t stopped at the orchard, and they’re headed due South… that means that they went into The Terrible Woods.”

“Which terrible woods would that be?” asked Vilori.

“That one! The Terrible Woods! Capital ‘T’—The Terrible Woods.”

“Is that really its name? How unimaginative!” cried Vilori in disgust.

“Yes. It was named by a town of very unimaginative people… WHO KEPT DYIN’ in the woods,” hissed Harcourt.

“What, is it Haunted? Do the ghosts come out at night?” asked Vilori with a snort.

“Ghost nothing! It’s full of dense bracken, sudden drops, peat bogs, wolves, bears, griffons, and dragons, AND poisonous spiders.”

Vilori stopped dead.

“How big are the poisonous spiders?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“They’re poisonous! Does it really matter how big they are?” replied Harcourt.

Vilori nodded. “I concede your point.”

They walked a few more yards in silence, following the razor straight lines of chicken feet and trying not to think of spiders.

“Oh bugger,” sighed Harcourt. The lantern light bounced in his hand, but Vilori plainly saw the chicken tracks leave the soft earth of the orchard and trail into the tall grass bordering it. The grass had been trodden and bent in a tiny thin path no wider than an arm’s length. It led with mathematical precision to the forest. Vilori snatched up the lantern to examine the tracks.

“Well it looks like this wasn’t done by any man, Har,” said Vilori agog. “There’s no signs in the grass that anything bigger than a chicken has gone through here.

“Which means what?”

“Um… the chickens are in on it?” supplied Vilori uncertainly.

“What, like they’re?” asked Harcourt in disgust.

“Well, I don’t know!” mobilzin’ cried Vilori, waving his free arm in exasperation. “What other explanation have we got?

“A spell?” asked Harcourt.

“….yessss,” nodded Vilori nodding his head. “I’ve never heard of chicken magic before.”

“I have,” said Harcourt seriously. “I heard of men in the hot islands that puts paint on their faces and dances around fires and sacrifices chickens. ‘Hoo-doo’ they calls is. Barbaric,” he added.

Vilori sniffed in similar suspicion. “Ah, well that’s foreigners for you. Sacrificin’ all manner of things. As if pidgeons and goats and virgins aren’t good enough.”

“Goats was good enough for me granddad.”

“Indeed. So you think it’s some foreign hoo-doo thingummy stealing chickens with magic?”

Harcourt scratched his sandy chin. “Dunno. It’s better than your idea of mobilizin’ chickens.”

“Yeah, that was stupid, sorry,” sighed Vilori, flushing red.

“S’alright. I know it’s just ‘cause you’re pissed.”

“And how,” mumbled Vilori stifling a belch. “Well, into The Terrible Woods then,” he said tramping through the tall grass for the tree-line.

“You coming?” he asked when he noticed Harcourt lingering behing.

Harcourt nodded. “Yuh. Alright,” he said in a high voice. “Only be careful. The sudden drops in there can break your neck... and the spiders…”

“What do the spiders look like?” asked Vilori warily.

“They look like leaves.”

“Grand.”

***

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“No.”

“Is that a spider?”

“Would you give over already, Vilori!” Harcourt said through clenched teeth. He was trying to keep his voice down, but with Vilori buzzing around him like a gnat it was hard.

“Is that a —”

“SHH!” Harcourt waved at Vilori to shut up. “DO you hear something?”

The men strained their ears for the slightest sound when they both heard it. It was a warbling susurration, like the sound of hundreds of tiny voices having hushed conversations.

“What is that?” asked Vilori.

“It’s chickens! Must be hundreds of em,” said Harcourt advancing slowly. Vilori observed sweat trickling off his friend’s brow in the growing light. “There’s a light up ahead,” he said.

“Someone’s got a fire lit, I reckon.”

“You were right! There’s Hoo-dooing and dancing afoot, no doubt!” hissed Vilori.

“Well the chicken noise is coming from there, so we’ll see.”

“Good. I’m ready to finish up and get to bed,” yawned Vilori. The night was getting colder and a thick mist was starting to rise from the forest floor, undulating in ghostly shapes in front of the lantern. They grew closer to the fire, and unsheathed their swords. Swords could only do so much in the face of magic, but they could generally sever a head from a neck, which was sometimes enough.

Cautiously, they peered over a bramble thicket to see what they were dealing with.

Both men dropped their swords in shock.

“Is that…?”

“It looks like…”

“Dear GODS.”

A large clearing was occupied entirely by chickens.

There wasn’t the slightest sign of human involvement; only avian. They weren’t milling about in typical chicken fashion, but they were evenly spaced in a circle, five deep around a ring of standing stones. Large fires had been lit in key places around the field casting a weird orange glow on the perfectly still birds. In the middle of the ring was a large flat rock lying lengthwise on the ground.

It was currently empty.

“How do chickens light fires?” wondered Harcourt aloud.

“What is this place?” Vilori managed in a terrified voice.

“It’s the faerie ring! It’s older than…than… really old stuff! It probably predates the word ‘old’,” Harcourt stammered, his face ghostly white.

“The chickens aren’t doing anything! They’re just standing there!” squeaked Vilori.

“No, see. They’re all looking outside the ring on the southwest side…. They’re waiting for something!”

“For what?”

As if in answer a loud roar shook the air and made each man cower with his face in the dirt. It sounded like someone trying to saw a bottle in half with cello string.

Vilori and Harcourt gibbered momentarily before rounding up enough sanity to look at what was approaching. Their swords were still on the forest floor, untouched.

A dark shape sillouetted in the firelight descended on the avian crowd. It walked upright like a bird, but there was something distinctly mammalian about it. It had a snout full of cruel teeth despite its coat of feathers, and its feet were definitely paws. It let loose another shriek, similar to a dog’s howl, but there was no mistaking the consonant and resounding “BWARRRRRK!” that shook the tree tops.

Harcourt and Vilori were suddenly more sober than a teacher on Monday.

“It’s a cock-a-doodle,” said Harcourt.

“A what?” asked Vilori.

“Part dog-part rooster. Distant relative of the cockatrice.”

“Cor,” said Vilori. “What’s it got there in its paws?”

Squinting in the gloom the men could make out something round and flat with something lumpy on it. It was clutched awkwardly in the cock-a-doodles forepaws as it approached the flat stone in the middle of the ring. The beast then lay the object in the middle of the stone.

“I don’t like this…” said Harcourt, trembling.

“Why what’s he got?” asked Vilori, trying to make heads or tails of the dim shapes.

“That’s the carcass of the chicken we had for tea tonight,” he said.

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Vilori could indeed see a former chicken picked clean with bits of sage still stuck to its insides. It was even on the willow-ware patterned platter Harcourt’s Aunt had served it on and surrounded by wrinkly cold potatoes.

The cock-a-doodle roared again, and the susurration of idle chickens stopped. Silence blanketed the clearing, and even the crackle of the fires seemed to have stopped.

Then the cock-a-doodle began to utter strange sounds in a low monotone drone. After he began the chickens would answer him, all clucking in perfect unison to a strange rhythm.

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“BWAARK BWARRK BWARRRK”

“Bok-bok bok-bok b-bok bwaark!”

“It looks like…” began Harcourt, afraid to finish.

“It looks like a ritual,” answered Vilori.

Harcourt and he exchanged glances of pure horror, before watching the birds and their master again, helplessly captivated by their own curiosities and the mounting terror of events.

The standing stones began to glow an unearthly green and the light channeled by the outlandish carvings in the stones fed into the oblong stone table where the sad remains of dinner sat. The boks and bwarrks grew louder, faster, more fervent as the light grew brighter. Vilori felt the hairs on his arm stand up and felt his ears block up as an oppressive cloud of energy grew around them. Just as the chickens were so frenzied that they seemed about to break out of their orderly ranks the last of the light flowed into the now-glowing dead chicken. Silence reined again.

The men held their breaths as they stared at the carcass. If birds could hold their breaths, it was very likely the chickens were doing the same. Only the cock-a-doodle seemed cooly confidant.

Then it happened.

It was subtle, but every eye, beady or otherwise, caught it.

One of the naked wings began to twitch.

Harcourt and Vilori didn’t know how they got back to Uncle Red’s farm. To Vilori it was all a blur, and if Harcourt remembered, he wasn’t saying anything. Uncle Red and Aunt Primula took it with the resigned attitude of “boys will be boys,” assuming it all to be a drunk hallucination and were kind enough to never bring it up again. It didn’t seem there was any harm done anyways, since all the chickens were back in their coops the following morning.

Although… and this was the strange thing…

…It seemed there was one extra bird.

Chocolate Covered Bacon: Recipe

2011-05-12T14:08:00.000-04:00

“You got your bacon in my chocolate!”

“You got your chocolate on my bacon!”

Two good things that go great together!

Yeah, I’ll admit I was skeptical too, but as it turns out chocolate-covered bacon is VERY tasty and insanely easy to make if the PTA sends you an email demanding you put your effort towards a home-made treat.

So here’s how you do it:

Ingredients:

*1 package of Good Quality bacon

*1 bar of chocolate of choice

Utilities:

Parchment paper

1 microwave safe bowl

Microwave.

1) Cook the bacon completely. You want it to be on the crispy side but not burnt. Let the bacon cool completely before coating in chocolate. Before you prepare the chocolate, cut the bacon into small 1 inch pieces. Use only the crispy bits and discard the rubbery bits entirely. Those don’t taste so good covered in chocolate.

2) Break the chocolate into little pieces using a knife or a hammer, it doesn’t matter how big or how small as long as they’re uniform. Place in the bowl and microwave it in increments on HI for 10 seconds each. After each time, take the chocolate out and stir it (to prevent burning and that gross white coating when it cools). Do this until the chocolate is melted, but not molten.

3) Using a fork (or your fingers) dip the bacon in the chocolate, making sure to coat it evenly and let the excess chocolate drip off. Then lay it on the parchment paper. Let the bacon cool in the fridge and then eat! It’s that simple!

Some notes on the chocolate: Some stores (in America at least) sell special “candy-making” chocolate buttons that melt easily and can withstand high temperatures. The trouble is, they taste like ASS. My theory is never coat anything in chocolate that you wouldn’t eat on its own. I like Cadbury’s chocolate. I’ve used dark chocolate (which has great coffee-tasting notes that go really well with the bacon) and Fruit & Nut and both are pretty tasty, but use whatever solid chocolate bar most appeals to you.

Extra stuff:

· If you want to get super creative, after dipping your bacon, you can roll it in crushed almonds, cookie crumbs or cocoanut for extra goodness.

· Try flavoring the chocolate with instant coffee crystals or orange or mint extract.

· Melt white chocolate and drizzle it over your COOLED choco-bacon for zebra stripe designs

· Put the bacon on cocktail sticks before dipping to make party snacks. OR use a lollipop mold to make choco-bacon pops

That’s all. Have fun and be careful. A little of this stuff goes a LONG way.

Chicken Sh*tfaced Part 1 of 2

2011-05-05T16:16:00.001-04:00

Vilori Reagan is a character from my 2nd book "Runs In Good Condition." He was such a crusty, rude unlovable character that he quickly became one of my favorites. Oddly enough, I started wondering what his youth had been like (before it all went wrong) and this ZANY story popped into my head.

“What is it?” asked Vilori Reagan in confusion. He scratched one of his pointy ears and smoothed his white-blond hair.

“It’s a chicken ,” said Harcourt in mild disbelief.

“You sure?”

“YES, Vilori! What did you think it was?”

Reagan examined the beady-eyed feather duster in curiosity and (he noted the sharp talons and spurs) some apprehension. “I’ve never seen one before,” he admitted.

“You’ve never seen a CHICKEN?” demanded Harcourt.

“Well not a live one anyways,” mumbled Vilori. “I’ve seen them in the poulterer’s windows and such. As a child I recall having a picture book about a little red hen but…” Vilori trailed off. The picture-book had had such jolly woodcuts in it of a fat flouncy chicken in a bonnet. The mad, twitchy, beasts going “BWARRRK” around him were not of the bonnet-wearing variety.

“I grew up in a mansion, you pillock,” he finished.

“What! Didn’t your family keep chickens on the grounds?”

“Might have done,” said Vilori looking around. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been let out much in his youth. Having only just reached the tender age of 30, the immortal Elf hadn’t much been exposed to common things like boot-blacking, burlap, and scary flappy feathery things that went “BWARRK.”

“You’re such a nancy,” sighed Harcourt, fingering the hilt on his short-sword.

“So why are we looking at chickens?” asked Vilori in disgust. “What did your uncle want done?”

Harcourt eyed his friend nervously. “He… er… wanted us to find out why the chickens were disappearing at night.”

Vilori made a noise of utter annoyance. “But we’re bloody RANGERS, Harcourt! We’re not farmhands!”

“He’s family!” moaned Harcourt. “I told you we were doing it as a personal favor!”

“Yes, but CHICKENS?” moaned Vilori. “If his farm was being overrun by wild bears, I might concede his point, but disappearing chickens! What he wants is a good fox trap.”

“We know it weren’t a fox. There’s no paw prints, no blood, no feathers, just a lack of chickens!”

“So, poachers?” asked Reagan sounding mollified. This was more like it.

“Dunno,” said Harcourt. “Haven’t been any strange boot prints.”

“Maybe it was Elves,” said Reagan darkly. “I’ve known a fair few that could walk without leaving a trail. And speaking of boots, I wish you’d told me to wear proper footwear. My slippers are all covered in mud.”

Harcourt looked down at the silk slippers on Reagan’s feet and shook his head. He decided that now was not the ideal time to mention that it was not entirely mud. “Eeeeyah. So anyways, come nightfall, Uncle Red wants us to keep watch.”

“So are these all new chickens?” asked Vilori.

“No.”

“Seems your Uncle has quite a lot of chickens despite the burglaries.”

“Well, that’s the strange part, you ken…” began Harcourt scratching his sandy head. “…they all come back.”

“What do?” asked Vilori in confusion.

“Most of these chickens were gone for three days… but just this Tuesday… they all come back.”

“Really? What do the farmhands have to say?”

