tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52949832445879194422024-02-20T10:16:40.071-05:00Attack of the Muses!!A writer's notebook of character sketches, observations, short stories, rants, raves etc. Occasionally some excerpts from upcoming novels.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-19630305080466250512012-09-16T18:40:00.000-04:002012-09-16T18:40:03.776-04:00"Why, she works at a Nail Salon, Watson..."<br />
<b>Attention Mystery writers!</b><br />
I had a total Sherlock Holmes moment yesterday at the nail salon that I thought I might as well share, and that is this:<br />
Nail Salon employee's have very distinctive nails.<br />
<br />
*Their feet are always impeccable; they tend to wear flipflops in the coolest of weather, so as not to smudge their toe polish which is reapplied frequently and flawlessly, sometimes with rhinestone adornment.<br />
<br />
*Their HANDS, however are usually very plain and always bare and devoid of polish. Their cuticles are trimmed, and their nails are neat and somewhat dry and yellow owing to (I assume) frequent exposure to polish remover.<br />
<br />
*The thumbnail of the DOMINANT hand is curiously flat and the underside of the thumbnail is always spattered with many colours of polish. This is because, when their clients' polish tends to pool near the nail bed, they will correct this with a quick application of the thumbnail. This happens so frequently, that they almost never attempt to clean the polish, possibly that at some point it is assumed it will NEVER come off.<br />
<br />
Possibly not important, but there if you need it.<br />
Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-43531082773158070022012-09-11T09:48:00.000-04:002012-09-11T09:48:19.785-04:00My 9-11 storyBy Monica Marier<br />
<br />
Okay, I don't think I've really written this down before, so I'm going to record it as accurately as I can.<br />
<br />
On September 11th 2001, I was an Art Student at George Mason University in Northern Virginia. I was on financial aide so I worked mornings and some afternoons in the Music Department as a desk-monkey, taking messages and stuffing envelopes. I walked into the office that morning, like it was any other day. I plopped down my bookbag and got out my copy of Dracula that I was reading for the billionth time. It was then that I heard Tammy, my boss on the phone talking to someone in a frantic voice.<br />
<br />
"Calm down, Patricia! What are you talking about? You just saw a plane crash? What?"<br />
<br />
Tammy put down the phone, her face white, and said to no one in particular.<br />
"Dr. Miller said she just saw a plane crash into the Pentagon from her balcony."<br />
<br />
We were gobsmacked.<br />
What was going on?<br />
<br />
We ran to the radio at the back of the office and switched it on. We stood like stunned cattle listening to the NPR report that terrorists had hijacked a plane and crashed it into the pentagon. Then I heard that the twin towers were gone too.<br />
<br />
I felt cold and numb all over. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. This was some plot lifted out of a Keanu Reeves action film. This stuff didn't happen in real life.<br />
<br />
It was when I heard that there was a bomb at the State Department that I lost it. My dad worked at the State Department. I later found out it was a false alarm, but at the time I was already raw with fear. I burst into blubbering tears until Tammy quietly suggested I go back to my dorm.<br />
<br />
I didn't though. I walked to the Johnson Centre, where TV's had been wheeled out, and I stared tear-stained as the footage from the Twin Towers crash was playing on a continuous loop. I saw it hit over and over hurting me like a sharp blow to the chest. My room didn't have a TV all day I stared in dumb horror at the screens as they became available. I didn't eat lunch. I picked numbly at my dinner as the news counted more and more deaths that day, and a plane downed in Pennsylvania.<br />
<br />
As it got dark later that evening, I stumbled back to the dorm and stumbled upon a group of people gathered around a statue of George Mason, their heads bowed in prayer. I was only a lapsed Catholic at the time, but I felt the urge to join in that circle. Two hands gladly grasped mine, damp with the effort of getting through that day. We prayed to God to give us strength that day. We prayed for the dead. We prayed for protection from death that everyone felt could strike us at any moment.<br />
We were terrified.<br />
<br />
As the circle broke up, we found ourselves clinging to small groups as we walked back to our respective dorms. We were all strangers to each other, yet we sought comfort in each other's company, making small talk as we walked back to our spartan rooms. I called my boyfriend (my future husband) and tried to make sense of it all.<br />
<br />
The next day, we went to class. Two of my teachers were practicing Muslims and didn't come to school that day out of fear. We used the class period to write them a letter about how much we still appreciated them.When they came back the next week we hugged them and cried.<br />
<br />
As people became able to talk about the event, I was amazed to discover that many of my friends' parents (who all worked in the city and Pentagon) had all had amazing coincidences that kept them from the Pentagon that day. One had been running late due to a flat tire. One had decided to go out for a coffee run. One who had an office on the side that was demolished had been asked to visit a colleague on the other side of the building. One had simply felt the urge to play hooky that day and called in sick.<br />
<br />
I actually don't remember much of the rest of that semester. For three months I seemed to be in a walking dream. I only remembered that in my mother's house (which was right under the flight path for Dulles Airport) that every time I heard a plane engine overhead, I would tremble all over.<br />
<br />
~Monica Marier.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-43367599328599038442012-08-31T23:26:00.000-04:002012-09-01T14:29:30.802-04:00Home Sweet Home<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
By Monica Marier</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…And then what happened?” asked Kathy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia’s shoulders hunched as she stifled a full-body
shudder. With tears in her eyes and a trembling voice she looked up into the
bright lights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We… uh… we kept feeling a presence. An evil presence that
we knew immediately wanted us out. We… sorry…” Celia broke down and Kathy put a
comforting hand on her shoulder. Celia rocked on the snow white couch and
fanned her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Then things started happening. We heard
footsteps downstairs at night, when we checked on them, everyone was still in
bed. The radio would randomly switch on and play music— it was always music
from the 30’s. We’d feel cold spots. Strange stains would appear in the
wallpaper and would be gone the next morning. Then… it started attacking the
kids.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia looked away from Kathy as
she spoke, her eyes focusing on her husband standing nearby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My youngest would wake up with strange bruises
and scratches all over him. My husband would wake up to find me hovering over
the bed. Blood dripped down the walls… Finally we tried to leave… but it wouldn’t
let us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you’re here now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not for <i>long</i> anyway. We’re still prisoners of
the house to this day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kathy looked away from Celia
finally and said in a cheerful clear voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Celia Lintzer’s book ‘The
Ghost in an American Dream’ is on the top best-seller list for the twentieth
week, and Warner Brothers has greenlit the movie version. Are you excited?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia bravely dried her
tears and nodded, seemingly recovered. “Yes, the studio has just signed Renee
Zelwiger to play my part. I think it’s slated to come out fall next year.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Chilling stuff,”
said Kathy with a botox-numbed mug to the camera. “Well, just for the sake of
argument, what’s your reaction to people who insist that this is all an
elaborate hoax? That there’s no evidence of your house being built over the
graves of drowned witches<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">—</span>
that the reported events have no eyewitness other than yourself, and that the
priest you said blessed the house and the detective you hired claim to never
have met you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia’s smile
froze a little and a mad glint sparked into her eyes, but she took a deep
breath and settled into the white chintz again. “Well, that’s simply not true. I don’t blame
the Catholic Church for wanting to cover up what proved to be a botched exorcism
rite, and our governor has made it abundantly clear that they don’t want this
event to sully the town’s reputation. We are in a housing crisis, after all. I’m
sure the price of homes would drop if any potential buyers knew…” Celia
dissolved into blubbering sobs again. “…what we went through. And then some
might simply be lying out of fear,” she added quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re of
course referring to the mysterious accidents that befell the psychic team that
investigated the house,” said Kathy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Smothered in
a fire,” said Celia Lugubriously. “Yes the house took its revenge on them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, but the
psychics supposedly found no paranormal activity in the house,” said Kathy
pointedly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They found…”
said Celia, “That the only thing to have survived the fire was a copy of my
book.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And then
there was the man who wrote a book exposing the house’s activity as a hoax; he
died before his book was published,” said Kathy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And so did
the owner executive of the publishing company,” said Celia, wiping away another
tear. “They were in the same car, when it burst into flames. And the only thing
that wasn’t destroyed in the fire…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…Was a copy
of your book,” finished Kathy with a showy shudder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I still
suffer nightmares from the whole experience, and I only pray that the house
doesn’t come for me next.” Celia shrank into a ball and Kathy dutifully
comforted her. She leant next to Celia and whispered, “You’re running us over,
shut up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well thanks
for coming on our show, Celia,” said Kathy in her stage voice. “Cathy’s book is
available in all major book retailers. We’ll be right back!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The camera man
made a gesture and Celia got up from the couch with a cold nod to Kathy and met
her husband, Bill, near the edge of the sound stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well that
went well,” said Bill in a bored voice. “Now hurry up, we have to pack for our
flight for New York.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stupid bitch,”
said Celia. “I know exactly what she was trying to do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe the
rumors of fire-related deaths were a bit much,” said Bill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You <i>told </i>me to say fire,” accused Celia in a
low voice. “You said the fire thing tied it altogether so nicely. Besides, no
one ever checks that crap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well Raimi
called and said he wanted to make a few artistic changes to the movie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If he turns
me into a sobbing doormat, I’m going to shove that script up his ass,” said
Celia stabbing at the air with her keys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They sat in the Lexus and exchanged a
tiny grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who could
ever think you’re a doormat, Cece?” said Bill and they exchanged a sterile
kiss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They walked
through the wide door of the blue Dutch Colonial and checked their watches. The
kids would be at the nanny’s until she dropped them off again at 7.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you want
to have sex?” asked Celia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” asked
Bill in mild surprise. They hadn’t slept next to each other for over three
years now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m bored,”
said Kathy with a shrug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure,” said
Bill, throwing his coat on the floor. He then thought better of it and hung the
designer leather jacket up on a hanger before he joined Kathy. When he got
upstairs he saw her standing in her underwear staring at the bed. She was white
and shaking, her shirt still half-off. Bill looked where she was staring and
froze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bed was
bleeding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ground
began to tremble as the crucifix on the wall (bought shortly before the
psychics showed up, just for the look of things) rotated on its nail until it
was head down. They stepped away from the tide of blood as it approached them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t
understand this,” said Celia in a shaking voice. “It’s not real. None of it’s
real.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Someone is
playing a prank on us,” said Bill in a husky voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A voice came
out of the heating duct that seemed to vibrate them from inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>“I am very dissappointed,</b></i>” it said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It can’t be
true! I don’t believe it’s true!!” shrieked Celia tearing at her hair as the
blood lapped at her toes. “Who’s doing this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“THE HOUSE IS
DOING IT!” cried Bill and they both knew it was true. “But that’s impossible!
