Write in the Thick of It

Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Pronouns

2007-07-17T20:45:00.000-05:00

Round 7 is entitled -

All About Alliteration!

Here's the deal: You pick a letter to alliterate the heck out of (hopefully not ending your sentences with prepositions, like I tend to do) and then find words in your handy dandy Webster's Theasaurus or at Thesaurus.com that mean the same things as The Words I've chosen. I realize there are not going to necessarily be literal synonyms for every word, so do the best you can. Don't kill yourself trying to write anything lengthy - I'm finding this one to be kind of difficult. (But maybe that's me.) If you run into trouble, check out this post by GoingLikeSixty - he seems to have nailed the alliteration thing.

The Words:

Child
Pitiful
Cereal (Use a name brand if you want. Maybe that will make it easier?)
Cabinet
Bug
Sad

Please be sure to highlight or italicize or bold your chosen words in your story, since no one's will be the same.

Stories are due by next Monday, July 23rd at 10pm Oklahoma time.

Redneck vs. Hillbilly

2007-07-12T22:26:00.000-05:00

REDNECKS PREVAIL!!!

It appears that the rednecks rallied around their diva this round and have made me their queen. I am humbled and honored.

The next round is going to revolve solely around alliteration and I'm trying to come up with a list of The Words that can be used regardless of what letter you choose to use repeatedly in your story. This is going to require the use of a thesaurus and possibly one or seven Bud Lights.

Words will be chosen and posted by Saturday.

Hatfields vs. McCoys

2007-07-07T18:44:00.000-05:00

Voting in Round 6 is now open. There is no reason for there not to be tons of votes this time because there are only TWO stories to read! Tell your friends, tell your neighbors, then VOTE!

Voting will be open until 10pm, Wednesday July 11th.

Jeremiah Falls

2007-07-07T18:16:00.000-05:00

by Redneck Diva
Genre: Soap Opera

Cast:
Barbara Jean Redbone – 19 year old mother of 12, pregnant for the 11th time with a baby of unknown paternal heritage. In other words, she doesn't quite know who her baby daddy is this time.

Sally Sue, Amelia Bedelia, Eddie Ray Bobby, Nermal Wayne, Cindy Bertha, Barnaby Wallace, Rascal Jean, Stripes McGee, Jr., twin girls, Annie Fay and Fannie May and twin boys, Cecil John and Cyril Don – Children of Barbara Jean.

Darrell Darrell – Swarthy 34 year old 8th grader at Jeremiah Falls' Middle School. Probably Barbara Jean's latest baby daddy – he was the last 8 times.

Neon Leon – Quirky loner who tries to remain low-profile in Jeremiah Falls, but the fact that he glows in the dark due to a tragic accident at the nuclear farm on the edge of town keeps him from the quiet life he desires. Blamed for a lot of petty crime in town because well, he glows in the dark and they see him leaving the scene with the goods tucked under his glowing arm.

Barnaby Jones – Town doctor, Barbara Jean's father.

Jonas Barnaby – Barnaby Jones's evil twin.

"Stripes" McGee – One and only attorney in Jeremiah Falls. Kind of sleazy, smarmy and makes one want to wash their hands after prolonged contact. Father of Stripes McGee, Jr., Barbara Jean's oldest boy.
----------------------------------------------------------

[The scene opens in Barbara Jean's scantily furnished shack on the creek bank. Barbara Jean is washing dishes. There are children running amok, engaged in ornery frivolity in the cabin – little Sally Sue is hanging upside down from the rafters, shrieking while her brother Eddie Ray Bobby tries to catch her pigtails with his pocketknife. Rascal Jean is reading a three year old copy of the popular magazine, Hedonism and Leisure Journal. Amelia Bedelia is feeding all four twins. Stripes Jr. and Barnaby Wallace are in a heated debate over the war in Iraq. Cindy Bertha and Nermal Wayne are making out on the couch.]

Barbara Jean: Cindy Bertha Redbone! Nermal Wayne Redbone! Y'all just stop that kissin' right now! Do y'all wanna end up like your cousins Sara Carol and Norman Bates? Those two had to move to Arkansas and git married! Now y'all come 'ere and help me with these dishes. My back is killin' me tonight.

[She sits down wearily in a kitchen chair as Cindy and Nermal enter the kitchen, winking at each other.]

Cindy Bertha: Oh, Momma. You don't even know howta have fun. Why, Nermal and I are just doing what you said. You always say, "Y'all kids need to git along better." So we are. Ain't we, baby?

[Nermal grins and pinches Cindy's rear]

Barbara Jean: You two are playin' with far. I'm not sure, but I think y'all have the same daddy…..

[Knock at the door. Barbara Jean stands and waddles to the front door. Opening it, she finds Darrell Darrell standing on the stoop with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. She tries to shut the door, but he stops it with his foot.]