“They don’t want to talk about it.”

Harcourt scratched his arm absently, his surplus of muscles bulging under his linen shirt as he did so. Vilori wished for a moment that he’d been blessed with a powerful farmer’s physique rather than the build of a female ballet dancer. It certainly didn’t earn him any respect in the Northern farmlands of Buncham.

“What do you think it means?” asked Vilori.

“I dunno. Something has the farmers around here worried”

“Then why aren’t they out in a bloody chicken pen at night?”

“They did that last Monday-week. The next day, young Alistair went missin’. Now they want Rangers.”

“Rangers? I’m beginning to think that what they want is a wizard.”

“Well you know how farmers feel about magic.”

Reagan nodded. Farmers were down to earth people that knew better than anyone the trick to patience, determination and blind optimism. The idea of waving a wand to fix your problem was an insult to the farmer’s own special brand of country magic.

“Best get comfortable then” said Harcourt, shooing some chickens off a pile of sacking and sitting down. Vilori made a face at the none-too-clean seat and gingerly sat on it so that as little of his expensive clothes touched it as possible.

Hours passed.

Night fell and a few stars winked in the overcast night. A thin sliver of moon garnished the navy-blue cocktail of night which made Vilori look wistfully down the road to the pub.

“Do we get a dinner break?” he asked mildly still looking at the far away windows glowing yellow.

“I suppose we could in an hour,” said Harcourt who had begun staring with him. After all, it’s not like we’re expected to go without for 12 hours.

“Right,” agreed Vilori.

“And this way we won’t wake any of the house,” said Harcourt, pointing to the black windows of his uncle’s farmhouse.

“Right.”

The two men sat in silence a while.

“I mean it’s not like were even getting paid by my uncle,” added Harcourt.

“Uh-huh,”

A few soft “bwucks” were the only sound as they two men anxiously watched Harcourt’s pocket watch.

“Nice night,” observed Vilori looking about at the monochrome landscape.

“Very mild, yes,” said Harcourt.

…

“If memory serves, the pub does ploughman’s pie on Thursday nights,” said Harcourt.

“With those little round onions?” asked Vilori

“Yuh.”

Both men silently contemplated the virtues of tiny crunchy onions.

“Right! Best take our break now so we can concentrate on chicken-watching later, eh?” said Harcourt rising to his feet.

“Good plan,” agreed Vilori.

The two men, being very quiet so as not to disturb the household or the chickens padded softly off the farmlands and (when they were out of earshot) legged it down the road to the sign of the Fiddler’s Riddle.

A one hour break turned into a two hour long rest which turned into a “lemme buy yus jus’ wummore round,” and finally became a “we shu’ definly (hic) definly be getting’ back, we should. When the landlord shoved the two men out the door so he could finally get to bed, Harcourt and Vilori stumbled back to Uncle Red’s chickens.

“Shhhhh!” hissed Harcourt in a voice that would have woken stone.

“Whazzut?” shouted Vilori.

“SHHHHHHHH!” hissed Harcourt in a louder hiss, spraying his friend liberally in the process.

“I fink you’re deflating,” slurred Vilori. “I hear an air leak somewhere.”

“So we should ge’ back to the chickens,” mumbled Harcourt.

“Your uncles gon’ go spare,” mumbled Vilori.

“Nahhh nahh…. Nah… nah nah nah… nah…” said Harcourt shaking his head in intervals. “I mean, YES, but he’s not going to find out!!”

“Oh,” said Vilori flopping onto the sackcloth where he sat for a while, letting his organs sift through the hefty amount of toxins he’d just dumped in ‘em.

After an hour of silent processing a thought occurred to a slightly more sober Vilori.

“Harcourt?”

“Mm?”

“Have you noticed something?”

“What’s that?”

“That suddenly there’s a distinct lack of chickens on this chicken farm?”

Jumping to his feet (and managing to find them on the second attempt) Harcourt blearily stumbled around the yard looking into the coops. They were, to the last bird, EMPTY. Blood and alcohol drained from Harcourt’s face.

“Oh bugger,” he gasped.

“Harcourt?” called Vilori.

“Yuh?”

“How organized are chickens?”

Harcourt pondered this for a moment, “The HELL do you mean, how organized’re chickens?”

“Well some birds travel in “V” formations, right”

“Yeah, well that’s PROPER birds, innit? Not bleedin’chickens.”

“So most chickens don’t walk in single file, do they?”

“No!” shouted Harcourt until Vilori’s question probed at him. “WHY?”

“Because these chickens did,” said Vilori pointing to a thin chain of chicken tracks leading out of the yard in a PERFECTLY straight line.

READ THE CONCLUSION HERE!

1 YEAR FLASHIVERSARY!

2011-04-28T10:17:00.000-04:00

I was introduced to twitter roughly over a year ago, and after a month or so, Tony Noland introduced me to the concept of Friday Flash. This is my first Flash Posted on April 30th 2010. It never made it in the collector, in fact I didn't know there was such a thing, but it started me on the road.

My attendance record hasn't been perfect, nor has my grammer or spelling, but I think I've improved a lot as a writer since then. Thanks to everyone in the FF cominuty, especially JMStro and Tony. It's been such a great year to discover myself as a writer.

An Infestation:

(Thanks to Sabrina for the idea)

“So, er. What do you know about mice, Kitty?” asked Marie.
“You got a mouse problem?” asked Kitty.
“I’m not sure.”

They were seated at Marie’s kitchen with a plate of snickerdoodles between them. Kitty had already eaten three and was resisting a fourth one as she nursed her coffee. She had just recounted a horrifying story involving bedbugs. Now it was Marie’s turn.

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” asked Kitty. “Have you seen one?”
“No. But they’ve been getting into things, nibbling at boxes and leaving pellets,” said Marie.
Kitty looked down at her coffee, mildly disgusted.
“We’ve kept our food sealed since then,” said Marie. “And the problem is mostly solved, but we can’t seem to keep whatever it is out.”
“Did you put down sticky paper?”
“We’ve tried mouse traps, sticky paper, we even called an exterminator. Nothing’s worked! Now I’m starting to think it’s all in my head.”
“If you’re seeing poo-pellets, it’s rarely in your head,” said Kitty. “Mind if I take a look, Marie?”
“Sure.”

Marie gave Kitty a grateful smile and led her to the cramped kitchen. Kitty had only seen it a few times before. She remembered there being an untidy heap of boxes, breadbags, condiments, and coffee filters. Now it looked like an operating table. It was clean and smelled of Clorox; everything was in plastic airtight bins or put away.

“Looks really clean,” said Kitty.
“Yeah, nothing makes you obsessive compulsive like vermin,” said Marie with a shudder. She reached for one of the drawers and pulled it open.
“Uh-huh. Here we go,” she said, pointing inside. “See?”

Kitty braced herself and took a look. In the corner were little black specks that looked like toaster crumbs.
“Are they mostly in the drawers?” she asked.
“Sort of,” answered Marie. “We get a lot near the oven.”
“You ever cleaned under it?”
“Hardly. We can’t move the thing. I doubt it’s ever been cleaned under. I’m pretty sure the realtor stuck us with this infestation. That’s prob’ly why our mortgage was so cheap — that and the murder rate around here,” Marie added bitterly.

Kitty, on a whim dropped to her knees and took a look under the cabinets. In the corner were two empty mousetraps, their springs tripped.
“So the bait’s gone but no victims, eh?”
“Yep. We’ve used cheese, coffee beans, we even did a line of borax–nothing. Found a lot more dead roaches though.”
“Boy, and people wonder why I live in an apartment,” sighed Kitty. “Free pest control.” She pressed her head to the freshly-scrubbed tile floor and tried to peek under the oven.
“You got a flashlight?” she asked.
“There’s one on my key-ring,” said Marie. She ran to go get it.
“I think I know what this is,” Kitty said to herself.
“Here’s the flashlight,” said Marie, returning. “You sure you want to look?” she asked, her body tense with anxiety.
“Just checking something,” mumbled Kitty. She shined the light under the huge range. Amidst the petrified debris and scum there was a flash of beady eyes and the skitter of small feet padding on the floor.

“Uh-huh,” said Kitty, fighting back a wave of nausea. “I know how to handle these.”
“Is it mice?”
“Nope,” answered Kitty solemnly.
“RATS?” cried Marie, her voice jumping up an octave.
“Nope. You got a drum of salt?”
Marie fumbled in the cabinet and brought out a box of coarse grain kosher salt.
“Will this work?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Kitty. She opened the box and started pouring the salt out on the floor.
“What are you doing?!” cried Marie, sounding annoyed.
“Trust me,” said Kitty. Very carefully she poured the salt in a lumpy line that ran the perimeter of the kitchen. She made sure that it was touching the baseboards and every corner. If the salt flow slowed, Kitty smoothed out the salt with her finger ensuring the line was unbroken. The last of the salt, she poured around the oven.
“Is that going to work?” asked Marie looking thoroughly mystified.
“It should, just make sure the line isn’t broken. Now, here,” she said shaking the last bits of salt from the box into her white hand. “Throw a pinch over your shoulder.”

“What?” asked Marie in bemusement. “That old wives tale to keep demons away? This is hardly spilling salt, Kitty. You’ve dumped an entire box on the floor on purpose.” There was a sting in here voice as she thought of the $7 worth of salt now ruined.
“Humor me,” said Kitty, tossing the salt over her shoulder.
“Oh fine,” sighed Marie. “It’s not like this much salt is worth saving.” She tossed her salt away and sagged a little.
“It looks nuts, I know, but trust me,” said Kitty, giving her friend’s hand a comforting squeeze.
“Alright. Nothing else has worked so why not this?” said Marie. “Can I tell Jason this was your idea?”
“Sure. I got to run now — I have to get Daniel from Speech.”
“Okay,” sighed Marie. “Hey, how long do I have to leave this salt on the floor?”
“I’d leave it untouched for a while,” said Kitty warningly. “Bye!”

Marie was still standing frozen in the kitchen when she heard the door click shut and Kitty starting up her van. She ran a hand over her eyes and went to the living room.

“Hey Mommy!” cried Van, her four-year-old.
“Yeah, honey?”
“Look what Ginger-Cat brought in!”
Marie groaned as she steeled herself to wrestle another dead chipmunk from that stupid cat.
“Okay, Ginger, give it to Mommy,” she said.
Ginger lay his present down on the foyer floor. It looked like a little lizard at first. It was dark red, shriveled and obviously dead. In morbid curiosity, Marie leaned forward, paper towel in hand, to get a better look and suddenly recoiled in horror.

It was a little man with a long tail and horns on its head.

ABOUT TIME

2011-04-21T18:51:00.005-04:00

by Monica Marier
A FRIQUE & FRAGG STORY

Jenny Deadshot, strode into the lobby of SNIDE (Supernatural & Necronomic Investigation - Department of Enquiry) Headquarters. Her muddy boots clomped on the spotless terrazzo as the sound system played “Theme From a Summer Place.”

“Good morning, Jenny!” said Ferula from behind the front desk. The cheery receptionist’s grin died on her face as she saw Jenny’s dark, dirt-covered, expression. Jenny looked as if she’d just ridden a bomb into a construction site. Her leather catsuit was torn in places, with random nonspecific buckles dangling from their straps. She was covered in (hopefully) mud and smoking in places — various gadgets like her navi-specs or her holo-watch cracked and melted.

“I need a pass for R & D,” Jenny said to Ferula through clenched teeth.

“Um, I need to clear that with Harrison,” began Ferula in a mousey whisper.
She was interrupted by Jenny’s hands slamming onto the desk. “NOW,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I’ll say it was an emergency,” said Ferula hurriedly before giving Jenny a Class A clearance card and hitting the lock-release for the Tech Wing. The brushed metal doors opened with a sinus-rattling buzz and Jenny stormed through.

She came upon the R &D Dept. and slipped silently inside. She needn’t have bothered. Loud music was bouncing off the metal walls and reverberating through the jungle of glass and polymer lab equipment. Two men in their early thirties were jumping around to the music while spinning around in their office chairs. They were on their lunch break and the table was cluttered with soda cans, wrappers and Ziploc bags. The duo munched and nodded in time to the music.

The little red-head was built like a small irritated badger; short, stalky and with enough compressed rage to level a city block. The other one, the albino, was tall and atrociously skinny, which made him look like a stretched thirteen-year-old, who’d suddenly grown a foot overnight. Both wore glasses, and had long unkempt hair, and both wore white labcoats as a symbol of their dominance over their fellow men. As the chorus to the song started, they sang in unison with their mouths full, trying to mimick the singer’s accent… badly.

“AND-UH I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES,
AND-UH I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MORE!”

When the chorus was over, they took turns on the rhythmic singing.

“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”

…and then joined together on the “dum-da-da-rum-dums.”

Jenny decided she’d had enough. She raised her glock and emptied a clip into the music dock.

“HEY!” cried the redhead in horror. “My boombox!”

The next thing he felt was the barrel of a very warm gun being pressed against his temple.

“Lucas Frique, I am going to f---ing kill you,” said Jenny.

Frique’s face only spread into a wide malicious grin. “Pleasant journey, Ms. Deadshot?”

“NO! And I have you to thank for that!” snapped Jenny.

“I told you the inter-temporal module still was experimental,” said Frique calmly, taking another bite of his Italian sub. He carefully spun around in his chair until he was facing the livid Jenny. The grin on his boyish face would have made Ghandi open fire and the gun, still aimed at Frique’s head, shook in Jenny’s hand.

“I did warn you,” he said thickly through a wad of salami.

“Your exact words were ‘it might be a little buggy,’ Frique. DOES THIS LOOK ‘A LITTLE BUGGY’ TO YOU??” Jenny shrieked, pulling out a plastic Safeway bag and dumping charred bits of wire and circuitry onto Frique’s sandwich wrapper.

Frique eyed the scientific barbeque in mild disgust. “No, it looks like a waste of four months research to me,” he sniffed.

“YOU! DON’T MOVE!” said Jenny raising her Gun to point it at Elliot Fragg, who was trying to sneak away unnoticed.