It’s not haunted! It’s never been haunted! There’s no such thing!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The radio
switched on and played Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A wave of blood washed over Bill and he was gone, there was only his white hand sinking into what seemed a bottomless sea of crimson.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“WHY?!”
shouted Celia. “Why are you doing this?” she shouted at the ceiling as the
radio rose to a deafening volume.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia felt a cold hand on
her shoulder and feeling numb, she turned around. She saw closet door as it
yawned open and black rotted hands, dripping with ichor dragged her into the
darkness. Before she felt her mind slipping away she felt a voice in the dark
space behind her eyeballs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>“You shouldn’t have lied,”</i></b>
it said <i><b>“Houses have feelings too.”</b></i><o:p></o:p></div>
Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-74300213428923683572012-08-23T12:30:00.004-04:002012-08-24T09:44:39.363-04:00Back to School<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Monica IRL</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
by Monica Marier<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s nothing quite so jarring to a child as being brutally
torn from the warm comforting womb of kindergarten to be dumped in the grey antiseptic
hell that is First Grade. I remember walking into the classroom and noting how
grey everything was. Of course, things were always grey in 1987 Warsaw , the
coal dust clouds in the air turned everything in the city into shades of mud
and charcoal, but this room really <i>was</i>
grey and I longed for my Kindergarten classroom. The cheerless walls full of
rules for spelling and math replaced the happy pictures of teddies and children
playing. The cold grey linoleum replaced the soft, if somewhat stained, red
carpet. Instead of group tables that I shared with the classmates I loved,
there were only grey metal desks of solitude. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shivered in my Kangaroo high-tops as I entered. There was
no love, no mercy, no escape. A thin brisk woman ushered us into the class. Her
lips were pinched and pruney, and they did not smile at us. She patted her cropped
wiry hair which stood up on her head like a sergeant’s beret. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Welcome back to school, first graders. I am your teacher. My
name is Mrs. Virginia Fünke.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not kidding. That was her name. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as a kid I knew this was an absurd name, and under
other circumstances I would have laughed a good hour over it. But there was no
titter of giggles, no one even cracked a smile. We were as sober and scared as
if she had just said, “I am Satan, Prince of Darkness.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And this is our class aide, Mr. Lowe,” she continued
gesturing to the back of the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ground shook as suddenly from the dark recesses of the
classroom came a cyclopean nightmare. A six foot seven giant of a man made of
solid muscle. His beefy face was red, his lips screwed into a frown. He glared at us through tinted glasses in
aviator frames as the fluorescent lights glinted on his sparsely-covered head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<b><i>HULLO</i></b>,” he barked in a deep Australian accent. “<b><i>I'M MISTER LOWE.</i></b>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those of us with dry pants gazed up in abject terror. He
seemed to sense this for his frown deepened and he said no more. Mrs. Fünke called the role but most of us had forgotten our names by now and had to be
asked twice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now look at the worksheet on your desk,” Mrs.
Fünke said in
her clipped tones.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We looked down at a black and white Xerox. It was supposed
to be a jolly picture of a circus train, each train containing happy animals or
something. The joy was sucked out, however, by the dingy light filtering
through the barred windows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fill in the train cars with the alphabet,” said Mrs.
Fünke,
and we scrambled for our pencil boxes, frantic to obey her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“… in pen,” she added. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world stopped dead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In pen? Was she serious? Pen was—well it was indelible! Pen
was an accident waiting to happen. Most of us, at this point had never even
been allowed to wield one let alone do school work with one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With shaking fingers
I pulled out my standard issue ballpoint pen and pulled the cap off. The
unfamiliar smell of cheap ink turned my stomach as my chubby fingers gripped
the implement. Slowly, with the care of a jeweler cutting a priceless diamond,
I dug the pen into the paper. I could feel Mr. Lowe staring at me, and knew
instinctively (quite accurately I might add) that he was waiting for an excuse
to pounce. After I completed an uppercase and lowercase “Aa” I allowed myself
to breathe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The “Bb” and the “Cc” came easier and by the “Ff” I’d hit my
stride. I was beginning to ignore the cold sweat on my neck and the piercing eyes
of Mr. Lowe as they glinted behind his dark glasses, watching our every
movement. I had just finished the “Zz” when I realized with a horrible shudder
that something was wrong. There was an extra box at the end. Feeling feverish I
searched the worksheet and discovered to my horror that I had completely
skipped the letter “M.” How did I miss “M”? It was the first letter of my name,
for God’s sake! But there it was,” Ll…Nn…Oo,” permanently scribed in noxious
blue ink. I saw a shadow loom over my desk and I my insides froze. Fearing it
was the titanic Mr. Lowe, I hunched up, trying to make myself small and
unappetizing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How are we getting on?” came Mrs.
Fünke’s low voice over my
head. I felt only a little relieved. I looked up into her gimlet stare and knew
I was dead woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>I umsle bumble num,</i>” I stammered in a barely perceptible
voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What was that?” she asked coldly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I made a mistake, see?” I confessed, showing her the extra
box and the missing “M”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I see,” said Mrs.
Fünke eyeing my childish scrawls
critically. “I guess you’ll just have to do it again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She then placed a new blank sheet on my desk and I felt her
words burn me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
DO. IT. AGAIN.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt tears rising in my eyes and knew there was no holding
them back. My lip trembled and my nose ran as my face prickled and stung. Then
the damn broke. Wet hot tears rolled down my face, contorted with the effort of
not making a sound, and splashed onto the virgin paper. Despite my efforts,
little whimpers escaped my lips, alerting my classmates to my predicament. Most
were probably sympathetic, but all I could hear was the whispers of my hated
nickname that I earned last year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crybaby. Look crybaby is crying. Teacher made crybaby cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went blind at that point, the tears blurring everything
around me as I stared fixedly at my desk. The next thing I could hear was Mr.
Lowe looming over me and roaring: <b><i>“STOP CRYIN’! FOR GOD’S SAKE, GIRL! STOP CRYIN’!”</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember very little of the rest of that day. I only
remember that the rest of the year was just as awful and as was the longing I
felt for Kind Miss Szewicki and her Kindergarten classroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This entire memory flashed into life again as I took my
trembling son to meet his first grade teacher. Granted, it wasn’t so bleak as
my old classroom; there were toys and paint pots and pictures of Winnie the Pooh.
But there were also grey walls and grey floors and solitary grey desks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son whimpered next to me. “I don’t like it. It’s scary
here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It will be fine. There’s nothing awful about first grade,”
I lied.<o:p></o:p></div>
Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-68030983907530898872012-08-18T17:58:00.001-04:002012-08-18T18:00:39.500-04:00Reverse SherlockingAfter watching Sherlock Holmes for a while, I find that I start doing his "intense scrutiny" of my surroundings trying to come up with similar results. I wander around my kitchen analyzing myself and thinking, "what does this room say about me?"<br />
<br />
Of course it's all nonsense. It only works if you already know the person's story, and then find little ways to reveal it. A.C. Doyle used this method to give us a short amount of exposition without being boring, a tremendous feat, and "wow" us with Sherlock's insane genius.<br />
<br />
Still it's a fun literary exercise, that I now put to you. Once in a while, walk around your house thinking, "what does this room say about me?" Here's what I came up with after a few minutes. Of course you have to hear it in Cumberbatch's or Brett's voice.<br />
<br />
* Cereal boxes of no consistent size or brand, which means you shop the sales, you're either saving money or hard up, judging by the state of your cookware, hard-used and nearly broken, I'd say it was the latter.<br />
<br />
*Coffee, same thing, different sizes, different brands, but I notice you have 3 cannisters in your pantry, which makes you an addict. It's a new coffee maker, but a very cheap one, which means you go through a lot of them.You also... spill a lot as you walk, not a morning person, are you?<br />
<br />
*There's dust on the lip of the piano cover, but not on the top, which means you leave it up all the times... but there's very little dust build up on the middle keys which means you play regularly. The music books lying around have been there for a few days, so one of you reads music, and someone else doesn't. Judging by the state of the books the difficulty level, and the length of your fingernails, I'd say that you play regularly but you can't read music. Your husband reads, but he doesn't play often.<br />
<br />
*Your wedding portrait is resting on the piano under a sheaf of leaves... trouble in paradise? Oh, No! See here, you've got the mollys and the nails and— my word— even a level and a T-sqaure out—all covered in dust too. You obviously mean to hang the painting, but are afraid that you won't like how it's hung and mean to do a proper job of it it you ever get around to it, and perhaps when the children are in school<br />
<br />
*Yes you have two children, close in age, a boy and a girl. See you have two of all the gender-neutral toys, hula hoops, art pads, beach buckets (how was your trip to the Outer Banks, by the way?). With smaller children, you have to have two pf everything to avoid rows. Yet you only have one doll and one water pistol, which means different genders. Also the gender neutral items tend to have one primary colour and one pastel—does your daughter actually like pink, or do you just get pink not to confuse it with the boy's.<br />
<br />
*You have a million little house-hold tasks which you are waiting on until the house it free during the day, but let's face it, if you were any sort of a go-getter you would have done the dishes this morning. Am I right?<br />
<br />Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-70662345678722264842012-05-31T19:46:00.002-04:002012-06-01T09:57:57.098-04:00Robins in Spring<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I kept trying to think of lyrics to a piano piece I wrote this month. Unfortunately the smart-ass in me wanted it's say, thus this Linus episode came into creation. In this section, Linus Weedwhacker (a Half-Ef) is living in quasi-exile among the Halfling town of Burrowsborough.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wet morning turned into a pleasant afternoon as the Burrowsburrough walking club trekked towards Callain Forest. The three Halflings' voices rang sweet and clear over the rolling hillsides as they tramped merrily over the lush grass. Linus bringing up the rear was not having a good first day of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was growing weary with their singing. So far the walking club had sung songs about walking, about
bathing, about eating biscuits, about hay mowing, spinning, dancing, bowling,
rowing, fishing and making jam; it was starting to get tiresome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you lot ever do anything
that you <i>don’t </i>sing about?” he asked
the Halflings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, <i>one</i> thing,” said Ludovic with a lusty chuckle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Unless there’re no ladies
present,” added Malachi.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even Linus had to laugh at
this. In the end, menfolk were menfolk wherever you went.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You don’t like singing?”