Darrell: Oh, Barbara Jean. Don't be so mean. Heh. That kinda rhymed. Anyway, Barbara Jean, you know you love me and I love you. Why cain't I just take you away from all this – by the way, hi kids that are mine. Don't ferget yer daddy loves you! Barbara Jean, just run away with me. It looks like Cindy Bertha and Nermal are getting' on fine – let 'em play house for awhile and take care of the young'uns. I can shoot some extra possum and squirrel to get 'em through the winter. We'll hitchhike to Oklahoma and live the good life for awhile with our new young'un.

[This whole time, Barbara Jean is tapping her foot impatiently, hands on her hips, looking off at the wall.]

Barbara Jean: You done, Darrell Darrell? 'Cuz if you are, you can just take yer fancy flowers right back out and put 'em back in my garden. I ain't runnin' away with you. I have 'sponsibilities here and if you cain't handle that, you need to go find you some sweet thang in that fancy schmancy Jeremiah Falls Middle School you go to, and run off with her. I ain't your plaything, Darrell. Not no more.

[She chokes back a sob as she slowly shuts the door. Shoulders slumped, she pushes Cindy Bertha and Nermal apart from each other and starts washing dishes again.]

[Fade out]

[Scene opens to Jonas Barnaby pacing angrily. He has Barnaby Jones tied to the railroad track on the outskirts of town and Barnaby is doing his best to talk his evil twin into letting him go.]

Barnaby: Listen, evil twin brother, let's talk this through. It's not like I asked to be the one Momma Jones kept all those years ago. You hafta understand that it's fate, destiny's child, kissma or something. You were supposed to be the one to live in that orphanage, one of many ill, malnutritioned children, waiting daily for someone to take you home with them. You are who you are because of that orphanage.

Jonas: Don't pontificate at me, not-evil twin brother. You're Momma's chosen one.Do you know what it's like to watch child after child leave the orphanage with a new momma and daddy, knowing you have to stay and endure cold oatmeal, free government cheese and re-runs on PBS? Do you? No. You don't. You went to medical school and you have a good life, a daughter, grandkids. Lots of grandkids. What do I have? Well, aside from the clap I got last winter when I had to prostitute myself out just so I could stay warm, I don't have anything. Nothing.

[Jonas sits on the railroad track next to his bound twin brother. Jonas leans his head on Barnaby's shoulder and begins to cry.]

Barnaby: Damn, evil twin brother, you sure did have it bad. I can give you some sulfur pills for that clap, you can stay with me and Mrs. Jones and well, I know of 12 kids who would sure like to have another uncle. And just so you know….I didn't go to med school. I took a correspondence course from that place Sally Struthers went to.

Jonas: ICS?

Barnaby: You see what? Man, we better get you those sulfur pills quick. Untie me, evil twin brother. Let's go home.

[Jonas embraces Barnaby. As the camera pans around the two men, Jonas grins evilly.]

[Fade out.]

[Scene opens with Stripes McGee pacing in front of his large desk. Neon Leon is slouched down in a large wing-back chair. Stripes is muttering and stopping occasionally to peer at a legal pad on his desk.]

Stripes: So tell me, Neon Leon, do you trust me?

Leon: I don't have a choice, do I?

Stripes: I'm Stripes McGee.

Leon: I know. I'm Neon Leon. I thought we did this earlier.

Stripes: Nevermind. I will win this case, Neon Leon, or my name isn't Stripes McGee.

Leon: Riiiiight. You're Stripes McGee. I'm Neon Leon. I thought we established that already.

[Fade out.]

[Scene opens to Barbara Jean's bedroom in the shack on the creek bank. Barbara Jean is very obviously in labor on the bed. Cindy Bertha is wiping her forehead with a washcloth. Amelia Bedelia is bouncing Fanny and Annie on her hips, while pacing the room.]

Amelia: Cindy Bertha, I think it's 'bout time we called ol' Papa Jones, don'tcha think? Momma's not lookin' so good right now.

Cindy: Amelia Bedelia Redbone, you'd think you'd never seen a woman give birth before. Of course, she don't look so good. She's gonna be pushin' a baby outta her hoohah here in a bit. I jist hope I look this purty when I have Nermal Wayne's baby…

Barbara Jean: What? UNNNGGGHHH! (pants) You're havin' his baby? Your brother's baby? Cindy Bertha Redbone, that child'll be borned with two heads or sumthin'.

Cindy: Oh, Momma. We'll be fine. We're in love. Besides, I did some checkin' with Stripes Jr. and he said that if memory served him c'rectly, Nermal Wayne and I don't have the same daddy. So, see? We'll be fine. If the baby is a little slow or sumthin', we'll just put him in daddy's class at the middle school. Daddy'll help 'im. It'll be good fer the baby t'spend time with his grampa.

Eddie Ray Bobby: Okay, Amelia Bedelia, I got the truck a'runnin' and I'm ready to go get ol' Papa Jones. You think she'll wait?

Amelia: Oh golly, I sure 'nuf hope she can….