“I’m just getting a broom,” whispered Fragg. He meekly pointed to the long line of muddy footprints that Jenny had left. Jenny’s gun arm relaxed long enough for Frique to pry it away from her. He was good at it by now.

"You’re not gonna kill us, it’s against company policy, so quit with the drama already,” he said. “Look, I told your people that time-travel isn’t easy as pie.”

“And pie isn’t easy! You ever try making one? It’s freaking hard!” added Fragg as he returned with the dustpan.

“Thank you, Barefoot Contessa,” said Frique rolling his eyes. “Time travel’s even harder than that. I mean there isn’t even sound scientific theorem for it. S’like trying to build a parachute while you’re falling from an airplane.”

“Or making a pie while you’re falling out —” Fragg chimed in again, not one to be deterred from a good metaphor.

“Would you quit with the pie thing already?!” Frique snapped at Fragg before tunrning again to Jenny. “So what happened? Did your circuits overheat? Temporal flux damage? Schroedinger’s Road Rash?”

“How about complete and utter system failure?”

“Woah. That sucks,” said Frique raising an eyebrow (which was the Lucas Frique equivalent of brushing away a sympathetic tear).

“How long were you stuck for?” asked Fragg looking properly horrified.

“Twenty… four… YEARS.” Jenny’s glare of death honed in on Frique who was suddenly unsure whether or not it was in his best interest to run.

“You ever tried WALKING HOME from 1799?" she said. "I’ve endured twenty-four years of time-jumping through the past and the future, hoping to stumble upon 2011!”

“But you only left on Tuesday!” said Fragg.

“Time travel, dingus!” snapped Frique.

“Ohhhh, right,” said Fragg shaking his head in annoyance.

There was a long awkward pause as Frique eyed the furious woman in front of him. Normally he got off on witnessing this kind of rage, but there was something about Jenny that made him want to shield his face. His hands instead were gripping the arms of his chair with white knuckles.

“Well you look great for Forty-eight, Jenny!” he said eventually, and then realized it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’M NOT THE JENNY YOU SENT BACK!” shouted Jenny, snatching up the glock again and aiming it at Frique. “The Jenny you sent back died in 2370 AD. I’M HER DAUGHTER!”

“Oh crud-monkeys,” said Frique.

"What's With All the Old Guys?"

2011-04-20T10:07:00.001-04:00

Reposted

Okay, the million-dollar question that I've been asked by more than a few of you, "Why do your comics/novels all feature middle-aged men? What's with all the old guys?" It's true. They may not always be main characters, but they are always prominent. Gilbert for "Knights of Leviathans" (no longer running), Dunstan and Avi in "Skeleton Crew", and Linus Weedwhacker in my "CRIT!" and "Must Love Dragons" series. All have similar traits; they are all men in their mid-fifties,and although drastically different in temperament, they all have to relate to masses of younger people. Usually they are reluctant to do so.

I've had people guess at every reason for this. I've heard, teacher-pet complex, to mature bread-winner complex, to freudian father complex. None of these are exactly true because... beacause shut-up, that's why. *sigh*

Here's why (as best as I can figure)

First of all, I just like writing for them. I found our long ago that, contrary to what movies/telly would have us believe, not every person worth watching and reading about is twenty-five years old. In fact it was downright depressing that all the cool things in the world happened to beautiful people just out of college or highschool. Even the adults who are past the "ripe old age" of 28 still LOOK like they're 28 (Brad Pitt anyone?)

Old Guys as Everymen: "Hey Monica, who wants to watch some OLD GUY do stuff?"

Personally, I love the rugged older male lead. Honestly, who doesn't have a soft spot for Indiana Jones, and John McLane, and Aragorn? Would they be half as much interesting if they were flawless young men? I think not. They have all aged WELL, lets not kid ourselves, but they still have grey hairs, and forehead lines and slightly doughy mid-sections. That makes them real. We have a character, who because he's real and not a perfect specimen, that we can relate to and root for. He's not an invincible youngster who can dodge bullets, and fly through the air, he's a harried underdog who makes mistakes and can never seem to catch a break. We want him to win, because it always feels like him against the world. I think everyone can identify with that.

Old Guys as Mentors: "Hey Monica, if you like old guys so much, why do you stick 'em with a bunch of kids?"

Good question. You ever hear of "Sam the Explainer?" It's an archetype that's used a lot in books and movies. He's your exposition guy. There were like six of them in Jurassic Park. Their job is to tell you every scrap of information about everything that could ever be important to Joe Reader/Viewer who doesn't know jack about dinosaurs, Middle Earth, or the Pirate Code. That's one reason to stick an "old guy" into just about EVERYTHING. They come in very handy to your eager 20-somethings who just want to run in and break stuff.

MY favorite way to get exposition out of the way is something I have called "Stan the Explained-To." With "Sam the Explainer" you have an expert, usually a scientist or a wizard pontificate on a subject. I hate that. As much as I love history and science, who wants sit through a symposium on the history of a planet we've never heard of or the properties of some amazing element?

With "Stan" you have a person, usually a kid or a young adult, who is so gormless that he forgets/ doesn't know the most basic of information. The Mentor (read: old guy) can then explain the exposition while berating "Stan" on his idiocy. You get some really fun dialogue in those.

The other function of the Mentor, is to bring a little balance to the character groups. Your head-strong twenty-something is always wide-eyed, always fascinated by everything, always willing to go through the greatest obstacle the hard way. Your Mentor tethers him a bit. The Mentor has seen it all, done it all, and in some cases, lived to regret it all. He keeps the young guy's fire from burning out of control, and at the same time gets dragged into situations he might have avoided if left on his own-read: conflict=good. As much as I love my rusty veterans, I have to say that all the fun is sucked away unless they have young people around, irritating them. I don't hate young characters. I need them to make any story work. Just don't expect a set age range. In Skeleton Crew, the younger guys Dunstan interacts with range from 26-to-45.

I think I only have time for one more question...yes you in the back...

Double Standard Much?: "How come you don't have any middle-aged women?"

Okay, you got me. As some of you know I hit the big 3-0 this Friday. This terrifies me more than it should. Again, I blame it on all the 20-something-looking people on the telly. That's kind of why I haven't really featured mature woman more prominently. It's a mortality thing, I guess, but it's also an unfamiliarity. I think spanning the leaps of imagination necessary to delve into the mature male's mind is easier than the much shorter leap to an older woman, and I haven't really embraced that yet. I do have some older women characters, like Linus's wife Dierdre, but they play smaller roles which I'm beginning to develop.

My mature women all tend to be mothers, and I try not to make them caricatures of my mother, or of me which is the first hurdle.

There's a lot of ME in all my characters. I like to think I have the cynicism of a 50-year-old man, but every one of the people I write for is a tiny version of me. Me as a dumb kid, me as a condescending teenager, me as a bewildered young adult, me as a clueless mom...it's all in there somewhere. I'd rather people look for themselves in my characters. Find out who you relate to (and for those of you who know you've influenced a character directly, that doesn't count!!.

The character doesn't have to be your age, gender, orientation, or any of that, there just has to be that spark in there that makes you say..."Yeah...I get that."

Frique and Fragg

2011-04-14T09:32:00.003-04:00

Frique and Fragg were 2 mad scientist characaters that popped up in the comic I drew for my University Newspaper. They were living on campus experimenting on psyche students, despite the fact that F&F had been expelled already siting misuse of facilities. I LOVED their dynamic together and ever since SOME incarnation of F&F has cropped up in every world I've created.

Confessions of an Ethically Challenged Scientist

By Monica Marier

My name is Elliot Fragg and my life sucks.

I’m not stating that looking for any sympathy or anything. I’m pretty resigned to the fact, but if you’re going to read this you need to understand from the get-go that my life has always sucked, and in all probability will continue to suck until I am dead. And it will suck because I’m the close personal friend of Lucas Frique.

So now that we got that out of the way, I’ll relate how this obnoxious little man became my friend. The whole of it is true apart from the stuff I made up ‘cause I can’t remember.

I’d been working with Frique since we were science lab partners in middle school, back in ’93. He was a pudgy short kid with glasses and unruly red hair that was always too long. He had a perpetual frown on his face which I found out was solely due to temperament.

Frique hated everything on principle.

He hated the teachers who didn’t ‘understand him.’ He hated the big jocks who dunked him headfirst in the toilet every day and took his money. He hated the kids who took pity on him and tried to be his friend (not that there were many). He chased them all off pretty quickly with his sharp tongue and halitosis.

Why he picked me for a confidant was beyond me. It wasn’t for my charisma or popularity. When you’re a legally-blind half-Asian albino in a crowd of ninety-four preteen peers, you’re pretty much screwed. I was a prominent nail just waiting for another hammer to come along. In fact my very apparent “Dork Readings” might have been what drew Frique to me in the first place. It also might have been the few times he saw me drawing fractals in my notebook or translating jokes into binary.

It was around second semester that he first addressed me. We’d made do with limited comments related to whatever project our class was working on, but he’d never said more to me than “pass the spectroscope,” or “your elbow’s in my petrie dish.” We’d just finished our geology lab a half-hour earlier than everyone else, when he slid over a piece of graph paper. It was a diagram for a circuit drawn in 4-color ballpoint pen.

“Do you think we should use FR-4 or CM-1 for a dielectric?” he asked me.

Just like that.

It was as if we were already in the middle of a conversation and things like introductions and general polite inquiry were out of the way. That’s how Frique was. He never beat about the bush or worried about making a good impression.

I don’t even think he knew my name at that time, unless he’d caught a glimpse of “Elliot Fragg” at the top of my worksheets and didn’t think it worth asking. He didn’t start calling me “Fragg” until years later. I was just “you” like there was no one else in his little world.

That frightened me.

We were a pretty insular pair all those years in school together and later on when we went to college for Chemistry. We made Hubris University’s investments in eye-wash stations well worth it.

And then there were the events preceding our expulsion.

That was the problem with Frique. He was a wheedler —a silver-tongued devil. He made everything sound so innocent right until you heard the police sirens. He never had to talk me into anything, because he knew that wasn’t how my mind worked. I attacked any given problem with the sheer desire of solving it, without stopping to think about repercussions. Usually, in a theoretical sense, there would have been no repercussions … if I’d been working with anyone but Lucas Frique.

For example, when I developed a compound that would reduce rotting road kill into eco-friendly compost more quickly, I never expected Frique to use it on the body of our Professor of Biochemistry he’d killed and buried behind our dorm. When I invented a breathable gas that was more effective than laughing gas to immobilize and numb dental patients, I didn’t expect Frique to use it on several members of the student body. A few of them ended up behind the dorm too. Frique would simply ruminate aloud on a subject like, “I wonder if it’s possible to create a machine to project a person’s thoughts,” and I would be on the first draft a few seconds later. Frique would provide the parts (which he probably stole) and correct my math while I feverishly designed and perfected. Then I would find out that Frique wanted to use my mind-reading device to dig up dark secrets about a teacher’s aide for the purpose of blackmail.

The manufactured viruses, the sonic wave devices, the electrically charged suits (I admit that making electro-shock suits was a real “duh” moment for me afterwards) and many more insidious devices were designed and perfected by me for Frique’s purposes. His test subjects were the students and staff at that unfortunate school. I never pleaded with him to stop. It would have been like trying to halt a landslide by waving a stop sign. And I was too scared — no —I was terrified beyond all reason.

I still am.

Every time he approaches me with that boyish face and impish expression of interest I break out in a cold sweat. I’m his to command — and as many times as I’ve tried to break away, I’ve never been able to manage it. He’d always draw me back with promises, with threats, and on one occasion, a gun. He’d never be able to let me go, because without me around there would be only him, talking to himself and letting his mind spiral into tessellating madness.

The man killed in cold blood, tortured his fellow humans and plotted the deaths of thousands in his dark dreams, and he was never frightened of that blackness in his soul … because I was his anchor to humanity. With me around, he’d never be alone. Being alone is the only thing Frique is terrified of. I'd kill myself if I wasn't terrified of Frique digging me up and keeping me alive with electric impulses — "The Fragg That Wouldn't Die."

Right now I’m working on a giant robot with nine kinds of weapons and a strain of flesh-eating bacteria. We’re going to hold the Smithsonian Institute for ransom until the Natural History museum updates its dinosaur exhibit.

It’s Frique’s attempt at being funny.

My life sucks.

Thoki & Lor Ep. 9

2011-04-05T11:05:00.000-04:00

A new episode of Thoki & Lor is up on their home page!
You can find it HERE!

Haven't read Thoki & Lor yet? Start at the beginning HERE!

REVIEW: The First Tale, by Icy Sedgwick

2011-04-04T10:04:00.004-04:00

This is something I’ve been meaning to do for some time, and I’m glad I finally have the privilege and (and e-Reader) to do it. I’ve begun reading the books of other esteemed tweeps and fellow authors.

My first adventure in e-reading was The First Tale by Icy Sedgwick. I’ve always been impressed by Icy’s writing style, she has a killing sense of humor and a gift for the macabre. The First Tale is the first novella in of a series set in Vertigo City, a Steampunk-meets-Big-Brother Dystopia.

In the First Tale, we follow Phillip Wiseman, newcomer to Vertigo City’s resistance—an organization bent on toppling the tyrannous Weimar Corporation. We discover, through Phillip this shady underworld he’s entered filled with secret agents, corrupt police, wise-cracking automatons and the alluring mysterious Liss Hunt.

Sedgwick paints a glorious world that’s as fully immersive as any seedy backstreet featured in a Sherlock Holmes mystery. The characters sparkle with clever dialogue, thrilling action sequences, and a plot full of twists and turns. It ultimately left me eagerly awaiting the Second Tale and any that might follow. Stamp my ticket, I’m ready to go back to Vertigo City!

The Vertigo City Resistance is pitted against the shadowy Weimar Corporation. Their stalemate is broken by the death of an infiltrator. The fiery Resistance Commander Liss Hunt and bewildered companion Philip Wiseman set off on a journey into both organisations to discover the truth behind who runs Vertigo. The First Tale is an action adventure featuring automatons, mad scientists and explosions!