asked Ludovic accusatorily. Among Halflings, an aversion to song was almost as
suspicious as not drinking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I just don’t know the
words half the time,” admitted Linus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know, we’ll play ‘make a verse’
then,” said Eddie. Ludovic and Malachi heartily agreed to this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is it more singing?” asked
Linus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, but you make up the
verses as you go,” said Malachi<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not good at verses,”
grumbled Linus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Neither are we. It’s just
all in good fun,” said Eddie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m good at it,” said Ludovic
frankly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, he is,” conceded
Eddie. “But Malachi and I could use the practice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fine,” sighed Linus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What melody are we
singing?” asked Malachi.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eddie thought about it.
“Let’s see. It has to be one that Linus knows.
Let’s use ‘The Whispering Willow.’ You know that one, Linus?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yuh,” admitted Linus. It
was the third movement from the Elven <i>Baraloneth
et Geheren (wisdom and foolishness)</i> suite and currently a popular dance
piece for reels. Linus knew the song, but it wasn’t his favorite, containing a
lot of “tra-las” and “hey-nonnys.” The first
verse of the song went thusly:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ah! De wilo sussuraeg— eernen! (tra-la-la)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Hu tylwa sul seunthsiul gren
(ah-ha!)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>E farsad en enhodia ohr<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Londias a dianeen indas demas helior<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Far Il heded entritan Il wod sil rechor<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Il entri e wilo a slen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>(He-nonni-koem-lalli)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ah! Entritan es naepothen!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a rather fluffy song about wishing
trees could sing, using tired Elven metaphors. Every verse had the word “green”
in it and there was constant adoration of beautiful ladies with nothing
interesting happening—the usual cue for Linus to take a nap in his chair. When
Linus was forced to sing it at parties, he usually did it in a killing impersonation
of a drunken Elven prince. It was a very popular bit among his city friends,
but he’d never sung it in earnest before. He liked the tune, however, and was
willing to play the game with only the usual grumbling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s the subject?” asked
Ludovic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can’t we make it free-form?”
asked Malachi hopefully.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not singing about
fruit trees again. You always sing about fruit trees,” snapped Ludovic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I like fruit trees,” mumbled
Malachi looking longingly across the farmlands towards his orchards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The subject is…” Eddie
looked about him and eventually spied a flash of orange hopping along the dirt
road. “…Robins.” He said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll go last,” said Linus
nervously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Suit yourself. You’ll all have
a tough act to follow though,” boasted Ludo who dove right in with his strong
clear voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ludo’s verse:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ah, if I were a robin in springtime, (tra-la-la)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>T’would be quite a marvelous thing, (a-ha)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’d fly about on the gentle breeze,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>And take my tea whenever I please,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>With butterflies for my bread and cheese,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>And pudding of dragonfly wings,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Hey nonny-come-lally!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’d feel like a jolly old king!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ludovic finished to hearty
applause from the other three.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I say, well done! Not one
pause!” cried Eddie in approval.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Linus was too impressed to
say anything. A smug grin crossed Ludo’s face as he perceived this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I knew you’d sing about
food, Ludo,” said Malachi with a snort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How can a Halfling who
likes his pudding as much as you be thin as a rail, I’d like to know?”
commented Eddie. “Right. My turn.” Eddie began to sing. His voice wasn’t as
fine as Ludo’s and he was going flat by the end of it, but he made a good show.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eddie’s verse:<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>A robin’s a regular dandy, (tra-la-la)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>The cheekiest birdie he be, (a-ha)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>His scarlet waistcoat turning heads,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>He looks so beguiling a fellow in red,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>With his suit and gold stockings he looks quite well-bred,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>In his mansion high up in a tree,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Hey nonny-come-lally!)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>The finest bird, don’t you agree?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was moderate clapping
followed by a pause while the others were considering the merit of Eddie’s
rhyme. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not bad,” said Ludo
eventually. “The ‘be he’ part bothered me. And I don’t think birds live in
mansions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They don’t eat puddings
either,” said Linus, coming to Eddie’s rescue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You paused a bit in the
middle,” Ludo persisted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was going to say ‘orange’
instead of ‘red’, and stopped meself,” admitted Eddie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dodged an arrow there, no
mistake,” laughed Malachi.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright. Who’s next? Linus?
Mal?” said Ludovic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll go but don’t laugh,”
said the usually boisterous Malachi looking abashed. He began softly in his capable
voice. It was a good rhyme and was sadly riddled with frequent pauses as Malachi
worked out the rhyme or had to remember what he’d just come up with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Malachi's verse:</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>O if I were a robin in springtime (tra-la-la)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’d start every day with a song (a-ha)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Good night Miss Moon, I see the sun!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Now get thee to bed for his turn has begun.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>And when I am singing to everyone,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>They might join me in singing along.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Hey-Nonny-come-Lally)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>You might feel like singing along<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They asked him to sing it
again without the pauses so they could hear it properly, and they all agreed
that Malachi was a fine competitor. Ludo frowned at being upstaged.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You used ‘along’ twice and stole my first line,” he
said bitterly, but they paid him no mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s Linus’s turn now,”
said Eddie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Er,” stammered Linus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go on, bigg’un. See if you’re a match for Halfling rhymsters,”
said Malachi.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I doubt it,” said Ludovic
with a snort. “Look, he’s sweating.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was probably Ludo that
did it in the end, for Linus grit his teeth and launched into a sardonic verse
on the spot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Linus’s Verse:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I don’t give a fig about robins, (tra-la-la)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>A robin has nothing to boast. (a-ha)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>It’s far too early when they sing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>And their cheeky attire doesn’t do me a thing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>In fact of the things I detest about spring,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I hate songs about robins the most.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Hey Nonny-come-lally)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I fancy a robin on toast.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last line made Eddie and
Malachi burst out laughing until they sat on the grass to calm down. Even grim
Ludovic cracked a smile but he refused to concede victory to Linus since he
obviously “hadn’t taken the game seriously.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh give over, Ludo! He’s as
funny as Doctor Frumbold on a good day!” said Eddie when he was able to draw breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hrmph!” grunted Ludovic,
trying to sound bitter but his lips kept twitching into a grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, Linus had set a precedence
that day that would haunt him to the end of his days in Burrowsburrough.<o:p></o:p></div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-40685209636470946502012-05-25T10:42:00.000-04:002012-05-25T10:53:46.690-04:00ScoundrelsBy Monica Marier
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>One misty moisty
morning, <br />
when foggy was the weather, <br />
I met a jolly gentleman, <br />
all wrapped in leather.<br />
With rings on his fingers,<br />
And bells on his toes…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“…No hang on, that’s not right,” mumbled Marion Byrnes,
scratching his stubbly chin. “I can’t remember the rest. Something about the
fat git falling in a puddle and sinking to his middle.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“What was the point of that, may I ask?” asked Heinrich Drechsler
with a disdainful sniff. “Another one of your Irish wisdoms?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No, it’s just a nursery rhyme. The morning reminded me of
it, that’s all,” said Marion lightly, looking around. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The tropical forests of Chowra
rose thickly overhead. Their boots squelched in the thick carpet of rotting
vegetation, sending beetles skittering every which way. Tendrils of fog curled from the ground,
joining the wall of white mist that obscured everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion and Heinrich each held a lantern up, trying to cast a
ray upon the impenetrable fog, but all they saw were fairy reflections upon the
slick forest walls. The cloying scent of wet vines and trees stank in their
nostrils.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“We’re lost,” grumbled Heinrich, in a deep rasp that Marion
still found incongruous with the man’s slim girlish face and short stature.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Nonsense. No one’s ever mapped this place, so there’s no
directions… ergo, no place that we are supposed to be going to, nor anyplace we’re
not. We’re exploring. That means we can’t be off-course, since we never had a
course. So we are not lost.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Alright, we’re disoriented, then,” snapped the surly
German.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yeah, there you go, mate,” nodded Marion in sheepish
approval.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
They continued in grim silence. The only sound above their
squelching was the clank of their gear and the tink of glass upon glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Are you sure we’re even going to find any here?” asked
Heinrich after a while. “It’s rather remote. I’m sure these Islands are rather
cut off from each other.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion coughed in the damp air. “That’s what I’m counting
on. I’m sure we could find a really unique specimen here—one that’s singular
from the others on the Indian continent.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“And what then?” asked Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“We make sure they <i>stay
</i>rare,” said Marion darkly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You know, I don’t quite agree with that,” said Heinrich
stopping to wipe the beads of moisture that had formed on his wire-rim spectacles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“It’s part of the business, Heinsy. You knew that when you
took the job.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I took the job, because the money was good,” sniffed Heinrich.
“But so far I’ve yet to see any of it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Look,” said Marion spinning around. “It’s not my fault Mad
Hippo got our last shipment out from under us, but we’ve got our legs under us
again. MacGilleDhonaghart’s got The Dachshund
docked and waiting for us at Great Nicobar and then we scuttle off for Paris,
got it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“It’s not the first time Mad Hippo’s gotten the drop on us,”
said Heinrich with a frown at Marion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“It won’t happen. I was very covert this time,” said Marion,
tapping his nose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Heinrich held the lantern up to examine his partner. Marion’s
pale face belied nothing beneath his inky black ringlets, dripping with water.
At any rate Marion <i>thought</i> he’d been
covert, but Heinrich had his doubts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion was generally as subtle as a fish
in a flower vase.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“So how did you hear about Chowra anyways?” asked Heinrich,
plodding on in determination.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“A bird merchant told me about it at the market. I got him
talking about his Nicobar pigeons. He was the only one selling them— a big chap
with a scarred face.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“And he willingly told you where he got his rare
one-of-a-kind birds?” asked Heinrich incredulously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Of course not! I got him drunk first!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“To find out where his birds came from?” asked Heinrich
shaking his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No, I asked if he’d tell me some stories of his hunting.
Told him I was writing a book.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“A book?” asked Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion gave another lopsided grin. “I maaaaay… have led him
to believe I was Rudyard Kipling.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“There is a special Hell devised for people like you,” said
Heinrich, mildly impressed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Anyway he told me stories about bird hunting, and he eventually
let slip what I wanted.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“What?” asked Heinrich growing eager.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“That while he was stalking a beautiful pigeon, he saw a
cluster of bright orange flowers among the tree boles.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Orange!” cried Heinrich in excitement. “We haven’t seen any
orange ones yet!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“That’s what I thought! I asked more questions about them,
and he let loose the name Chowra. I gave him some money and here we are.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Orange. I wish you had said that earlier. I would have
known what we were looking for.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You didn’t see any, did you?” asked Marion nervously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No,” admitted Heinrich. “But then, I couldn’t see a rhinoceros
if it were an inch in front of me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Are there rhinoceroses in tropical forests?” asked Marion, uncertain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No. They live on the veldt,” said Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Oh,” said Marion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Do you hear that?” asked Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Hear what?” asked Marion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Heinrich screwed his eyes up as he strained his ears,
pondering what it could be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“A crackling sound,” he said. “Sounds like someone cracking
nuts.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Monkeys, maybe? Do monkeys—?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yes, monkeys live in tropical forests,” interrupted
Heinrich. “How do you know so much about birds, but nothing about zoology?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I take interest in what I take interest in!” snapped
Marion. “Anyway—!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Shut-up!” said Heinrich. “It’s getting louder. Is it
getting warmer too?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yes, and less drippy. But I still can’t see a thing— the
fog’s getting worse.” Marion dissolved into a fit of coughing again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“That’s not fog, that’s wood smoke!” shouted Heinrich. “The
forest is on fire!” Heinrich panicked and dropped the lantern. The glass
smashed and the wick guttered and went out— smothered by the spongey
undergrowth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“On fire?” cried Marion. “Don’t be stupid! Everything here
is covered with water!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Campfire?” suggested Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“We’ll see,” coughed Marion, the smoke was burning in his
throat and making his eyes water. “Let’s get out of the smoke’s path and see.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Pistols?” asked Heinrich, pulling out his colt dragon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion didn’t answer but nodded, while covering his
streaming eyes. Heinrich squinted in the smoke while guiding Marion away from
the suffocating clouds. As soon as they were out of the way, they noticed that
the fog had cleared and the crackle of burning wood was growing louder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion blinked the tears out of his eyes to see a fringe of
green leading to an open field. Handing his lantern to Heinrich, he kept his
pistol at the ready, and pulled out his machete. Making awkward left-handed
swipes at the vines, he managed to cut his way through to the clearing beyond. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Heinrich and Marion stood, mouths agape at the sight beyond.
Nearly two acres of forest were reduced to smoldering ash. Marion was right in
that the flames seemed reluctant to consume the saturated undergrowth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
A second
odor was now prevalent over the dull sting of smoke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Kerosene,” said Heinrich dully.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yeah,” sighed Marion, feeling sick to his stomach. “I think
we’ve been had again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Actually, I was wondering… ” said Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yes?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You don’t speak a word of Hindustani, do you?” asked
Heinrich. Marion had specifically hired him due to his ease in learning
languages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I told you, I take interest in things that interest me,”
shouted Marion, his fuse burnt down. He kicked a clump of dead wood that dissolved
into rotten wood pulp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“So how did you talk to the bird-catcher?” asked Heinrich.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Because he…” Marion stopped, eyes wide. “Spoke… English.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
There was the sound of deep gravely laughter behind them.
Marion and Heinrich spun around in terror. A large silhouette towered over them,
topped in a wide-brimmed hat. It cast a shadow over the scarred, lantern jawed
face of Hippolyte Jones.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Mad Hippo,” gasped Marion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“G’day,” said Hippo. Under his arm was a Wardian case;
nestled in the black soil was an orange orchid. In his free hand was a Winchester
rifle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“There <i>was </i>an
orange orchid!” cried Marion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“There <i>were</i> over five
hundred of them,” said Hippo. “But I only had ten cases with me, so the rest
had to go. Sorry mates. You had a good run, but you’re not gonna get these’un.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marion sagged in defeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“So you’re going to kill us then?” asked Heinrich. “So why
make sure that we came out here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Kill you?” said Hippo with a condescending grin, “Why would
I do that… when you lot are making me one of the most famous orchid hunters in
the world? With every defeat that you complain about at the pubs and salons, I become
more infamous… and my prices go up. Nah. You failures and your drunken boat
captain are what’s keeping me in expensive boots and fancy beers. And if you
pathetic excuses <i>ever </i>manage to land
an orchid to sell, that’ll be a true rarity worth a king’s ransom. See? Help
eachother, we do.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Heinrich was the only one who felt the sting in this. Marion
was too happy at being allowed to live to feel any insult.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“So you’re going to let us go?” asked Marion, giddy with
relief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“’Course I am,” said Hippo with another scarred grin. “But,
since I don’t want you two buggering up my operation either…” He let the
comment hang. Sun mottled arms the size of tree-trunks swung a shovel towards their
heads.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The last thing Marion felt before slipping into unconsciousness
was a Nicobar pigeon landing on his head and tugging at his hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-73136871088110517932012-05-22T09:30:00.000-04:002012-05-22T09:30:01.145-04:00The Dagger (teaser)<i>This is the first part of an upcoming short-story featuring the heroes of <a href="http://www.tangentartists.com/crit/crit_000.html">CRIT!</a> For more adventures of Linus and his team, check out CRIT! at <a href="http://www.tangentartists.com/">www.tangentartists.com</a> </i>
“Does it ever bother you that we searched the pockets of the people we’ve just killed?” asked Kiyana. Her educated brain was wrestling with philosophy that the others would have just as soon ignored.
“Well, it does when you put it that way,” said Linus, the senior member of the party. The middle-aged Ranger frowned at the blonde buxom wizard. “I mean, it’s not as if we killed them just to rifle through their possessions. That’s just barbaric.”
“Hey!” cried Quince the barbarian. He looked ready to cry at the accusation.
“Present company excluded,” added Linus hastily. “But yes, killing people for their gewgaws is wrong… but looting the pockets of the people who’ve just ambushed us? I’d say that’s restitution.”
“Besides, sometimes they have cool stuff!” added her brother, Bart. The ten-year-old rogue was holding up a severed ulna which was sporting a diamond-studded bracer. The little Elf had actually pulled out a jewler’s eyeglass was examining the cut and water of his find.
“Thanks for backing me up there,” sneered Linus.
“Wotcher,” said Bart.
“From the mouths of innocent babes…” quoted Kiyana with a smug smile.
“If he’s innocent I’m a bloody penguin,” said Linus dryly.
“Morfindel, what’s your take on this?” Kiyana whined to the Cleric.
Morfindel, Elven Cleric of the Ardellan Mission, stepped over the bodies of the dead Scath A Dannen. These particularly nasty Fallen Elves from the Dark Dimension had popped up out of nowhere and Morfindel had unleashed his holy fury upon them. The Cleric was smiling grimly with satisfaction at a smiting well done — so much satisfaction in fact, that the others were giving him a wide berth as they searched among the pile of limbs and entrails. He wasn’t blood-thirsty by nature. The Elf had an easy-going temperament that bordered on “wishy-washy” at times; that would disappear the moment that duty called. Morfindel performed his duties with a glad heart.