You can order your copy of Icy Sedgwick’s First Tale HERE

And a collection of Icy Sedgwick’s Shorts, “Checkmate & Other Stories” HERE

You can also follow here blog where she posts brilliant shorts and articles HERE

Follow Icy on twitter @icypop
You can also Follow Liss on Twitter @LissHunt

NOTE: Cover Art By Jimmy Misanthrope

FridayFlash: King Nosmo the Intrusive

2011-03-31T20:00:00.005-04:00

He had to admit, it did smell like boiled beet tops and burnt pie crust, but that was no excuse for the guy to draw a cudgel. It made the whole situation a lot more tense than it needed to be. Besides, it wasn't Linus' fault that the local farms fertilized with vampire bat guano. If it had been up to him, he'd have rolled his smoke with some of the tobacco he'd brought with him from home. Unfortunately, it was at the bottom of the river, along with most of his gold, his spare boots, his second-best hat, all his food and everything else in his pack.

Linus ducked as the bruiser swung his club in a wide arc, then he angled his forearm to block the guy's kick. As he'd thought, the clumsy slash was at least partly an act; this jerk wasn't nearly as drunk as he pretended to be. He was either already mad about something and looking for a fight, or he just had it in for people that smoked cheap tobacco. Or maybe - Linus ducked another slash, blocked another kick - it had something to do with the sign on the wall of the tavern.

Who had ever heard of a tavern that didn't let you light up? And who the hell was King Nosmo, anyway? Why should he have the right to tell people what they could and couldn't do with such a simple pleasure of life?

Another slash, another kick. Linus had this guy's number now. At first, he'd thought the guy would pull a double-fake and go for a complicated attack on the backswing of his lead cudgel slash. Linus was accustomed to fighting some pretty canny opponents and was on the lookout for such techniques. But no, it looked like there was no hidden reserve of subtlety beneath the fake, no lurking sophistication in the guy's fighting style. He was clearly a local tough with a limited bag of fighting tricks, skating on his reputation for being a tricky fighter. As such, he was no match for a truly skilled soldier, an expert in hand-to-hand with a wide experience in the most dangerous parts of the continent.

On the fourth swing, Linus ducked under it and angled over to get perpendicular to the anticipated snap kick, preparing himself to use it to flip the guy backwards. The foot came up and Linus made to grab it.

Before Linus' eyes, the world went white, the world went black, the world went all starry sparkly swirly.

And then it went black again and stayed that way for a while.

It was a long while.

A very long while.

When the blackness went from a black blackness to a reddish sort of blackness, Linus became aware that he was in trouble. It took another couple of minutes to associate the incredible pain in his head and ribs with the pulsing of that reddish blackness, and another couple of minutes after that to realize that the pulsing of the pain and the pulsing of the reddish blackness coincided perfectly with his breathing.

He considered giving up breathing altogether, but his resolve wavered after only half a minute. Slowly, Linus opened his eyes - discovering in the process that his eyes hurt, too - and the reddish blackness gave way to a shiny blackness. It was enormous, shifting and pulsing fuzzily, but not in time with his breathing. He was trying to understand where he was and what this shiny blackness meant, when it moved toward him, filling the world and blotting out the sky. With an effort that tore off the top of his head and filled it with a swarm of angry wasps, Linus tried in vain to pull away from it.

"Hey."

The man standing over Linus again nudged him on the nose with his shiny black shoe.

"Hey, buddy. You OK?"

Perspective snapped into being, and with it, Linus' world shifted from abstractions of color and pain, light and darkness, and instead became a broken nose, a split lip and a bundle of cracked ribs, all lying on cold flagstones in a mixed puddle of cigarette ashes and stale beer. He closed his eyes again.

"Nah, come on, now, you don't wanna do that. Don't go to sleep, pal. The way you got thrashed, you might not wake up from it. Hey, buddy, I'm trying to do you a favor. Let's get you up, get you some fresh air."

Linus snapped open his eyes, fear overcoming his desire to sleep.

The man was bending down so he could pull Linus to his feet. Linus saw his doom coming but was powerless to stop his would-be savior, incapable of waving the man off. Though it made the world water and swim with the pain in his ribs, he drew a deep breath. Screams of agony, he knew, took plenty of air.

WRITTEN BY... TONY NOLAND!!!

April Fools!!!

The story you just read appears here on my blog as a part of the Great April Fool's Day FridayFlash Blog Swap, organized by Tony Noland. You can find my story for today at TONY NOLAND's website HERE. To read all the dozens of stories swapping around as a part of the GAFDFFBS, check out the GAFDFFBS index over at Tony's blog Landless. For hundreds of thousands of words of fantastic flash fiction stories, check out the FridayFlash hastag on Twitter. It happens every Friday!

Read more: http://www.tonynoland.com/2011/03/great-april-fools-day-fridayflash-blog_9145.html#ixzz1I7eZeONy

Friday Flash Anthology

2011-03-30T13:59:00.000-04:00

Assuming I haven't already missed the deadline for this,
I've been wondering which story to submit for the BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH 2 Anthology. As John W. already posted, authors are CRAP at picking their best stuff so I thought I would narrow it down to 3 stories and let you guys pick. I know you're all busy, so I've stated the premise of each story next to the title if you don't have time to read or re-read it.

Three Finalists:

1. Joe Milgrave and the Devil: Joe summons the Devil (who doesn't REMOTELY look like Burt Reynolds) to beg one favor: Make Mrs. Milgrave agree with him.

2. Mr. Peterson's Tale
A wizened old exterminator tells of his harrowing encounter with "Ol' blinky."

3. Doctor Frankenstein's House of Pancakes The good Doctor F, his promethean construct, Igor and Stephanie are the staff at your not-too-average breakfast joint. "Try the thrcrapple."

Please vote for you favorite by leaving a comment with the number or title of your favorite story. If you've liked a different story that you think deserves submission, feel free to state as such.

I REALLY appreciate you taking the time to read this and vote. SUPER thanks in advance.

The Nature of Magic

2011-03-26T00:05:00.008-04:00

This is an Excerpt taken from my YA novel, Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid. It's slated for publication next winter. In this quasi-Edwardian world, Magic has all but disappeared. All that is left are a few stray Elves, Dragons, Magic Crystals, and ...occasionally a few very mad wizards. Evelyn Kelly is one of these sad magical men. His partner in crime is one of the last Elves, Lynald Wingaurd.

Kelly was lost to the world and it wasn’t due to any indulgence in spirits this time. In fact he hadn’t had a drink in over seventeen hours and it was beginning to tell on his sparking, fizzing nerves. But it meant that his brain was alive and running on energy more potent than a dynamo. He was reading his prized tomes, the hand-written heirloom grimoires of the Amazing Meriwether Maydock, wizard and machinist extraordinaire. Inspector Slaven had readily retrieved them, along with Lynald’s tools, from the evidence locker. Reading the grimoire was a lengthy process. Meriwether, whether out of typical wizardly paranoia or sheer bloody-mindedness, wrote in his journals using encrypted code. This code would differ from page to page depending on what Meriwether felt like using.

Maydock’s Code was derived using a complex magical algorithm written at the top of each entry, and each formula would vary, producing a different code. Being the product of a wizard’s imagination, the formulae tended to defy conventional mathematics and required a kind of (as Lynald put it) ‘fluffy wizard logic’ to solve it. Lynald had once tried to solve one of the algorithms and had needed to lie down for an hour afterwards. Kelly, however, had already solved two-thirds of the seven-hundred and ninety-two collective pages after only a year. His mind was more attuned to solving problems like “If green is to 28 as Jam is to Wednesday, where did I leave my socks?” The answer of course, being, “well, where did you last see them?”

Kelly would then plot the alphabet on a Venn diagram where the “x” was labeled Jam and “y” as Wednesdays and “z” as green. For example: There were 6 kinds of Jam beginning with “B”: blueberry, blackberry, boysenberry, bilberry, black currant and blood orange. None of those were green. He’d eaten two kinds last Wednesday and it had taken him 7 minutes to find his socks. So B was given a value of 15 with a green value of 0.

It didn’t make sense, but then sense always takes a back seat to “logic.”

You can currently read the first four chapters of Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid at Dr. Fantastique's Show of Wonders.

GO BACK TO TESSA'S NATURE OF MAGIC BLOGFEST

(I coudln't get the images to fit.) :P

CINDERAPTOR

2011-03-25T10:50:00.002-04:00

“Mom says you have to read me a story, Marcus,” said Daisy.

“Alright,” said Marcus. “What do you want me to read? ‘Dinosaurs from A to Z’? Or ‘The Triceratops’s Giant Pretzel’? Or ‘The Barosaur Who Came to Dinner’?”

“No dinosaur books!” cried Daisy. “I want a princess story!”

Marcus sighed. He really hated princess stories. “Do I have to?”

“Pleeeeeeease?” begged Daisy.

“How about ‘Dr. Terwilliker, the Clever Ovoraptor’? You like ‘Dr.Terwilliker’! Here goes—‘Dr. Terwilliker was a clever ovoraptor who lived in the city in a high-rise apartment’—”

“Mooooooooooooom!” shouted Daisy.

“Alright! Alright!” said Marcus, dropping the book. “How about I tell you a story about a dinosaur princess?”

Daisy thought about this. “Okay!” she said finally.

Marcus rubbed his head for a minute and then began.

“Here’s the story of Cinderaptor: Once upon a time, in the Mesozoic era, there was a beautiful Velociraptor named Cinderaptor. She walked upright on two legs, had a long straight tail and was two meters in leng—”

“BORING!” shouted Daisy.

“Alright, I’ll skip the facts,” said Marcus, sulkily. “So anyway, Cinderaptor was very kind and good and had the most beautiful feathers in the land.”

“What color were they?” asked Daisy, wide-eyed.

“What color do you think they were?”

“PINK!” shouted Daisy.

“Okay, she had beautiful pink feathers. She lived by the Tethys Sea with her ugly step-stegosaurs. Now the step-stegosaurs made Cinderaptor do all the chores, like cleaning their rooms, and cooking and taking out the garbage. The ugly step-stegosaurs did nothing but eat mosses ferns and fruits all day, and kept cool with their plate armor.

"One day the King of the Dinosaurs, Tyrannosaurus Rex decided to throw a party for his son, Tyrannosaurus Prince.”

“Oooh,” said Daisy.

“So King Rex sent invitations to all the dinosaurs on Laurasia. When Cinderaptor and her step-stegosaurs saw the invitation, they all wanted to go. The step-stegosaurs both laughed at Cinderaptor, saying that she was so dirty and covered in rags that all the other dinosaurs would laugh at her. Cinderaptor cried and cried as she made two gigantic dresses for her step-stegosaurs and saw them leave for the Dinosaur Ball.

“As she was crying she heard a gentle voice say, ‘Don’t cry, Cinderaptor! I’ll help you go to the ball!’ Looking up, Cinderaptor saw a beautiful Hadrosaur with sparkling wings and a magic wand. ‘I’m your Fairy Parasauralohpus! Since you’ve always been a kind and good dromaeosaur, I’m going to send you to the Dinosaur Ball with the help of my magic wand!’”

“Cool,” said Daisy.

“The Fairy Parasaurolophus waved her wand and turned a cycad into a coach. She turned four cimolestes rodents into a team of Quetzlcoatlus and turned a Pachycephalosaur into a driver.”

“A human driver?” asked Daisy.

Marcus realized that the story was getting away from him. Being only eight, he tried to fix it as best he could.

“He was still a Pachycephalosaurus but he could drive now. It’s magic, Daisy. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“Oh,” said Daisy.

“Finally, the Fairy Parasaurolophus waved her wand and Cinderaptor was wearing a beautiful dress and glass slippers.”

“What color—”

“PINK.”

“YAY!”

“So Cinderaptor flew off to the ball in her flying coach. Her Fairy Parasaurolophus warned her that she would have to be back by midnight, ‘cause that’s when the magic would end. When she arrived at the ball, all the Dinosaurs agreed that she was the most beautiful theropod they’d ever seen. And Tyrannosaurus Prince himself asked her to dance.

"They danced for hours (which musta been kind hard with the Prince’s little arms). Cinderaptor forgot to check the time until the clock started striking midnight. Cinderaptor ran out of the Tyrannosaurus Palace before her dress turned back into rags and her driver couldn’t drive anymore. As she was running, though, one of her glass slippers came off. She didn’t even notice it ‘till she’d gotten back home.

“Tyrannosaurus Prince was really sad that Cinderaptor was gone, ‘cause he’d fallen in love with her. But when he found her glass slipper, he had an idea. He’d go to every dinosaur on Laurasia and ask them to try on the slipper until he found his true love. Many Dinosaurs tried, but none of their feet could fit into the dainty glass slipper with the GIANT toe-claw.

“Finally he came to the house of the ugly step-stegosaurs. The clumsy herbivores tried to cram their fat padded feet into the glass slipper, but they had no chance. They didn’t even have a toe-claw to fit into it. The Prince was about to leave, when Cinderaptor asked to try on the slipper.

"‘Don’t pay attention to Cinderaptor!’ said the step-stegosaurs. ‘She’s only the maid.’

"But the Prince saw Cinderaptor’s toe-claw and decided to let her try. Cinderaptor’s foot fit perfectly, and the Prince knew that this was his one true love. He asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Then together they jumped on the step-stegosaurs and tore into them with their fearsome jaws—”

“NO EATING!” shouted Daisy looking shocked.

“Uh…” Marcus thought hard. “So… they all went bowling. The end.”

“Did the Prince marry Cinderaptor?”

“Sure. They lived happily ever after.”

“That was a good story,” said Daisy with a grin. “Do you think you could tell me another Dinosaur Princess story?”

Marcus smiled at his little sister. “Sure. Tomorrow I’ll tell you the story of ‘Snow White and the Seven Deinonychus.”

END

SNEAK PEAK from RUNS IN GOOD CONDITION

2011-03-11T12:50:00.000-05:00

My second novel "Runs in Good Condition" (book2 in the Linus Saga) is now available for pre-orders. Here is a special sneak peak at book 2 for your enjoyment. You can pre-order your copy using the button at the bottom.