“Morfindel?” Kiyana ventured a second time.
“Huh?” asked Morfindel, lost in thought.
“I said what’s your take on our ghoulish tendency to steal from the dead?” asked Kiyana. The others groaned at her grim exaggeration.
“I don’t really care so long as they’re not proper Elves.,” said Morfindel, and that was basically that.
The world came in two flavors for Morfindel: “Elves”, and “everything else.” Morfindel’s holy duty was to protect all Elves from harm and to do no harm to Elves himself. This included Elves who wanted to kick his ass and/or do very bad things to him. It didn’t matter. Morfindel knew he was a racist—he’d often commented on the fact—but that didn’t give him one moment’s pause when it came to blows.
Unfortunately it forced Linus to pause quite frequently. Bart and Kiyana were exempt from fighting Elves, being High Elves themselves, but Linus was only Half-Elven and given no leeway. During battles amongst the pointy-eared Children of the Sun, Morfindel would often shout to Linus, “Don’t kill any Elves or I’ll have to kill you! Sorry!” There were a few loopholes in his dogmatic law, but Morfindel was often forced to search for them in the heat of battle. Linus was currently nursing a sizable gash on his bicep that he’d received while fending off blows from the Scath A Dannan and shouting, “CAN I PLEASE HIT THEM BACK?” By the time Morfindel had answered in the affirmative, the battle was half-over.
Now that Linus knew that Scath A Dannan were fair game, he filed that information away for future use. Maybe I should write them all down on an index card for quick reference, he thought.
Elves: No.
Elf Assassin bent on my destruction: No
Brainwashed Elves controlled by a vampire: No
Fallen Elves from Dark Dimension: Go nuts.
While Linus was mentally writing this out he became distracted by the flicker of reflected sunlight. Looking for the source he spied a dagger lying a few feet near its owner’s severed hand. Linus bent down (to a chorus of popping noises from his knees) and retrieved the weapon. He immediately recognized that this was a dagger of superior workmanship. It was light, well-balanced and practically new, judging by the flawless sheen and the fresh leather wrappings. It mimicked the shaped of a typical naval dirk with a reversed guard (somewhat fancifully executed) and had a large red cats-eye jewel at the junction of the hilt and blade. The blade was both artful and diabolical. Hooks, serrates and barbs had been stamped into the metal that spelled instant disaster for internal organs and ribcages. The metal itself was like nothing Linus had ever seen —he couldn’t guess its name or its origin— it was a dark black that glistened with a purple sheen when held to the light. The light played on the greasy purple cast, giving the blade the illusion that it was in constant motion, like liquid.
Linus was a practiced dual-wielding fighter, currently favoring a spatha and a ballock dagger. The latter was giving him trouble; the blade was notched and dull, the point had been snapped off, the wrappings kept coming loose, and the blade was off-balance after a plethora of re-sharpenings. It was small wonder then, that Linus made experimental swipes in the air with this new dagger, tossing it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance and the weight. After a few minutes he seemed well pleased with it. The old ballock was unceremoniously chucked among the corpses. Linus hunted up the dirk’s scabbard and was strapping his new conquest onto his leg when he heard a shrill voice pipe up behind him and curl the hairs on his neck.
“You’re not keeping that, are you??” cried Kiyana.
“It would appear that I am,” said Linus.
“You’re not serious!” protested Kiyana.
“I generally am,” returned Linus, arching an eyebrow. “Why?”
“’Cause it’s evil!”
Linus blinked. “Run that by me again.”
“The dagger is eeeevil!” repeated Kiyana, waggling her fingers for further emphasis while her voice trilled like a sibyl.
This gave Linus genuine pause. Kiyana was a university-educated woman which meant that she didn’t have enough imagination to outright lie. She was prone to exaggeration, however, and Linus wanted to know more.
“What makes you say that?” asked Linus.
“Just look at it! It’s got hooks and squiggles and a big red eye on it!”
“Ah. So we’re just arguing about aesthetics, are we?” said Linus relaxing. “I got it off a Scath A Dannan. They just like to put their own little eldtritch stamp onto everything that’s all.”
“Evil,” insisted Kiyana.
“Look!” grunted Linus, growing annoyed with her. “It’s a tool, alright? A tool can neither be good or bad. It’s all in how it’s used. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!”
“Fine,” said Kiyana coldly. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked the other men.
“I don’t care,” said Morfindel with a shrug. “It’s not my call.”
Linus smirked at Kiyana. “Bart? ‘Talky-Tim’? What do you think?” he called to the other two.
Quince said nothing until realization dawned. “Me? Oh I—I’m ‘Talky-Tim’?” he said eventually.
“Yes,” said Linus.
“You needed a new dagger, didn’t you, Linus?” asked Quince.
“Yep.”
“That’s alright then,” said Quince with a shrug.
“Bart? How ‘bout you?” called Linus, trying to find where the boy had got to.
“Would you shut up?! I’m trying to count up here!” Bart shouted from atop a tree.
“The vote stands four-to-one. Motion carries,” said Linus.
“Two-to-one with two abstentions,” corrected Kiyana, pointing to Morfindel and Bart. “Not saying ‘no’ doesn’t count as saying ‘yes’.”
“That’s a double-negative, princess, so in point of fact: IT DOES,” crowed Linus. “Put that in your thesis and mark it, Miss Coed!”Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-52876113240068910032012-04-17T20:21:00.000-04:002012-04-17T20:21:35.834-04:002023by Monica Marier<br />
<br />
<i>The bitch is back! I'm jumping back into Friday Flash after a LOOOOOONG hiatus. Hopefully this is the start of more beautiful magic in my life. Wish me luck.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<br />
The city outside was hidden in a cloud of whirling green particles. The advisories today were all code-red warnings coupled with 2% visibility. “Civillians strongly advised to stay indoors,” Jamie repeated under his breath, in time with the broadcast. He didn’t care. He had to see Anh today. It had been five days of code reds and the school holidays were almost over! Desperate, he and Anh plotted to meet at the mall today. Both of them were going to get in a lot of trouble for it, but they both decided that it would be worth it to see each other. His mom would simply block his G3 access for a week, and with school starting in two days it wouldn’t matter much.<br />
It was dangerous; Jamie was deemed a “high-risk citizen” by the board of health and one slip-up could be fatal. There were stories on the news everyday about people like Jamie who had “just gone out for a few hours,” and never made it back. He would have to take every precaution if he wanted to make it back home alive… so his mom could kill him.<br />
<br />
Jamie tiptoed to the mudroom and got ready to go outside. His mom would be in her room until she finished her first pot of coffee, so he had a good twenty minutes. He would need every second. First came the brown canvas coveralls; his fingers trembled as he did up the snaps. He double-checked, then triple-checked to make sure all the snaps were done tightly and there were no gaps. He tied his boots and secured the cloth wraps around the cuffs of his pant-legs. Jamie set his headphones to the playlist Anh had made him and pulled up his interior hood. He checked to make sure his goggles were clean of smudges and smears before putting them on; he wouldn’t have opportunity to clean them until he was safely at the mall. Goggles in place, he checked the filters on his respirator and hooked it on. He also grabbed one of the outdoor-kits full of water, emergency protein, glow tubes and adrenaline injections. Then came the large hooded serape which he draped over all. It was bright orange to combat the low visibility of the green storm and the second hood and face-wrap protected the gear from prematurely wearing out. Last of all, he put on the clumsy gloves and wrapped the ends around his sleeve cuffs.<br />
<br />
“Jamie,” came a voice from his mom’s bedroom. “Jamie did you check the dryer for your clothes?”<br />
“Uh, they were still wet so I restarted it,” lied Jamie, hoping his voice wasn’t too obscured by the respirator. <br />
“Okay,” said his mom. <br />
<br />
She didn’t call for him again, so Jamie seized the opportunity to slip into the detox chamber and run outside. He forgot to brace himself for the wind and nearly toppled over as a blast of air and debris slammed into him. He shook his head at his own idiocy and began his slow march to the mall. The visibility was too low to drive. As he plodded down the sidewalk, he noted that there was no one else on the streets today. There was only whirlwinds of green fuzz that danced in circles, or shambled in clumps down the high street. Jamie concentrated on his playlist as his heavy boots plodded through the yellowish drifts.<br />
<br />
He was almost at the mall when he saw the car. Someone had been stupid enough to try to drive today. A Chevy Quasar had careened off the road and smashed into a lamp post. It was only superficially damaged, but peering through the broken windows, Jamie knew that the driver was dead. The moron hadn’t been wearing a respirator; it was lying on the passenger seat next to him. He’d probably thought he was safe enough in the car with the filter running full blast. Jamie shook his head and flinched at the sight of the swollen black face lying lifeless in his seat. Jamie’s dad had always made them wear respirators in the car. He knew that it only took a few seconds for the car’s filter to hiccup and leave everyone exposed to the lung-choking particles. Jamie was growing hardened to the sight of dead people covered in a dusting of green, but it was never easy and it still made him feel horrible.<br />
<br />
Jamie’s mom assured him that this was a good thing. It was a sign that he was growing into a good person. <br />
<br />
Mom had often told him that it hadn’t always been like this. She remembered when the green storms started to make life unlivable for people. She said that when she was a girl, it had been different. <br />
<br />
Jamie had already walked into the detox chamber before he realized he was at the mall. The blast of purified air shook him as it removed the green motes stuck to his clothes. Then the blast of icy air froze and killed the particles. Lastly the, mild chemical shower rinsed him off. He stepped out of the chamber and unhooked his respirator and goggles.<br />
<br />
“Jamie!” cried Anh. <br />
<br />
She ran to him dressed in similar orange and khaki, she too had livid red marks on her face from where her goggles and respirator had dug into her face. Jamie smiled and took her hand. They hugged and clumsily kissed each other. <br />
<br />
“Anyone here today?” asked Jamie.<br />
“Yeah, there’s a few shops open— ooh! And both the Starbucks and the movies are open today,” said Anh.<br />
“Cool!” said Jamie. This was better luck than he expected. “I was afraid that everything would be closed again.”<br />
“I know. But shop-owners gotta eat I guess.”<br />
“Last day of holidays,” sighed Jamie. “Why did spring have to come so early this year?”<br />
“But the news said pollen season will be over earlier too. We should be back in the school building by late April this year!”<br />
“That’s true,” said Jamie with a grin. “Let’s just enjoy this afternoon before we go back home and get our asses flayed by our folks.”<br />
“Yeah,” said Anh resting her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “I hate pollen season.”<br />
“Me too,” sighed Jaime.<br />
<br />
Outside, the green storm raged.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-81012011376572108592011-10-28T09:02:00.002-04:002011-10-28T09:17:16.558-04:00My Neighbour, Mr. Batesby Monica Marier<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <i>If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.</i><br />
<br />
<i>But what if I’m right?</i> He asked himself.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.<br />
<br />
“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”<br />
<br />
At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.<br />
<br />
“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been watching you!”<br />
<br />
“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.<br />
<br />
“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”<br />
<br />
“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”<br />
<br />
“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!” <br />
<br />
“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”<br />
<br />
“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.<br />
<br />
Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re<i> <b>a vampire</b>,</i> Mr. Bates.”<br />
<br />
Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.<br />
<br />
“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice. <br />
<br />
“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”<br />
<br />
“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.<br />
<br />
“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“I need your help,” said Andrew.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”<br />
<br />
“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.<br />
<br />
“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.<br />
<br />
“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”<br />
<br />
Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”<br />
<br />