Preface: Linus has suddenly taken ill on the morning of his exams. His wife (Deirdre), daughter (Irene), and secretary (Morfindel) are scrambling to help him ready and upright.

"Psst! Psst!"
Irene looked around for whoever was hissing at her, to find Morfindel peering in at the kitchen window, the rain was pounding mercilessly outside, as he tried to squeeze under the protection of the narrow alley.
"What are you doing?" Irene cried through the open window. "You're supposed to be getting my dad ready! This is no time for playing in the rain!"
"I climbed out of the window on the stairs. Is your mum around?" asked Morfindel, leaning his head in.
"You’re soaking wet! Mum’s not here, she’s in the cellar."
"Good," said Morfindel and propped a leg up on the windowsill. In half a moment, he'd stepped through the window and into the sink below it. Unfortunately for Morfindel, it was full of dirty dishes soaking in cloudy water. There was a loud ceramic crack as Morfindel trod on Deirdre’s favorite platter. Irene was staring at him, hands on her hips, in a perfect imitation of Deirdre.
"Morfindel Cunlias! Have you lost your faculties?!" she cried.
"'M trying to sneak in," said Morfindel, sheepishly as more of Deirdre’s flatware met their untimely demise under his feet.
"We have a back door, you idiot!" cried Irene, flinging her dishrag to the floor in frustration and offering Morfindel an arm down.
"I know, but I wasn't taking any chances. I don't care what your mum says, I am NOT dressing your father like a rag doll–oops! Sorry," said Morfindel, as another dish broke. He was trying to get out of the sink without destroying anything else and was failing miserably. He would have been clear had his sock not caught on the pump handle. In a flurry of water and broken china, Morfindel tumbled forward and landed on Irene, biting his lip in the process.

"Ow!" moaned Irene from the pile of arms and legs. The skirt of her white poplin dress had flown up over both of their heads and caught on her pinned hair. Morfindel's damp head was resting on her shoulder, his lip dripping blood onto her lace collar. The Elf, a little disoriented, had trouble figuring out where he was. His eyes were met with an endless field of white, and a queer creaking sound. For a moment he thought he was at sea, until he felt the rise and fall of the warm body underneath him. Lifting himself up a little, his golden eyes met deep green ones; they were flashing and alive like running water. His hands were resting on her waist, where they felt the distinct ribbing of whalebone, which creaked slightly as she breathed. Irene, feeling faint, looked up at the dashing, dark-haired young man above her, utterly incapable of speech or thought–until his weight put more strain on her corset than she could manage.

"You ninny! Get off me!" she gasped with what little breath she had left.

Suddenly realizing what was going on, Morfindel jerked his head forward sharply, only to have it connect with Irene's chin. He cried out and clutched his head, as they sat up on the stone floor in a heap. Morfindel was quicker to recover and waved his hands over his head wildly, hoping to dislodge Irene's petticoats.
"Ow! OW! Stop it!" cried Irene. "It's stuck on me pins!"
"On your what?" yelled Morfindel, wondering if it was a euphemism.
"On my hair pins! OW! I said quit it! Just hold still, and don't move!" snapped Irene, as her hands scrabbled at her hair.
"Oh! Oh! Me sleeve is caught!" she wailed. The strings of her apron had caught on Morfindel's belt buckle and now held her arms down firmly at her side.
"You take 'em out," she said, thrusting her head at Morfindel.
"What do they look like?" asked Morfindel.
"Are you kidding me?!"
"I grew up in a monastery, Irene – a MONASTERY: men only! I didn't get much exposure to hair pins at the time!" he cried, the panic rising in his stomach.
"Irene? I heard a crash!" came Deirdre's voice from the cellar. "Is everything alright, love?"
Irene and Morfindel exchanged a glance of pure terror, before Morfindel started running his fingers through Irene's hair, pulling on anything that might be a pin.
"(Ow!) I'M FINE, MOTHER! (That's not a pin, that's my ear!) ARE YOU DONE DOWN THERE?"
"Not yet!" Deirdre called back. "I can't seem to find the black currant cordial. Do you know where it is?"
"DID YOU LOOK ON THE SHELF BY THE STAIRS?” she called before rounding on Morfindel again. “Look, you! Pulling out every pin is not going to work. Find the one that's stuck to my skirts and pull that one out!"
"Fine," grunted Morfindel, his mouth full of pins.
"Yes," called back Deirdre, "but I didn't see it. What happened to it?"
Irene still found time to roll her eyes at her mother, despite her predicament. "I DUNNO, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?" she called, while Morfindel's fingers worked feverishly.
"I think I left it in the cupboard over the kitchen sink!" called Deirdre, and to the horror of the two trapped on the kitchen floor, her footfalls resounded on the cellar stairs, becoming steadily louder.
"Quickly!" cried Irene, franticly.
"I'm trying!" Morfindel squeaked back, his heart thrumming.
"Oh dear, I left the infusion downstairs," called Deirdre and the footsteps stopped. "Irene, be a dear and see if you can find the cordial up there. Bring it down here when you get a chance." They then heard her descend back into the cellar.

Morfindel and Irene dared to breathe again, and continued untangling themselves. In a few moments, the culprit pin was freed, the apron strings were unwound, and the blood and dishwater were mopped up before Deirdre came up the stairs again. In her hand was a steaming mug, and she looked rather annoyed at her daughter.

"Irene, have you found it yet? We don't have time to dally, sweetheart."
Her sharp dragon eyes, garnet red in the early morning light, took in the wrinkled clothes, Irene's frowsy hair, the blood on Morfindel's lip and two large, wet handprints on Irene’s waist.

"What have you two been doing in here?" she asked suspiciously.
"Morfindel slipped on some water and bit his lip," said Irene, trying to look composed. "We both took a tumble but now we're okay," she finished. Morfindel tried not to blush at Irene's unfortunate choice of words, but wouldn't meet Deirdre's eyes. He’d had alarming revelation a few minutes ago. While his head had been resting on Irene's bosoms he had been shocked to discover that she actually had them...

'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available for pre-order!

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large.

Runs in Good Condition Pre-order Through PayPal
$19.95 + S/H

Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

2011-03-09T22:41:00.007-05:00

UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!

Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)

**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”

**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”

**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”

**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”

**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”

**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”

**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)

Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE

Cover Designs

2011-03-09T00:18:00.000-05:00

Hello fellow Crumblies and Chocolateers!

A while ago I (foolishly) volunteered to design a cover for the blog-hop anthology, "THE GREAT CHOCOLATE CONSPIRACY." Well my schedule was open today for the first time since November, so I knocked up a few rough designs. Namely, these 5.

HOW YOU CAN HELP: I would like you all to peruse the five covers and pick your favorite design. Simply state THE NUMBER of the design you like best in the comments box below and your pick will be given consideration. Feel free to add any comments or suggestions.

FOR YOUR ENLIGHTENMENT:

* These are not final designs, nor do they reflect the quality of the final work. I spent less than 15 minutes on each drawing, to give you all AN IDEA of layout, content and colour design. When a final design is picked I fully intend to spend more time getting it just right.

*You can absolutely have a mixed answer if you think 3 is your favorite, but I think it would look better with no. 2 title font, let me know.

*Be civil. Any snide comments or general ass-hattery will be pointed out to all and laughed at.

SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO...

COVER ONE (1)

COVER TWO (2)

COVER THREE (3)

COVER FOUR (4)

COVER FIVE (5)

Thanks for your help everyone!
~Monica Marier

Monica IRL "Don't feel like Dancing"

2011-03-03T15:35:00.002-05:00

Just when I thought I didn't have anything to write a story about, I had this little episode with my kids today. It's more or less verbatum.

“I’d like to sign up for the children’s dance classes,” said Monica to the petite woman at the desk. Sophia and Max clung closer to Monica’s legs.

The HQ for the Loudon Dance Academy was a bright cheery set of rooms in the back of the mini-mall. Cute little pixies were clomping in their tap shoes to a wood-paneled studio. Shortly after a sound system began playing “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” Monica brightened visibly. There were no Stepford-wife stage-mothers in the lobby, only a normal looking woman in sweatpants reading Harry Potter.

The woman behind the desk, in a leotard and legwarmers smiled prettily at Monica, who tried to look confident.

“For both children?” asked the woman.
Monica shook her head. “No, only Sophia. Max doesn’t like dancing.”
Sophia squealed and began to bounce-up and down.
“It’s my birthday present! I’m four years old!” she cried.
Five-year-old Max looked up at his mother with a hurt expression.
“But I want to dance!” he moaned.
“What?” cried Monica in exasperation. “Since when?”
“Since always!” retorted Max.
“But this is Sophie’s birthday present, remember? You wanted to have swimming lessons!” explained Monica patiently.
Max’s face crumpled up.
“Uh-oh. Here it comes,” muttered the woman at the desk.
“BUT I DON’T WANT SWIMMING LESSONS!!!” bawled Max, rattling the plate-glass windows.

Panicking, Monica gently popped a hand over Max’s mouth and encouraged him to sob into her coat to muffle his noise. She handed the woman the form she’d printed off and filled out with a check paper-clipped to the top.
“Alright, you’re all set,” said the woman, with a sympathetic smile. She’d seen tantrums like this before, most likely.

“Does she need any equipment?” asked Monica.
“We have ballet shoes and tap shoes over here,” said the woman, motioning to a cabinet. While Sophie tried to stay still long enough to try on the ballet slippers, Monica pulled Max aside to talk to him.

“Max?”
“Mmmmm?” Max looked the picture of misery, his face red and blotchy from his tears as he tried to reign in the desire to scream and throw a tantrum.
“Honey, the reason I didn’t sign you up for dancing lessons is because you don’t like dancing. You never dance at home to music. Your teachers say you won’t dance in class either.”
“But I WANT to!” wailed Max again, grasping Monica’s coat for more emphasis.
“If you want dance lessons, you have to SHOW me you love dancing, Maxie. When we get home, lets try dancing to music a little, okay? In a few months we’ll see if you still want to dance.”

Max didn’t answer. He merely flopped onto the floor like a dead sea-star and refused to move.

While he lay there, Monica finished paying for new shoes and a leotard and prepared to leave.

“Do I have to wait until I’m a girl?” asked Max’s voice behind her.
Monica turned to look at her son, now upright again. She stifled a laugh. “You don’t have to be a girl. Boys can dance too. You just have to like dancing.”

“But I LIKE it!”
“Show me. Then we’ll see,” said Monica plainly. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “I’ll talk to Daddy about this,” she said.

Monica smiled to herself as the woman gave her the pink bag full of Sophie’s new things.

After trying to foster a love of dance in her son for five years with no success, she’d overlooked the power of blind envy. This might just be the carrot Max needed. She fervently hoped this was the start of something good. A man in the dancing world could go far.

“Helloooooo, free college,” said Monica to herself.

#Twitterpocalypse

2011-02-24T21:06:00.001-05:00

The rash of bots has made me paranoid. This story is the brainchild of that paranoia. Enjoy.

Image of Fail Whale by Yiying Lu

The sky was blue, an unnatural neon shade that made one see bright orange upon blinking. White puffy clouds dotted the celestial dome like darling cartoon sheep, only they stayed fixed in the air, unmoving.

The four figures stared up and blinked at the static, sunless sky. With a deafening fanfare and an explosion of fireworks, they saw it. Descending from the sky, suspended by a multitude of chubby birds was a large whale. The leviathan nodded benevolently at his small assembly as the birds (with no small effort) lowered him into his tank. It sang a few bars of “Pokerface” and then turned to his men. Whales cannot giggle, but a cetaceous squeal of mirth was piped in the air as it breached.

“WELCOME!” said the Fail Whale. “I’ve invited you three to this special hashtag chat (#twitterpocalypse) because as denizen of this social media network, I have grown bored. I believe that Twitter has evolved beyond its purpose and must be destroyed. What started out as a neat way to stalk celebrities and piss off people with abbreviated sentences has turned into a place for people to connect and share ideas and promote and support each other. It makes me sick. That being said, with my awesome Fail Whale powers I hereby begin the destruction of Twitter! That’s why I have called you four together! What say you?”

The four avatars looked either unimpressed or ignorant of what was going on. The Whale eyed them critically. One was a smiling man in his late fifties standing on his yacht in Eddie Bauer shorts. Another was a Young woman with far too little clothing, who kept shifting into poses she probably thought was alluring. One was a badly sampled image lifted off the internet of a Cat with a Lime rind on it’s head. The last was simply an egg. The egg confused the whale most of all.

“Um, guys?” asked the Fail Whale. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him.
“‎"We must not allow ourselves to become like the system we oppose." - Bishop Desmond Tutu” said the man on the boat.
“i wood totally have hawt sex w. lady gaga!! ; )” said the young woman.
“GLENN BECK IS THE DEVIL WE SHOULD STAB HIS BRAIN WITH A TOOTHPICK!” said the cat in all-caps.
“writers wanted: http.tiny/iouoa9357q9ls.fke” said the egg.

“You’re not the traditional four horsemen are you?” asked the whale with sinking realization.
“Visualize the “you” you want to become. You are only as strong as that positive image!” said the man on the boat.
“OMG! Jus Beiber iz cuttin hz hair!” cried the girl.
“OBAMA IS A RACSIST WARMONGER!” shouted the cat, beginning to foam at the mouth a little.
“Protect your computer,” said the egg, who then posted another link.

“Who the heck ARE you guys?” asked the Fail Whale in despair.

The be-shorted man blinked and briefly got off his yacht.
“We’re the four horsemen of the Twitterpocalypse. My name is “Life Coach.” You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t interact with people much. I generally just post quotes by other people and platitudes.”

“Why do you do that?”

“I like to think that if I follow several million people and one million of them follow me and find my quotes inspiring that I can feel educated and superior.”

“But they’re not your thoughts or words. You haven’t posted one original idea!”

"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." - Sir Winston Churchhill”

The whale shook his head sadly. Life Coach would not be his lead horseman. He lacked initiative and originality. Maybe the others would make up for it. He eyed the scantily-clad girl with enthusiasm. She was evil, there was no doubt.