“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.<br />
<br />
“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-12592016471173474922011-10-21T14:00:00.000-04:002011-10-21T14:00:10.546-04:00RerunsHi my name is Lilly, and you’re about to see me die about…. Nnnnnnnnnow.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I can never watch this part. You go ahead. <br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I’ve never liked reruns.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-39931647768509369452011-10-16T13:08:00.007-04:002011-10-18T10:50:57.949-04:00The Prodigal's Foole Bloghop<b>Monica Marier</b><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
<i><b>I had NO such reservations</b></i>, 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 <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/podcast/the-word-count/id392550989">Word Count Podcast</a>, so I was confident that RB would knock my socks off. <br />
<br />
He did.<br />
<br />
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... <br />
<br />
<b><h1><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prodigals-Foole-Arcana-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B005WKF71U/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1318939916&sr=1-1">The Prodigal's Foole</a></h1></b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZdT6xTRUe4Z31nV0D6sHqJdoz0GV-proorGxCBd1dQgWxeKgDCHCRbf9W4RytVNpEKnwbEts-7jpfAfHxi45tVdwvRsxKNiz0TKWdcp9HB_8_hGKcUZh7sxFX0cO5F9Pkj4i4Ja-Q5s9/s1600/TPF_Alternate1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZdT6xTRUe4Z31nV0D6sHqJdoz0GV-proorGxCBd1dQgWxeKgDCHCRbf9W4RytVNpEKnwbEts-7jpfAfHxi45tVdwvRsxKNiz0TKWdcp9HB_8_hGKcUZh7sxFX0cO5F9Pkj4i4Ja-Q5s9/s320/TPF_Alternate1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Highly recommended to all enjoy Urban Fantasy, Horror, and a good laugh (I’m looking at you, Dresden File Fans!)<br />
</i></blockquote><br />
So without further ado, here is RB Wood!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewWCjOep8jkIjj0cKBlL3wOiKOceYTVXgcVq1S4p-RrNAfzEYlWeq5_RbF2SZEcsm5xp4kowAiF1ogJQJni5-CgML9wAa1M2VyjiadeHwyuBx3Ru2CVasZU9FdR4Lfmi1vZ0NA2R__TAc/s1600/041111richard182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewWCjOep8jkIjj0cKBlL3wOiKOceYTVXgcVq1S4p-RrNAfzEYlWeq5_RbF2SZEcsm5xp4kowAiF1ogJQJni5-CgML9wAa1M2VyjiadeHwyuBx3Ru2CVasZU9FdR4Lfmi1vZ0NA2R__TAc/s320/041111richard182.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>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, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prodigals-Foole-Arcana-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B005WKF71U/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1318939916&sr=1-1">The Prodigal's Foole is now available fo Kindle at Amazon.com</a>. Mr. Wood is currently working on the second book of his Arcana Chronicles series and is host of <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/podcast/the-word-count/id392550989">The Word Count podcast</a>.<br />
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.<br />
You can find his blog, <a href="http://www.rbwood.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=frontpage&Itemid=1">R.B. Wood, Tales of an Indie Writer, HERE</a> </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> 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?<br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> 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. :-)</i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> Your book is also centered around the Cambridge/Boston. I love when authors bring their own backyards into their work. <br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> 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. </i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> (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?<br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> A lot research, then imagination. The Skratta in the book, for example, is the mythological Icelandic hobgoblin and my own imagination. </i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> 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. <br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> 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.</i><br />
<br />
<b>ME: </b>("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? <br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> 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.</i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> Since you’re a believer, does it get scary writing about demons and Hell at times? Depressing?<br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> Depressing, no. I love constructing a story and researching the elements and the details. Scary? Nothing like a good scare to keep you honest! :-)</i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> 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?<br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> My thoughts are this: Stay tuned, but you're on track. </i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> 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?<br />
<br />
<i><b>RBW:</b> "Watch. Listen. Pay attention and ask questions. Otherwise, you might be a casualty."</i><br />
<br />
<b>ME:</b> 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 <b>"The Prodigal's Foole" by RB Wood.</b><br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>“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.”</i></blockquote><br />
You can purchase <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prodigals-Foole-Arcana-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B005WKF71U/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1318939916&sr=1-1">The Prodigal's Foole on Kindle HERE</a>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-48879570092442217982011-10-14T17:08:00.000-04:002011-10-14T17:08:47.838-04:00Add Me.By Monica Marier<br />
<br />
Hannah looked at the screen and moaned. <br />
The jolly icon of “Harry Plotter” had popped up in a Halloween-themed window on her computer. <br />
<br />
“You’re doing great! For your last task, there’s safety in numbers! Add three neighbors!” <br />
<br />
“Add three neighbors? What the HELL!” she screamed. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“We need 3 neighbor-adds to complete the Halloween task? WTF? XO” she typed into the chat bar.<br />
<br />
“I know right? *eye roll*” answered Louisa.<br />
<br />
“Well what the crap do I do now??” Hannah asked.<br />
<br />
“Go to the ap community and add the people on the page. They got to finish the task too.”<br />
<br />
“What the ‘add me and I’ll add you back?’ guys?”<br />
<br />
“Yah.”<br />
<br />
“But they’re all GOOOOOBERS!!!! >_<” whined Hannah.<br />
<br />
“You can unfriend ‘em later if they creep you out.”<br />
<br />
Hannah typed ellipses into the chat bar and hit enter.<br />
<br />
“Or you could just not give a crap. It’s only a game after all,” said Louisa.<br />
<br />
“Oh fine. I was hoping you’d side with me on this. Y’ know. Tell me to storm the castle, etc.”<br />
<br />
“Have fun storming the castle! :D” responded Lousia.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
PLZ HALP! NEED 3 NABORS FOR HALOWEEN TASK!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Add me! PLZ!!!<br />
<br />
NEED 3 PEALPE KTHNXBY!!!!<br />
<br />
<3 <3 <3 <3 Pleez ad me and Il ad u to!!! <3 <3 <3<br />
<br />
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,”? <br />
<br />
“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! <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So why couldn’t she let it go?<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
She booted up her laptop and read the Wizard University wall again. <br />
<br />
“Okay,” Hannah said to herself. “The first post I see that uses real words will be my game-whore of choice.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Hi!”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Hi back atcha! :) ” she said politely.<br />
<br />
“At you,” said Darryl.<br />
<br />
“Come again?” typed Hannah, wondering what he meant.<br />
<br />
“You wrote ‘atcha.’ Atcha is not a word. If you meant ‘at you,’ you should have written it properly.”<br />
<br />
Hannah blinked. She knew some grammar-Nazis in her day but this guy took the cake.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
“What?” she typed.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
Hannah closed her laptop and unplugged it out of panic<br />
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?<br />
<br />
“Whozat?” she asked in a trembling voice, causing her words to jumble. <br />
<br />
“I think you mean ‘who is that?’ Hannah. Clearly you talk as poorly as you type,” said Darryl.<br />
<br />
Hannah fell to the floor, sobbing as the lock broke.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-21412433862837761752011-10-06T16:41:00.000-04:002011-10-06T16:41:11.905-04:00Scaredy-CatBy Monica Marier<br />
<i>I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!<br />
</i><br />
<br />
“…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.”<br />
<br />
“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.<br />
<br />
“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”<br />
<br />
“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.<br />
<br />
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 <i>everything</i>. <br />
<br />
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—!<br />
<br />
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 <i>knew</i> he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night. <br />
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.<br />
<br />
“It’s just me,” said Alex.<br />
<br />
Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.<br />
<br />
“Are you okay?”<br />
<br />
“No,” said Isaac petulantly.<br />
<br />
“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”<br />
<br />
“No,<i> you</i> said I’d be okay. <i>I</i> said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.<br />
<br />
“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”<br />
<br />
“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.<br />
<br />
“That you’re really <i>imaginative</i>,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.<br />
<br />
“I hate it,” muttered Isaac. <br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah I know.”<br />
<br />
“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen <i>Friday 13th</i> and <i>Nightmare on Elmstreet</i> without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.<br />
<br />
“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.<br />
<br />
Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”<br />
<br />
******<br />
<i><b><br />
20 years later…</b></i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.<br />
<br />
“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said. <br />
<br />
He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”<br />
<br />
“No, it’s <i>good</i>. 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?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>(Based on a true story.)<br />
</i>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-43212684749029725992011-09-30T09:15:00.000-04:002011-09-30T09:15:06.927-04:00Jeremy Hunted 5: SanguineThis story is fast becoming a serial! Help! I can't stop it!<br />
Anyway, this is part 5 and the other 4 are here.<br />
<br />
http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html<br />
<a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-2-lodger.html">Part 2: The Lodger</a><br />
<a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/09/jeremy-hunted-3-breakfast-invite.html">Part 3: Breakfast Invite</a><br />
<a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/09/jeremy-hunted-deal-with-devil.html">Part 4: Deal with the Devil</a><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Jer?” he asked in a dry timid voice.<br />
“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.<br />
“Everything alright in there? Can I come in?” Andrew asked.<br />
“You can if you promise not to do anything bone-headed with that gun,” was the short reply.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“I’m not going to hurt you, you silly man,” grumbled Jeremy.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Still pretty scary, eh?” he asked Andrew, his sharp face softening a little. <br />
Andrew knew that lying was pretty pointless. He only managed a nod.<br />
“Are the eyes better at least?” <br />
Andrew shrugged. “They don’t look quite so… evil,” he admitted. “You just look like you’ve been up all night.”<br />
“I could say the same for you,” said Jeremy. The words were kindly, but in his strong forceful voice, their warmth was lost.<br />
“I…” Andrew began but he abandoned the topic, “…heard swearing and shouting,” he finished, hoping to change the subject.<br />
“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.” <br />
Andrew noticed the pile of shredded cloth next to the mutilated dresser. <br />
“You do look a little… bigger,” said Andrew carefully. “Want to borrow some of my clothes for now?”<br />
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, the way I’m buggering up everything, they’ll probably come back as dust rags.” <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Sorry, just a reflex,” Jeremy said, trying to collect himself.<br />
“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?” <br />
“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.”<br />
“Did you eventually get a cuppa?” asked Andrew.<br />
“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.”<br />
“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.”<br />