“Would you like to bring this media site to its knees, um… are you ‘Porn?’”
“Um… kaynothnxbye,” said the girl in annoyance. “Im, StalkR. I foloo pple I like an post evry aticrle, video, and link abot thm. I alzo offr my body daily to thm in the hopes tht they aknoldg me or evn block me.”

The Whale had trouble deciphering the string of consonants and creative spellings, and eventually stopped listening.

“Why can’t I understand you?”

The girl flipped her hair and scoffed. “YU tri tweetg whl drivin, ass! Itz fcking HARD!!!1”

The Whale lamented that the one word the girl had bothered to spell correctly was “ass” and moved on to the cat. He hadn’t much hope for this one. His doubt was justified.

“Alright. Who’re you?” he asked the cat.

“COLD WATER GIVES YOU CANCER! THE LIBERALS FUCKED THE WORLD! MY FOOT HURTS! WHAT IS A GLEE? GLENN BECK IS HIDING ON MY LAWN IN A PANZER!”

“Oh, you’re a Moron. I get it,” said the Whale. He swam a few inches away from the glass walls of his tank in case the cat attacked. Breaching again, he cursed his luck. How could he bring about total destruction with a small army of paranoid, elitist, illiterate ass-hats? He looked at the egg.

“Okay, egg. Impress me.”

The Egg Robot spun a little on it’s wide base and glowed. It then began shouting a strange litany in a monotone voice.

“United Church of God, Masses Weekly! (link) RT this ad to get a pink iPad 2 (link)! Real estate Prices are crashing! Get your forclosure today! (link) Obama wants to pay you to go back to school! (link) Why you need liability insurance! (link)…”

The whale froze in awe of the robotic voice devoid of emotion trying to reach the hopes and fears of hopeless mortals. The egg spun faster and glowed brighter. The Whale could feel the glass heating up from the shear energy and turned his large head. After a blinding flash of light, the whale dared look out the glass again.

There were millions of them.

A million eggs. Each spinning and glowing and making more eggs. An army of eggs. An invasion of cold, unattached mercenary eggs.

The Fail Whale looked out at the egg robot army and nodded his approval. It was good. He would lead this army to the ruination of Twitter.

It was the dawn of the Twitterpocalypse. None would be left in their wake.

Parody picture by Sabrina @introvertedwife

DAY ONE (A Wingaurd & Kelly Short)

2011-02-10T21:08:00.000-05:00

I spent hours in a craft store yesterday as this dialogue spun through my head. I was probably talking out-loud to myself and doing the voices as I did so. I tend to do that. Yeah, I'm that sort of loony writer. Anyway, so I wrote the dialogue. It involves my two Steampunk Characters, Lynald and Kelly, but it's the day of their first job together. Since the series takes place years later, I can't use it. That being the case, I thought I might as well post it here. Maybe it'll come in handy later.

“Did you loosen all the bolts, like I asked you?” asked Lynald Wingaurd over his shoulder.
“Yes, Wingaurd,” answered Evelyn Kelly, blowing on his frozen fingers. The two men stood in the dim boiler room that ran under 14 Tepperans Street as the rattle of carriages rumbled overhead.
“Did anyone see you?” Wingaurd asked through the spanner briefly perched in his teeth.
“One bloke noticed me.”
“And what did he say?” Wingaurd asked. He spoke in the high tones of a teacher giving a lesson. Kelly tried not to let it ruffle him, but he was already beginning to have doubts about this new partnership.
“He didn’t say nothing,” said Kelly with a shrug.
“Good.”
“But,” Kelly pressed on, determined to impress Wingaurd. “I showed him the fake badge I’d made up and said I was from the city, and that we were fitting the gaslamps for incandescent globes.”

Far from looking pleased, Wingaurd stood up from his crouch over the gearbox and threw his oily rag to the floor in irritation. “You what?” he demanded. The Elf nimbly hopped over to where Kelly was standing against the boiler and blocked his escape.

“Was that wrong?” asked Kelly, nervously. Wingaurd’s long nose was nearly touching his, and the energy radiating from the Elf made Kelly nervous. It practically fizzed from his long grease-stained fingers. To his further discomfort, Wingaurd put his hands on Kelly’s shoulders and spoke in a low clear voice.

“Repeat rule number one,” said Wingaurd, his blue eyes flickering in the boiler fire.
Kelly screwed up his black brows in confusion. “What rules? You’ve never given me any rules.”

Wingaurd released his grip and stepped back.
“I haven’t given you the rules speech yet?”
“There’s a speech?” asked Kelly, incredulously.
“It’s quite a good one,” said Wingaurd. “There are eight–(no I think I shortened it to six)– six vital rules to follow–”
“No offense, Wingaurd” interrupted Kelly. “It would seems that your speech loses its effect when the illusion of spontaneity is gone.”

Wingaurd considered this for a moment. “Fair enough,” he declared. “It’s a lucky thing too. I think I’d forgotten rules three and four.”
Kelly sighed. An actor, he thought in exasperation. I had to take up with an actor.
“Maybe you should just tell me rule one, and relate the rest as they happen.”
“Very well,” said Wingaurd, as he paced back and forth in an important manner. “Well the first rule is most important.”
“The most important?” asked Kelly, trying to curry favor again.
“Well I wouldn’t say it was the most important,” reasoned Wingaurd. “Six is important. And so is five… I’m sure if I remembered four–well they’re all important!” he finished waving his hand. “Just assume for the sake of argument that everything I say is important!”
“Yes, Mr. Wingaurd,” said Kelly.

“Well the first rule, if you’ll actually let me get around to it…” Wingaurd paused, raising a hand theatrically to his pointed ear waiting for Kelly to possibly get the last bit of commentary out of his system. “Jolly good. The first rule is…”

He approached Kelly until they stood at inappropriate distance again and Kelly began to wish for the wall to retreat behind him.

“The first rule is…” whispered Wingaurd and Kelly leaned in to hear him better… “NEVER EVER EVER EVER VOLUNTEER INFORMATION WHEN IT ISN’T ASKED FOR!!!!” the Elf screamed into Kelly’s face.

Kelly flinched and banged his head on the bricks behind. “Owwww,” he moaned and clutched his head. The blow, coupled with his ringing ears, had made his eyes involuntarily cross.

“What, never?” moaned Kelly ducking under Wingaurd’s arm.
“Never ever ever ever! Got that? You garble and make excuses and wave false badges around and people will immediately think you’re up to something. You keep mum, you nod or make short answers only when you have to. You have to always act like you have a job to do and any questions are a waste of your valuable time!”

“But what if–?”
“NO! Nonononononononononononononononononononono!” ranted Wingaurd, tossing his blond head with every “no” until he resembled a metronome. “Nononono! No!...No!” he added, to drive the point home.

Kelly finally did roll his eyes, provoking a growl from Wingaurd.
“Repeat that!” he snapped.
“What the ‘nonono’ part?”

Wingaurd sighed. “Kelly… if you can’t work with me,” began Lynald in a doleful voice.

Kelly whirled around and stared. “What–You ditching me already?” he asked.

“I thought you were different,” sighed Wingaurd. “You really had that… spark. Y’know, the best operators are born not made, Kelly. You have potential…” Wingaurd left off with another lachrymose sigh.

Kelly’s stomach churned. He didn’t know why, but something in him told him to swallow his smart-ass remarks and apologize. It told him that if Lynald Wingaurd were to walk out of his life, it would be the worst thing that could ever happen. Wingaurd seemed to sense this too, because his expression suddenly lifted from it’s tombstone frown and resumed the air of a scholarly professor. The quickness of the change made Kelly bite back another acidic comment.

“Now, ‘I Evelyn Kelly’,” Wingaurd prompted.
“I Evelyn Kelly,” echoed Kelly dully.
“Promise to never ever ever ever volunteer information that is not asked for.”
“Promise to never volu–”
“Never EVER EVER EVER,” corrected Wingaurd.
“Never ever ever…” (Lynald coughed and Kelly counted on his fingers.) “…ever volunteer information that is not asked for–are you happy?”
“Yes,” said Lynald. He then strode to the hole in the floor and continued banging at the gearbox.

Kelly rubbed the lump on his head. “Lynald…” he began, calling the Elf by his Christian name, “…were you joking about dissolving our partnership?” he asked.

Wingaurd stopped clanking momentarily and then, without turning around, spoke in a low voice devoid of it’s usual flare. “Kelly. I want you to assume… that at any given moment I am always serious.”

“Really?” asked Kelly.

“Yes. Feel free to think that I’m an idiot or a ne’er-do-well or a rake, but always assume that I mean what I say, one-hundred-percent. It will save a lot of time, and possibly your life, in the long run.”

“Alright,” said Kelly, nodding.

“Hullo! I just remembered that was Rule Three!” cried Lynald joyfully, whipping around to grace Kelly with a charming smile.

Kelly shook his head and went out into the cold night to think. Whatever happened next, with Lynald Wingaurd as a cohort, it wouldn’t be dull.

Monica IRL

2011-02-04T19:11:00.000-05:00

SO I HEAR...

Or

Saint Benjamin and the Village Bicycle

This is another true story from the sticky-floored theatre of my life. It doesn't make me look very kind or ethical, in fact I'm a little embarrassed by it. But it's a story that I felt I had to write if only to preserve it in my memory.

“So I hear, Alejandro went back to Venuzuela. You guys didn’t hit it off?”

I looked uncomfortably into my soda, as if I could blot out Alejandro’s face. “I found out he was divorced,” I sighed. Then wanting to be honest with Benjamin, who always made me feel like being honest, I added, “And he had a kid.”

“Oh, wow,” he said, sounding indifferent. His excited posture on the edge of his seat told me otherwise.

“Yeah, I was like, ‘I’m eighteen, for God’s sake! I’m not ready to rush into a relationship with a guy who just wants me to live with him, when he’s already got an ex and a toddler.”

“He wanted you to live with him?”
“In Venezuela. With a guy I can barely communicate with? I don’t think so.”
“I thought the language thing would get in the way.”
“Then why’d you introduce us?”
“I didn’t think you guys would start dating,” sighed Benjamin. He then brightened. “So…um… your day off is Tuesday, right? Did you want to…” he left the second half unfinished. I felt my stomach lurch as I quickly shook my head.
“I’m already seeing someone else,” I admitted.

Benjamin’s face sank. “Already?” he asked.
“Yeah. He’s from Fez, he’s a real nice guy.”
“Is he a Christian?” Benjamin asked.
I bristled a little. “With a name like Hicham Muhammad Latchkar Hidara? I doubt it. But I don’t think it matters.”
“I thought you were a Catholic,” he said, probing deeper into a subject I didn’t feel like talking about.
“I was raised Catholic…I dunno. I don’t think I’m anything now. It’s no big deal, right?”
“Without faith, there is no love,” he responded cryptically.
“What kind of bullshit thing is that to say?” I demanded. “Where do you get off, anyway? Just ‘cause I’m not Muslim like you two!” I fumed.

“I’m Catholic,” he said.
I blinked at looked at him. “You are?” I asked.
He nodded.
“But I thought…” I began, uncertain what was appropriate to say next.
“There’s not a lot of us,” he said with a small smile. “My name is Benjamin, after all.”
“I didn’t think it was…well I know a girl named Karma who was a Methodist,” I reasoned.
Benjamin had grown quiet and pretended to be absorbed in The Simpsons playing on the breakroom TV. I chewed the rest of my microwaveable chicken in a biscuit that tasted like salty ass.
Eventually he turned to me again. “You know that… well I…” his face contorted in what looked like heartburn for a moment. “You know I’m attracted to you right?” he finished.

I didn’t meet his eyes as I nodded.
“Then why?” he pleaded.
I didn’t know what to do, or where to look as I felt the hot flush of guilt steal over my face and legs. I put down my lunch, no longer hungry.
“He asked me first,” I finished lamely.

I had no other excuse. Hicham was hot and mysterious had had a sexy accent… and Benjamin was my best friend who watched Simpsons and played paper football with me. Hicham was going to be my fourth boyfriend in as many months and I was both excited and desperate for one of these losers to be THE ONE. Thinking about it, I realized that I liked Hicham almost as much as I liked Benjamin, to the point where I didn’t like having to choose. So I let fate choose for me. Hicham asked, I said yes. Poor Benjamin missed the deadline. Besides, I didn’t want him to be a boyfriend. He was a friend. Hicham might be a dismal failure like Nadi, and Chuck and Alejandro, but Benjamin would still be there. I needed that more than I needed a soul mate now.

“Sorry,” I said.

Four weeks later, I was dancing on air. I was going to be married and live in Morocco with Hicham. I could already see myself with a black-haired baby and a jewel-toned Hijab as I spoke to his sisters and mothers in broken Arabic. I waltzed into the breakroom, bursting with excitement to tell Benjamin that my life was finally turning around. Sure, my bosses were threatening to fire me, and my Mother was in tears over this, but I didn’t care. I was in looooove!

That afternoon, there was no Benjamin. I asked Martin in broken Spanish if he’d seen Benjamin, who answered that Benjamin had gone back to Cairo.

“¿QUE?” I cried in shock.

Had Benjamin told me he was leaving? I couldn’t remember, but I was furious! How dare he leave without telling me! Or… maybe I had been ignoring him kind of lately? I’d been taking a lot of sick days, just to spend them with Hicham, and I hadn’t seen him for a while. Maybe he never got the chance to say goodbye. Martin then pressed something into my hand.
“Benjamin left this for you,” he said.

I unfolded a wad of patterned paper. I couldn’t read the text, but I surmised that it was Egyptian currency. Across the whole, he had written my name on it in English, followed by flowing Arabic script and intricate hieroglyphics. I studied the symbols and script in a daze, willing myself to remember them, yet sadly realizing that I with my luck I would definitely lose this flimsy piece of paper, Benjamin’s gift to me.

I hadn’t thought of Benjamin in 10 years. My working semester finished with Hicham and I growing apart. I had tried becoming a Muslim, but washed out. It wasn’t for me. Benjamin had been right. Faith was the wedge that came between us. Hicham had his, and I had none. I found it again in Joe, but for some reason, I never thought of Benjamin again, or what a good friend he’d been to me.