“I suppose it was time to get new clothes anyway,” Jeremy grumbled. <br />
“I’ll say. The fact that you held on to those Victorian togs for so long is astounding.”<br />
“They weren’t Victorian!” said Jeremy defensively.<br />
“Oh c’mon? Where else would you have gotten braces and a frilly shirt?”<br />
“The sixties.”<br />
“’kay . Y’got me there,” said Andrew finally relaxing a little. “I’ll get you some of my old shirts, jeans, socks, underpants...”<br />
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “Never mind about the knickers though. I’ll manage.”<br />
“Oh grow up— they’re clean!” said Andrew.<br />
“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.”Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-70908804218267999222011-09-23T08:51:00.000-04:002011-09-23T08:51:47.284-04:00The Stain<i>This story was inspired by a brown drippy stain I saw on a museum wall. </i><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Sorry, didn’t think you’d take it like that,” said Ian.<br />
“What did you say?” asked Laura, wiping her mouth. “You’re a what??”<br />
“I’m an Alien. I’m from the planet Klaxon.”<br />
“But I’ve know you since college! You’re from Herndon! You live with your crazy mom and sell hunting knives at the mall.”<br />
“It was a cover. Um. I think we better move, the curator’s coming.”<br />
Laura and Ian ducked into the impressionists wing.<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Ian stared. “Wait you actually believed me? No one’s ever believed me before!”<br />
“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.<br />
“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,”<br />
“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.<br />
“No, you nut! I’m not ditching you!” said Ian.<br />
“Then why, Ian?”<br />
Ian stammered and a fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he fumbled in his pocket.<br />
“Why?” Laura demanded again.<br />
“I just…I thought you should know the truth… before we got married.”<br />
Ian finally managed to extract a small ring case from his pants pocket and presented it to her.<br />
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.<br />
“Oh, Ian. It’s so pretty.”<br />
“It belonged to my mother… my real mother. The woman in my house is my bodyguard— she takes it kind of seriously.”<br />
Laura said nothing. She was still staring at the ring.<br />
“So will you marry me, Laura?” Ian asked, getting more anxious as he waited for her response.<br />
“YES!” she shouted jumping on him and kissing his astonished face. He held her and his lips found hers shortly. <br />
Laura pulled away. “Wait. Do I have to go to Klaxon?” she asked.<br />
“Well, the planet is going to want to meet its new princess.”<br />
“Whee!”she screamed and hugged him tighter.<br />
<br />
***<br />
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.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-10498246104572957942011-09-15T08:00:00.004-04:002011-09-15T09:31:19.615-04:00Jeremy Hunted 4: Deal with the DevilThis part directly follows the events of last week.<br />
You can read last week's chapter --> <a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/09/jeremy-hunted-3-breakfast-invite.html">HERE</a> <--
</br><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Frank was breathing easier now, but his olive skin was growing so pale that he seemed to be turning green.<br />
<br />
“Jer, I think you can stop now,” said Andrew in a husky voice.<br />
<br />
Jeremy ignored him as he sucked ferociously. <br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“Drop it, now,” shouted Andrew, feeling sick.<br />
<br />
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.” <br />
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. <br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“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 <i>walked </i>there by now,” he grumbled irritably.<br />
<br />
“You alright?” asked Andrew again.<br />
<br />
“I could do with a glass of water,” said Jeremy.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“Could have been worse,” said Andrew.<br />
<br />
“I really don’t see how.”<br />
<br />
“He might have eaten the breakfast you were going to make him.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“My neck! I think you broke my bloody neck!”<br />
<br />
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.Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-8411225523284766742011-09-09T01:09:00.000-04:002011-09-09T01:09:54.339-04:00Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite<i>This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. <b> Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.</b></i><br />
Catch up by reading:<br />
<a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html">Part 1</a><br />
<a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-2-lodger.html">Part 2</a><br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>awkward</i>. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.<br />
<br />
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 <i>their sort</i>. 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 <i>least </i>confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.<br />
<br />
“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily. <br />
<br />
“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.<br />
<br />
“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”<br />
<br />
“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—<i>Americans</i> 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.<br />
<br />
“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”<br />
<br />
“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.<br />
<br />
“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”<br />
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).<br />
<br />
“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen. <br />
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!” <br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.<br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”<br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”<br />
<br />
“You moved down here when you were <i>nine.</i> I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”<br />
<br />
“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”<br />
<br />
“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.<br />
<br />
“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”<br />
<br />
“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”<br />
<br />
“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.<br />
<br />
“It is?” asked Andrew.<br />
<br />
“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.” <br />
<br />
“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.<br />
<br />
Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”<br />
<br />
“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.<br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.<br />
<br />
“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.<br />
<br />
“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.<br />
<br />
Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.<br />
<br />
"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.<br />
<br />
(continued next week)Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-44827528670538309172011-09-02T10:59:00.002-04:002011-09-02T12:23:07.491-04:00The Shooting Party“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”<br />
<br />
“SHUT UP!”<br />
<br />
“Git.”<br />
<br />
“Ass.”<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“That means we’re about to start.”<br />
<br />
“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”<br />
<br />
“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.<br />
<br />
“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.<br />
<br />
“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.<br />
<br />
“Good fur?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.<br />
<br />
“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”<br />
<br />
“How?”<br />
<br />
“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”<br />
<br />
“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”<br />
<br />
“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”<br />
<br />
“Huh?” asked Kelly.<br />
<br />
“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”<br />
<br />
Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.<br />
<br />
“PULL!” shouted Phelps. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice. <br />
<br />
“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”<br />
<br />
“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath. <br />
<br />
“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.<br />
<br />
“Jolly good!” <br />
<br />
“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.<br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”<br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.<br />
<br />
“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.<br />
<br />
“He alright?” called Kelly.<br />
<br />
“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge. <br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders <a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/madame-bluestockings-pennyhorrid-pre.html">HERE! </a></i>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-47222940882659440892011-07-29T15:44:00.001-04:002011-07-29T16:45:53.986-04:00Jeremy Hunted 2: The Lodger<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>This exchange happens after we've already met Andrew and Jeremy in <a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html">part 1.</a> For those of you just jumping in, t</em></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>he only thing you need know is that Jeremy is a<strong> vampire</strong> and Andrew is his mortal best friend. Together they hunt and kill other vampires.</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> His</i> grin revealed a mouth full of yellow chipped teeth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The silence dragged on, long and awkward, until the pale one broke it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Can I help you?” he asked suddenly. He looked uncertain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frank nodded and relaxed a little. But couldn’t help noticing how Andrew kept staring at him with an expression of disapproval. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Andrew, get his bags, will you?” Jeremy said. “Bring ‘em to the William Morris room.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The Willie-what now?” asked Andrew.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The room with the green wallpaper,” explained Jeremy before Andrew had even finished. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I must say, you’re a lot younger than I expected for a priest,” said Jeremy. “Did you just get ordained then?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh, no, I’m not ordained,” mumbled Frank. “I haven’t been accepted for candidacy yet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excuse us a moment,” said Jeremy, closing the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t’ just throw his luggage on the bed, Andrew. Ask him where he wants ‘em!” hissed Jeremy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m not a bloody bell-hop, Jer,” came Andrew’s voice through the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He’s a guest!” Jeremy snapped back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So am I!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, he’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paying</i> guest, so he trumps you on that much.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asked</i> me to pay!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I would never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> 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!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> being polite! That was me bein’ polite!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Argh! You’re so difficult, sometimes,” moaned Jeremy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah well you didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to stay, now din’ ya!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>house!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And you invite a priest here?? You don’t care if he pokes around and discovers our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">secret</i>!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“SHHH!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were footsteps as the whispering retreated to a further location and became inaudible. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh great,” he muttered. “I’ve landed in a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">gay love-nest</b> by mistake. No wonder that big fella’s not pleased to see me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He had little time to reflect or pray on it before sleep overcame him entirely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-74229193851535836752011-07-26T19:07:00.000-04:002011-07-26T19:07:32.374-04:00An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid<i>The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through <a href="http://www.huntpress.com/">Hunt Press.</a> </i><br />
<br />
“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.<br />
“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.<br />
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.<br />
“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.<br />
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.<br />
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.<br />
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.<br />
“Oh hush.”<br />
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”<br />
“How hard could it be?”<br />
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.<br />
“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?”<br />
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”<br />
<br />
<B>PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID <a href="http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/madame-bluestockings-pennyhorrid-pre.html">HERE</a>!</B>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-1460889325809963292011-07-22T14:00:00.005-04:002011-11-07T14:40:55.222-05:00MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!<i>UPDATED NOV. 7 2011<br />
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The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>At long last <a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/madame-bluestockings-pennyhorrid/18599102">Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid</a> is available for sale from it's publisher,<a href="http://huntpress.com/">Hunt Press.</a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-r9Xltot5MctY-VySFIWlVDHP8TC8JVzAyEpBefjwtFSUa0E6WjXUAzRyJ8ibxb5y7mwHFTX56XdXj5yZ95oRVg8fMQ0sXeNy4UKyzN6hwsazKP0ehY_d-kvq-r6vqEigiA_6nhusVtU/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-r9Xltot5MctY-VySFIWlVDHP8TC8JVzAyEpBefjwtFSUa0E6WjXUAzRyJ8ibxb5y7mwHFTX56XdXj5yZ95oRVg8fMQ0sXeNy4UKyzN6hwsazKP0ehY_d-kvq-r6vqEigiA_6nhusVtU/s320/cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote> <em>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?</em><br />
<br />
<em>Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier</em> <br />
<br />
<em>A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World! </em><br />
<br />
<em>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. </em><br />
<br />
<em>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!</em></blockquote><br />
<b><a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/madame-bluestockings-pennyhorrid/18599102">CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!</a></b>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-23343632667465635052011-07-21T13:12:00.000-04:002011-07-21T13:12:41.861-04:00Jeremy Hunted Part 1<em>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</em><br />
PART ONE: THE OLD DOG<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“ARGH!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jer?” cried Andrew in alarm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Little help?” gasped Jeremy, his face screwed up in pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You alright?” asked Andrew in alarm, kneeling next to his friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m fine. It missed my heart by a few inches, but that was a close shave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was an antique,” said Jeremy with a shrug.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What were you doing anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was taking the curtains down to be cleaned. Need to tidy up for the new lodger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’re getting a lodger?” asked Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep, should be here tomorrow. He’s an American fellow here on a sabbatical.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A yank lodger?” asked Andrew in surprise.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Americans need rooms to stay in like everyone else,” said Jeremy with a shrug. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You going to be…”Andrew trailed off uncomfortably. “Okay with it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I need the money, Andrew. Vampire-hunting doesn’t pay the bills, and things have been getting tight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, you mean,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> am I going to drain his blood like it was Ribena?”</i> said Jeremy with a shrug. “Oh <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please</i>. It would take more than some American priest to make me go berserk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s a vicar?” asked Andrew agog.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, he’s a papist something-or-other. He’s a deacon or a seminarian or something… I forget which he said it was.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A religious nutter? Are you barking?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t really care <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i> he is as long as he pays rent. Help me carry these to the laundry room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t intend to<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> tell </i>him I’m a vampire, Andrew,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes. “And you better keep mum too, got it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, because I’m Mr. Subterfuge, ain’t I?” said Andrew with a snort.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jeremy paused and gripped his head. “…I can see where this may lead to some difficulties.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ll try to keep it secret,” said Andrew with a shrug, “but you know me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Bit peaky. And frankly starving,” said Jeremy grimly. “It takes a lot out of me to regenerate like that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You want me to go get food?” said Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Would you?” asked Jeremy, looking hopeful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah. Who do you feel like hitting up then?” asked Andrew. “Singh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, I can’t do Indian on an empty stomach,” said Jeremy with a grimace.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How about Maarouf?” asked Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andrew’s face spread in his usual lopsided grin full of chipped teeth. “Yeah, sure, Jer. See you in a bit, eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” said Jeremy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No problem. I was hungry, myself,” said Andrew. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, I mean thanks for… well, everything. I’ve been feeling a lot… better since you moved in,” said Jeremy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, you’re good company, Andrew,” said Jeremy. “You just listen to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rubbish bands</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Next week: PART TWO: Lodgers</em></span></div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-6967748972291540792011-07-15T16:50:00.001-04:002011-07-15T20:41:11.872-04:00Morning People<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>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!"</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fill in the blank<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></u>?') The kids, however were still in their pajamas and asking for food. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"'S there any coffee?" I mumbled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"No," said Kevin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Can you make there be coffee?" I whined.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Yes," he said cracking a small grin. Apart from the fact that he obviously forgot to brush his teeth, he really was rather cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose it was inevitable for me to fuck up the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"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?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I glanced at Lee jumping up and down to the Wiggles.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again</i>!!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kevin's smile slipped down around his ankles, as he cowed under my assault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Keeeevaaaaaaaan," he whined nasally.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was only after Kevin gave me a peck on the cheek, kissed the kids and walked out the door, that I shut up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hadn't even had breakfast together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was happening to us? I thought glumly. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tiny voice said, "Maybe you're just not a marriage person."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told that voice to go to Hell.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning, <span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I got up as early as I could and stumbled to the kitchen. Kevin was frankly surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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... </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Until I saw the cold coffee pot... and the cold slimy dishes... and the pork roast from last night left out.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Keeeviiiin..." I began. And then stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Whaaaaat?" he countered with a pained expression. I gritted my teeth, and took a shaky breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Nothing...uh I was just going to ask if you had taken your shower yet?" I said, thinking quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"What, really?" Kevin looked around uncertainly, like he was searching for hidden cameras.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Yeah, go ahead, I'll take care of this and get the kids up and dressed," I said, giving his hand a squeeze.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"I love you," I said, meaning it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"I love you too," he returned, flashing me a brighter grin than I'd seen in a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Kevin?" I called out. Nothing. Damn. I'd have to get them myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This bought me time to make the coffee before they demanded breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lee looked up, saw the icecream container and pointed. "Bite? Bite? Icebeam! Icebeam tone!" he chirped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"No honey," I said calmly. "No Icecream cone. How about juice? Okay?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lee frowned. "No Juice! Icebeam! Icebeam! Icebeam tone!" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I cringed, "Lee-honey, Icebeam's not for breakfast. You want some toast? Toast for breakfast?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lee paused, his elfish face screwed up into a scowl. He started to make whimpering noises as his cheeks began to turn red.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Maybe I'll get up early on Tuesdays... I'll start with Tuesdays.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"></div></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5294983244587919442.post-75509695016409793472011-06-30T22:50:00.001-04:002011-07-06T09:58:48.877-04:00The Night Job<em>My dear friend <a href="http://blog.icysedgwick.com/">Icy </a>got me thinking about England this week.</em> <em>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.</em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gloaming</i> perhaps?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So…er…uh…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh. No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> liked her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s because you need glasses.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">better</i> than Sasha.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’ve never liked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> of them, Jer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Torch-what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s just a show.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“On the wireless?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No. I keep<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> telling</i> you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wireless</i>,” he added.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“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!’”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“ 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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“On the contrary— you don’t look<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> young</i> enough to be my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">son</i> anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Brother?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Er… so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how much money</i> did I shove into that postbox?”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbu4CNuugnP0ogxuYkopsJj1ZyggFvCcnyNu9ojd-iqNG9zxPoBRi9n5iMAX0ZaJfKUbsnB_pDUB3xOFKV6f2N77GYW7Yzreo5posVzNf3tYAmRpdXzBlM-briMf-uwLJUDI2ZD9q1WPw/s1600/Jeremy_n_andrew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbu4CNuugnP0ogxuYkopsJj1ZyggFvCcnyNu9ojd-iqNG9zxPoBRi9n5iMAX0ZaJfKUbsnB_pDUB3xOFKV6f2N77GYW7Yzreo5posVzNf3tYAmRpdXzBlM-briMf-uwLJUDI2ZD9q1WPw/s320/Jeremy_n_andrew.jpg" width="205" /></a></div></div>Monica Marierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03112762564137354581noreply@blogger.com13