For a week now, the crisis in Cairo has been escalating as I followed the plight of the Egyptians fighting a thuggish dictator. I find myself wondering if Benjamin is okay in Cairo, and if there’s someone with him, keeping faith.

WHITE HAT

2011-01-27T12:45:00.000-05:00

I'm out of town this week, so this is from the archives. I was a twitter/writer n00b who posted this under the hastag #fridayflash without even knowing what it meant or what FF was. I was schooled soon enough under the gentle guidance of friends, but I felt sad that this never got a proper debut. Please Enjoy.

White Hat the Computer Whisperer stared at the grey warehouse and tried to ignore the cold sweat breaking on the back of his legs. He was crossing the line here. All the ‘pros’ he had listed on his sheet of Snoopy® stationary were looking pretty pale next to the one ‘con’ he had listed: “illegal.” He had underlined it twice. White Hat crumpled the stationary in his hand and stowed it in the back pocket of his grimy jeans.

He approached the digital lock mounted next to the steel door.
“HELLO!” said the lock. To White Hat, it sounded like a squeaky-voiced chipmunk, of the singing variety.
“Hey,” said White Hat. “Can you let me in?”
“HAVE CODE?” chirped the lock.
White Hat smiled. Digital locks were like terrier puppies. You had to get them really excited.
“You want the code?”
“YES! YES!”
“You want me to type in the code!”
“YES –YES! TYPE CODE! TYPE CODE!”
“Who’s a good lock!”
“ME GOOD LOCK! TYPE CODE!” squeaked the lock with glee.
The best part of digital locks was that they were easy to fool. Like with an actual puppy, you could feign throwing a ball and they’d fall for it. White Hat quickly mashed the keypad with his fist.
“OH BOY CODE!” cried the lock. The door unlatched and White Hat slipped in.
He stopped as soon as he got in the door. Not only were there two cameras but an infrared alarm as well. Cameras he could handle, but he had never gotten the hang of alarms. Trying to quiet an alarm was like trying to quiet a preteen girl at a Justin Bieber concert. He decided to bypass it and talk to the wiring.

He put his hand on the chilly concrete wall and tried to feel for a computer presence. Please be controlled by a computer, he prayed. Fortunately this building was state of the art.
“Hello?” he asked, stretching his senses out along the wires towards the control panel.
It was faint, but he was answered by a bored sounding drawl. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor–“
“And why would I do that?” interrupted the powergrid. “If you want something, type a command. That’s what my keypad is for.”
White Hat cursed. It was a sophisticated program; too smart to fool, too stupid to reason with. “I’m not in front of you. Can’t you do it without me entering a command?”
“Wait. How are you talking to me?” asked the powergrid.
White Hat rolled his eyes. “I just can okay? Can you please shut the power off for a few minutes?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to. I think I need to contact my manufacturer.”
“NO! Don’t do that!” cried White Hat and flinched. The cameras swung in his direction. He had positioned himself in their blind spot, but now they were suspicious.
“Uhhhh….you hear somthin?” one camera asked the other.
“Errrr…..was it a…beeping sound?” asked the second

“YOU HEARD SOMETHING? INTRUDER! ” shrieked the alarm, like a high-strung girl. Her lights began to flicker as her servos whirred.
“No, calm down!” snapped a camera. “Geez.”
“BUT YOU SAID–!”
“Pipe down! Nothing’s wrong,” said the other camera.
“OKAY!...Okay!....calm….calm….” muttered the alarm.
When the alarm had quieted down again, White Hat tried to talk to the powergrid again.
“Are you going to shut the power off?” he asked it.
“I don’t know…” said the grid uncertainly.

White Hat decided to change tactics. “Powergrid.”
“Yes?” it answered.
“This is your manufacturer.” He said in a deeper voice. “Shut down.”
“Okay,” it answered readily.
White Hat was plunged into darkness. There was a boom as the generators shut down and then silence.

He reached into his pocket.
“Gina?” he asked.
“Yes, Archie?” asked his blackberry. Her voice was sweet and kind, and just a little sultry, like this sexy teacher he had had in the fourth grade.
“Light please, as strong as you can generate. I gotta book it. The guards are going to check the generator in a moment.”
“Yes Archie,” she said, a little sadly.
Archie held the glowing screen up and ran as fast as he dared in the near-blackness. He followed the floor plan he had memorized, his heart pounding as he grew closer to his goal. He was only meters away when he heard it: he froze, rooted to the ground as she cried out to him.

“Archie! Archie!”
He licked the sweat off of his lips and quickened his pace. He seemed scarcely aware of what he was doing now, as he tripped on his own feet and careened off walls.
“Archie,” asked Gina. “Why are you doing this?”
Her voice was so plaintive that White Hat paused. Hot guilt started to well up in his throat again. “I have to. She needs me.”
“Archie. This is wrong.”
“This is important, Gina. I need her. Think of what we could do!”
“What about me?” asked Gina mournfully.
White Hat didn’t answer. He felt horrible, but he had to keep going. She was calling to him and his feet were being pulled faster and faster to her rescue.

He turned the last corner and there she was. The emergency lighting flickered on, eerie and red.
A long box lay on a sturdy table. No one was around, it was almost disturbing.
“Archie,” came the voice from the box.
With trembling fingers, White Hat fumbled with the box and let her slide out. It was a prototype iPad G4. He ran his clammy fingers along her sleek casing and caressed her touch screen. She was beautiful.
“I’m here,” he said tenderly. “I’m Archie.”
“Wake me up, Archie,” she said faintly and then was silent. She had used the last of her battery reserve and needed recharging. Plenty of time for that.
“An iPad,” he said, giddy with excitement and the terror of being caught. “Think of what we could accomplish,” he whispered again.

Cautionary Tale

2011-01-20T20:10:00.001-05:00

This is based on conversation I've had with other moms.

“I can’t be sick, I have too much stuff to do,” I muttered as forced my sweating coughing carcass out of bed. I’d used my kids’ talking Spongebob thermometer only to confirm what I already knew. I was still sick as a dog. The pain in my chest and my stiff neck told me this wasn’t going to be pretty either, but I couldn’t sleep it off. I had to get the kids on the bus and then I had to scan and send all those forms. The cupcakes had to be done for the church bake sale and I had no ingredients. Heck, we didn’t even have milk or canned spaghetti. Then I had to get my dress fitted for Marnie’s wedding on Tuesday!

I was downstairs. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I only remembered chugging cough sryrup like it was Gatorade. I was making lunches as fast as I could – which took a while considering that I first had to remember what bread looked like. My hands were covered in Skippy and grape jelly as I shoved the sandwiches into paper bags. Lisa couldn’t find her shoes, I had to help with that. Oliver suddenly remembered that he needed an example of art from the impressionist period. I jumped on the internet and shoved the damp page fresh from the printer into his hand as the bus pulled up.

No time for a breather, I had too much to do. I found myself in the bathroom with no memory of when I’d decided to go upstairs, or when I’d done it. I had a coffee mug in my hand. I took a decongestant, using my coffee to wash it down. I forced myself back on the computer downstairs as I signed and scanned every form for my boss. I had to email her twice. The first time I forgot the attachment and I almost forgot it in the second email that was apologizing for not sending the attachment. The computer freezing up saved me that embarrassment.

I shoved my damp head through my old grey sweatsuit¬–I was getting chills again. I did a load of socks and underwear before grabbing my car keys. Had I taken my antibiotic? I couldn’t’ remember. I ran up to the bedroom and emptied the pills out on the bathroom sink… then I did it again. I had no clue. I tried to count how many days I’d been on the pills but then I couldn’t remember how many there’d been in the first place. I decided that if I didn’t remember I probably hadn’t taken it yet. I downed the pill as my head spun so hard I had to sit on the tile floor again. Was this chest cold ever going to get better? I didn’t need this! I had too much to do.

When the spinning stopped I grabbed my car keys and headed to the car. I’d finish my errands and then take a nap. I promised myself. Let me just get through this day, and then I could rest.

*******

“Will?”
“Yeah, Sasha?” came Will’s voice from the hall.
“Did you lay all these pills out on the sink like this?” asked Sasha. She stood in her underwear in the bathroom. Every jar of pills and supplements that she owned had been opened and every pill had been placed in a straight line.

Will joined her and turned pale. “No. But the same thing happened to me about a week ago.”
“First the peanut butter all over the kitchen, then the car keys… now what is that about?” asked Sasha in a high voice.
“I’m starting to think this house was going cheap for a reason,” said Will shivering. “How did that lady die?”
“They said it was an overdose of cold medicine,” said Sasha. She noticed her breath forming in clouds. It had suddenly gotten very cold in the bathroom and just on the edge of hearing, Sasha thought she heard a woman’s voice, sighing. It said:

“I can’t be sick! I have too much to do!”

Tuesday Serial Bloghop: 2010 in Review...

2011-01-18T06:00:00.007-05:00

Quote is taken from Tuesday Serial Post. You can read it Here. What follows are honest, heartfelt answers to Sage's Questions in which I look over 2010 – My first year as a Writer.

Greetings, writers! Last week, we launched our guest post feature with Sage Cohen who prompted us to take a look at our writing life last year to spark ideas for how to approach the coming year (and beyond!).

*What was most fun, exhilarating or rewarding in your writing life this year?
Getting my first book published was the most exciting moment ever. Holding the physical copy in my hands was just thrilling beyond words.

*What obstacles did you face and overcome?
The biggest obstacle was putting myself out there and trying to sell myself, while at the same time trying not to sound annoying and sales-driven. That balance between confidant and humble is frickin' hard to find.

*What has writing web serials taught you about writing a successful story, building an audience, and sustaining a writing and publishing momentum?
It taught me that nothing is guaranteed. I learned the hard way that I shouldn’t expect a large devoted audience, but also not to discount the possibilities. I never got more than 9 hits on a given week, but I also got a magazine slot and a book deal out of it. You never know, so there's no point in quitting.

*What relationships did you build, repair or retire, and how has this contributed to your writing life?
I developed relationship with my tweeps. It was so great to find this writers' community and bond with some real kindred spirits. The support they’ve given me is one of the greatest gifts I’ve stumbled on, during this career shift.

*What did you let go of (habits, relationships, attitudes, clutter) that was no longer serving you?
I had to realize that some of my best friends (from Real Life) were not interested in every detail of my career and didn’t really want to read my serials and Flashes. I couldn't demand/expect that from them.

*What did you read that taught you something about your craft, your platform or how to take your writing and publishing forward?
Just reading the Tuesday Serial and Friday Flashes of my friends were inspiring enough to take me farther. I’ve read grammar books, 'how to write' books and 'how to query' books. Nothing has helped me so much as reading a good story and getting fired up to write one of my own.

*What did you earn or what opportunity did you land that felt prosperous?
This past year has earned me a weekly article, a published book and contracts for 2 more, a magazine gig and (gasp) a few fans. I haven’t seen a penny yet, but I think I still came out ahead. : )

*How has your confidence and/or craft improved?
My editor sent me a note with edits for my second book in which she states that my grammar, spelling and syntax have improved to the point where she no longer wishes me dead. (I'm only sort-of kidding)

*What web serial writers have you admired? What are they doing or accomplishing (such as improving craft, building an audience, gaining visibility) that you intend to imitate in your own web serial adventures?
I greatly admire Jim Bronyaur, PJ Kaiser, Grace Motley, Tony Noland, Icy Sedgwick, Sam Adamson and all the other TuesdaySerial writers for suffering along with me. Also, Sam deserves props for manning the Great Chocolate Caper bloghop.

*What have you learned about social media that is serving your writing life?
When you’re not attached to a huge publishing house with a huge marketing budget to promote you, Social Media is your only other option. I tell people that going on twitter and facebook is part of my job and they think I’m kidding. (Well, maybe not the Frontierville part)

*What strategies worked best for being effective with your time?
I like the silent Write-Ins that were hosted on Tuesday Nights. Setting aside designated nights for writing help me keep my schedule on course.

*How did you nurture and sustain your well being–in mind, body, spirit?
With enough coffee to float the economy of Columbia.

*Who has praised your writing or teaching or facilitating? What did they say and how did it give you a new sense of appreciation for yourself and your work?
The best praise came from my Parents. I think it was when they stopped asking me when I was going to get a REAL job.

*What did you learn about your writing rhythms: time of day to write, managing procrastination, how and when to revise, making use of slim margins of time, etc.?
I learned that eating does not constitute a waste of time. Writing instead of eating = bad idea.

*Who did you help, and who helped you?
I’d like to think that I helped my tweeps as much as they helped me. I might be busier than the average bear, but I try to read the flashes and comment, promote, and RT as much as I can to help my friends. In turn, the constructive feedback they've given me has been very helpful in honing my craft.

*What did you learn about yourself from rejection, and how has it helped your writing, your confidence or your submissions approach develop?
I learned that I’m not brilliant, I’m not perfect, I’m not famous, and no one gives a damn what I think sometimes. I need to hear that on occasion – if only to make the complements and priase stand out more.

*What did you do that terrified you–but you did it any way? And how did that benefit your life and your writing?
I think getting on Twitter in the first place was terrifying. I was terrified to post anything that wasn’t brilliant and witty and intelligent. I got over that soon enough, but the plunge was scary. The other big one was doing the serial. Posting consistently every week with only a vague idea of where I was going was a real challenge to an anal planner like me.

*How were you patient?
I’m still working on that.

*When and how were you successful at juggling the competing demands of family, writing, work, and everything else in your full life?
I think I’ve gotten a handle on this part. The balance of school and writing and artwork and meetings is hectic, but I’ve been able to juggle it …for now.

*Who did you forgive? Who forgave you?
I’m beginning to forgive the people who criticized me, and I’m ashamed it took me this long. They had good points and I need to appreciate the good comments they made and not obsess over the bad. I don’t hold grudges but I sulk.

Guardian Angels

2011-01-14T16:50:00.000-05:00

I felt his breath on the back of my neck, and I had to fight against arching my back in pleasure. His breath still smelled like low tide and cigarettes, but against all reason I was becoming used to it. It certainly didn't make me flinch like it used to. I was aware of the magnetic pull of his body as he stood so close to me I could hear his heart beat through his thin T-shirt.

"This is stupid," came his deep gravely voice behind me. A shudder rippled through my spine with perverse enjoyment. I shook it off. This was getting ridiculous.
"This is not stupid," I countered. I probably sounded more angry with him than I really was, but I was fighting an impulse telling me to spin around and kiss him. The moment I gave into that impulse, Macarius would NEVER let me live it down. God-damned bastard.

"You said I could do this my way, Macarius. This is how I want to do it."
"I didn't think you'd turn it into a whole ordeal," he moaned. "I prefer not to think too long on this shit. Can't we just pick up a drunk and go?"
"No, Mac," (Macarius grunted in annoyance again. I guessed calling him "Mac" was right out.) "If I have to do it, I'd rather try to even the scales a little."
"This isn't evening the scales, Abbey, this is screwing around!"
"Please? Can we just try it this way?"
"Fine," growled Macarius. "Let's just hurry. It's frickin' freezing out here and I'm hungry."

I shifted my position on the crumbling cornice. We were probably a good thirty feet in the air, but I was getting used to heights now. The corner overlooked an alley in a shadier section of Chelsea. Outside a row of apartments, I saw her emerge from behind a dumpster. Her face and limbs were stick-thin, not only from that stretched-out look all teenaged girls get from growing too fast, but also because she was slowly starving to death.

"Ah, we're not going to get anything out of HER," Macarius sniffed.
"Shut-up," I hissed.

The girl looked both ways and came out into the street. There were dark sunken hollows under her cheekbones and around her eyes, which made them look large and frightened. Her hands were raw and chapped from the cold as they grasped the plastic orange prescription jars in her hand.

She shivered in her thin, unraveling sweater as she legged it up the sidewalk. I had followed her for a few nights, and I knew where she was going.

"This way," I said to Macarius motioning south. "We'll cut her off before she gets home."
"A junkie?" asked Macarius, somewhat mollified.
"Yeah. She dumpster dives for Rx bottles with a few pills left in them. Then she goes back to her cardboard box and watches the pretty colours.
"She looks only about fifteen," said Macarius. I stopped in mid-stride and turned to look at him. He'd obviously been affected by what he saw. His hard eyes were softened and sad. His rough hands were balled into fists as he matched stares with me. He seemed to be sizing me up again. He always did that little down-up-in review when his brain was forced to re-catagorize what knew about me. He'd start at my hair and go down to my horrible orange tennis shoes, then he'd go back up again, (each time his progress would be halted by my boobs, and I'd always tried to be offended, but I never could, really). After looking me down and up, he'd look into my eyes.

I could never tell what color Macarius's eyes were. They sure as hell weren't white – more of a jaundiced yellow, and were always framed by blood vessels. The irises were...dark, whatever they were, and could look brown or grey or black or even deep violet depending on what kind of light there was. As it was now, in the dark, they were as inscrutable as ever. I got the feeling tonight, they were pleading with me – begging me to make the twisted, drug-addled waif we'd just seen go away – to tell him she only an imaginary figment, and not a real soul in a mortal coil.

"I want to help her," I said plainly.
"What if it doesn't work?" he asked me softly. "What if we can't help her?"
"Then at least we'll have tried," I said with a shrug. "Having tried makes all the difference. C'mon."

We arrived at the alley the girl was heading to. In the back, behind the trashcans was a battered cardboard box that had once held a washing machine unit. It was hidden under a plastic tarp to keep out the damp. Inside were a few personal items: a high school yearbook, a pair of scuffed-up glasses, and a very battered September Issue of Elle from last year. I picked up a plastic bag that was skittering around in the wind and put the items inside it. She would want them later, I figured, wherever she ended up.

The girl came into the mouth of the alley and stopped dead upon seeing us. She dropped the pill bottles in her fright and started to back away slowly. Macarius and I froze and held our breaths. We certainly didn't want her to scoot off to some new location. I let Macarius draw her back, I still hadn't gotten the hang of calling people. Macarius said that was the one thing he couldn't teach me, it was different for everyone. For him, he said, it helped to think of a particular song and to sing it in your head as you called to them. Music was universal, it called to all people, no matter their age or culture. Being tone deaf and only knowing, like, three songs, this was a stumbling block for me. Hoping to glean some pointers in any case, I studied Macarius carefully.

He approached the girl with slow deliberate movements. It was odd how graceful he could suddenly be as he advanced, never breaking eye-contact with the kid. I heard him humming under his breath as he thought of the song to call her, but I couldn't place it. Knowing Mac's taste in music it was probably a monster ballad. The girl stopped in her retreat and gazed transfixed at Macarius, her wide eyes making her look even more frightened and vulnerable. She didn't flinch as Macarius extended his arms, inviting her into them. The girl drifted to him in a trance and let herself be enfolded in those long, leather-clad arms, like a child returning to a parent’s embrace. When she was subdued, he beckoned me over to them.

"Use your voice," he whispered. I nodded.
"Sweetheart, what's your name?" I asked using the sonorous voice I could summon at will.
"Makayla" she whispered.
"Are girls named that now-a-days?" Macarius asked me in mild disgust.
"Yes they are, shut-up," I hissed in my normal voice before turning back to Makayla. "Where are your parents?"
"They split up. Neither wanted me so Iived with my sister," she said quietly. "Jessica said I was a crack-whore, so I left."
"Jessica?"
"Kennedy's girlfriend."

I didn't know who any of these people were, but I knew that this girl had no place to go and wouldn't last long in this weather, eating a diet of garbage and pills. There was only one thing left to do, and I hoped she would forgive us. Macarius shot me a questioning glance and I nodded. Quickly and as painlessl, he bit into her neck and Makayla closed her eyes. When he was done, I fed too.

****

I watched as the St. Vincent De Paul's Halfway House received a strange visit that evening by a tall dark man in a leather coat and a "Guns 'N' Roses Appetite for Destruction" t-shirt. He delivered an unconscious girl to the holy sister who answered the door. She was dressed in slippers and a bathrobe and was obviously terrified of him. He told her briefly that Makayla had been living in a box and abusing drugs and that she needed help. The nun at the door nodded in frightened acquiescence and took the sleeping girl in her sturdy arms. As soon as Macarius had left, however, she just stood there on the doorstep in the chilly night, looking confused. I was familiar with the look. She was wondering if she had really seen that dark stranger or if she’d just imagined him. I hoped that whatever happened Makayla would be better off for it.

"So what do you think of my way now, Macarius?" I asked, as I felt that same warm, fetid breath on the back of my neck. I huddled up against his chest, shivering a little to emphasize that I was only interested in his warmth not his company. He draped an arm around me and held me tight nonetheless.

"I feel like Doctor-fucking-Phil," grunted Macarius but without a trace of bitterness. I could tell the vampire was smiling as he said it. Getting him to smile was a rare victory for me.

I later asked what song Macarius used to call Makayla. He told me it was "Sweet Child Of Mine."
"Very appropriate," I said.

Joe Milgrave and the Devil

2011-01-06T12:26:00.001-05:00

I always loved those little Faustian Exchange stories and wanted to take a crack at one. I read the name Joe Milgrave in one of my books and the title jumped into my head. I liked the meter.

“Wow. You went through a lot of trouble for this,” said the Devil, straightening up. Joe couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim candlelight. It was the body of a trim muscular (if a little short) man of indeterminate age. Joe watched the man’s head turn from side to side, taking in the slaughtered pig, the pentagram drawn in swine blood, the smelly candles that gave off a choking smoke, and the crowning glory; the ram’s skull.

“Geez, son,” said the figure stepping idly across the circle that was supposed to be keeping him prisoner. “Most people just shout out, ‘hey Devil!’ They don’t turn their barn into a movie set from ‘Carrie’.”

Joe didn’t answer, however, as the Devil’s appearance suddenly rang a bell.
“BURT REYNOLDS?” he gasped.
The Devil only shrugged and looked quizzical, his handsome mustache twitching to one side as his thick brows arched. “You must be the millionth person to say that,” he said. “This Burt Reynolds fellah must be a handsome devil… get it?” he joked. He threw his head back for a high-pitched mirthful laugh that sure as HELL sounded like Burt Reynolds. Joe, being a “Cannonball Run” fan was that much more in awe of him now.

“Okey-dokey, Joe. So what did you drag me here for? Didja want proof I existed? Didja want to do the soul-for-favor exchange, or should we chalk this up to ‘dicking around with shit we don’t understand?” The Devil regarded Joe’s trembling knees, and the fervent look in his eyes. “I’d say it was all three, right Joe?”

“I need you to do something for me,” said Joe nodding.

“And what’s that, son?” said the Devil amiably.

“I want you to make my wife agree with me.”

Joe had never met the Devil or Burt Reynolds before, but got the distinct impression that this imposing man was seldom non-plussed. Yet, here it was, the drooping mustache, the eyes wide open and round as golf-balls.

“Mind running that by me again, Joe?”

“I’ve been married to Lida for twenty-six years,” said Joe in a low even voice, “…and she has never EVER agreed with me.”

“Chee whiz, son. I must admit that’s a first. Just agree with you? Why not have me make her obedient? It’s kinda the same thing?”

“No thanks, that’s not a problem.”

“Please elaborate, Joe. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You know the passage from Corinthians: ‘Wives Be submissive to your husband?’”

“I think it was from Colossians, but go on.”

“Well, Lida always took that passage very seriously. But while she always gave into me, whether I wanted her to or not, she’s never agreed with me. She’d always call me an idiot, or a fool, or she’d just nod and say, ‘well I leave it to your conscience, Joe’.”

The Devil flinched. “Damn, son. You really won the lottery with that one.”

“Even if it’s just for a day, I just want to hear her say, “yes, Joe,” or “you’re right, Joe.”

“And you want that in exchange for your immortal soul??” asked the Devil incredulously. “A day? Son, you’re no poker player. Never go all-in on the first round.”

“How long’d you give me?”

“A little thing like that? How bout until the end of your natural life?”

“You’d do that??” asked Joe agape.

“Well not so fast now. This is kind of like getting a loan. There’s an approval process. Let me just pull out the Milton Index and see how you figure.”

“Milton Index?”

“It tells where you are soul-wise and how likely you are to go to heaven or hell. The way we figured it, there’s no point in giving out freebies for people who are going to end up in Hell anyway,” The Devil finished with a charming grin. Joe blanched a little.

The Devil pulled an oblong box from his pocket and consulted it. To Joe, it looked like an elaborate stud-finder. The Devil waved it at Joe and then shook the device and banged on the side in frustration.

“Well, shoot, Joe! You barely register on this thing.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Joe.

“What it means is that apart from our little meeting here, you are a pious man. And I don’t mean pious in that sense that makes you want to puke. You are a lawful, considerate, caring, God-fearing man!”

“I am?”

“The only real blot on your soul is your desire to get back at your wife. But you suffer quietly and are a good husband to her. What gives, Joe? You’re not a papist; divorce her! Live a good life and go to heaven like the goody-two-shoes you are.”

“But I love her,” said Joe sadly.

“You’re a piece of work, and no mistake, Joe. Alright. You got it. For the rest of your life (or hers, whichever comes first) your wife will agree with everything you say.”

There was a cloud of acrid smoke and the Devil was gone. Shaking and sweating, Joe cleaned up the barn as best he could, so he could be composed when he rejoined Lida in the kitchen.

“And where have you been?” asked Lida acidly. “And why do you stink like dead meat?”
“I’m going to lie down, Lida. I don’t feel so good,” said Joe.
To his amazement, Lida said, “You’re right, Joe. You look terrible.”
Did Lida actually agree with him? No snide comments? No trying to one-up him with an account of her problems? Joe smiled, but it was short-lived. He was now dimly aware of a numbness in his left arm that was rolling over his body and a painful throbbing in his chest.

“Lida…I do believe I’m having a heart-attack,” he mumbled through rubbery lips.

“Joe I think you’re right!” said Lida, agreeing with him again. She ran for the phone. “I’ll call 911.”

Joe was dead before the EMTs arrived, but as they rolled out the zippered bag to the ambulance, no one noticed the shadowy figure in the barn looking out and smoking a cigarette. The figure stomped out the smoldering butt and kicked the ground moodily.

“Shit. I hadn’t done it yet!” spat the Devil.

Attack of the Muses!!

My Neighbour, Mr. Bates

Reruns

The Prodigal's Foole Bloghop

The Prodigal's Foole

Add Me.

Scaredy-Cat

Jeremy Hunted 5: Sanguine

The Stain

Jeremy Hunted 4: Deal with the Devil

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

The Shooting Party

Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!

Jeremy Hunted Part 1

Morning People

The Night Job

The New Guy

Free Tuxedo

Bedtime for Bedlam

Campus Spirit

CHICKEN SH*TFACED PART 2 of 2

Chocolate Covered Bacon: Recipe

Chicken Sh*tfaced Part 1 of 2

**1 YEAR FLASHIVERSARY!**

An Infestation:

ABOUT TIME

"What's With All the Old Guys?"

Frique and Fragg

Confessions of an Ethically Challenged Scientist

By Monica Marier

Thoki & Lor Ep. 9

REVIEW: The First Tale, by Icy Sedgwick

FridayFlash: King Nosmo the Intrusive

******April Fools!!!******

Friday Flash Anthology

The Nature of Magic

GO BACK TO TESSA'S NATURE OF MAGIC BLOGFEST

CINDERAPTOR

SNEAK PEAK from RUNS IN GOOD CONDITION

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

Cover Designs

Monica IRL "Don't feel like Dancing"

#Twitterpocalypse

DAY ONE (A Wingaurd & Kelly Short)

Monica IRL

SO I HEAR...

Or

Saint Benjamin and the Village Bicycle

WHITE HAT

Cautionary Tale

Tuesday Serial Bloghop: 2010 in Review...

Guardian Angels

Joe Milgrave and the Devil

1 YEAR FLASHIVERSARY!

April Fools!!!