Barbara Jean: UNNGGGH!! Nooooo! I can't wait no more! Eddie Ray Bobby get m'daddy NOW. I'm havin' this baby!

[Eddie leaves the room, a truck roars out of the yard.]

[Amelia hands the twins off to Sally Sue and she and Cindy prepare for the birth of their new brother or sister. They're excited to find out whether they'll be aunts of uncles, but are concerned for their mother, who doesn't seem to be handling the labor as well as she usually does.]

[Scene cuts to Eddie Ray Bobby pulling into Barnaby's house. Barnaby and Jonas run out of the house with Eddie and hurriedly get in the truck. The truck heads back to the shack on the creek bank.]

[Scene cuts back to the shack on the creek bank.]

Cindy Bertha: Just one more push now, Momma. Come on now. You can do it! PUUUUSH!

Amelia: Okay, here it comes…..I'm an uncle! [a baby's cry fills the room] Oh momma, it's the prettiest little Asian baby boy you've ever seen! Wonder who's the daddy of this one? Any ideas?

Barbara Jean: Lo Hung Dong

Cindy:[pulling back the baby's blanket] I'll say.

[Fade out.]

Davy Jones's Locker

2007-07-07T18:00:00.000-05:00

by Hillbilly Mom
Genre: Science Fiction

It happened as predicted, on the exact day and time. The counties below them had been inundated for months now. The rising waters had crept higher and higher, at a rate of four inches per hour. When Davy went to bed, tendrils of water were licking at his front sidewalk. When he awoke the next morning, nearly four feet of water covered his yard. The basement was full, and about a foot of water swirled about the first floor. Davy’s family was well-prepared. The water would not go higher. They had switched over to the new electrical system without a hitch. Air mattresses and pool accessories dotted the living room. Mom and Dad had inflated them last night.

From the television mounted on the wall, Davy noted that his school was now running on the water route. This, too, had been planned and publicized. The kids knew what to do, as did the teachers. Davy slipped on his water shoes and slopped through the downstairs hall to the kitchen. His mother plopped two Eggos on his plate, and Davy coated them with syrup. It was pretty much like any other Wednesday. He wiped his mouth and headed out front to wait for his bus. He daydreamed a bit, as most 13-year-old boys are wont to do, about the girls at school. Davy hoped this new water world would meant the girls would dress more scantily than before. Not that some of them weren’t nearing the dividing line between ‘scantily-dressed’ and ‘undressed’ already.

Davy listened for the bus. He knew it couldn’t possibly sound the same. He knew his old school bus could not drive in the 4-5 feet of water that covered the road. Davy dangled his legs off the rock-and-mortar post of the fence. He looked to his left, and saw the bus boat. It was bright yellow, with the driver sitting up front. Davy was near the end of the line. The end nearest to school. He was one of the last students picked up, and among the first dropped off after school. The bus boat was moving at a good clip. It slowed as it neared his stop. Davy was sad to see that
the girls were dressed the same as every other day.

“Good morning, Mr. Franklin.”

“Good morning, Davy.” Mr. Franklin handed Davy a paddle and a life jacket as he clambered aboard.

Davy sat down near the front of the bus boat, right side. He began to paddle as Mr. Franklin called out, “Stroke. Stroke.” They arrived at school at the regular time. Davy followed the other kids to the gym. They were not allowed to go to their lockers before school. Just as Davy had feared, the water in the main hallway was over his head. He was a small child for 13, and had been assigned the profession of “jockey” for his Beta Club Induction Dress-up Day. Davy was prepared. He pulled a jointed elbow straw from his pocket, and popped the short end in his mouth. With the long end above the surface, he could breathe just fine. He climbed the steps to the bleachers, bringing his head above water again. Instead of basketball this morning, the duty teacher was holding a diving contest. Contestants shinnied up the basketball goal supports, and dived from the hoop. The water at gym floor level was a bit over 10 feet deep. Some kids went for the technical difficulty. Others preferred the crowd-pleasing belly flop style.

When first bell sounded, Davy readied his straw and headed down the main hall to his locker. Just his luck, he had a bottom locker. Davy took a deep breath and ducked his head under the surface. He took out his pen and slammed the door. The Social Studies books were in Mr. Thompson’s classroom upstairs. They had been stacking them there in preparation for the flood. Davy jammed the straw in his mouth and walked toward the stairs. Once the students were seated in the classroom, Mr. Thompson began to pontificate, as usual, about the ancient Greeks. The steady drip drip drip of water from the students’ clothing made Davy sleepy. He tried to picture swarthy Mr. Thompson back in Greek times; Mr. Thompson pursuing and practicing hedonism. A small smile edged its way into his mouth.

Near the end of class, two office workers came in, pushing a cart from the A/V department. It was loaded with neon green waterwings. “How many students do you have under 4 feet nine inches, Mr. Thompson? The office says they have to wear these waterwings at all times, unless they are in the basement classrooms.” Mr. Thompson looked out at the class. “I think Davy Jones is the only one. Anybody else?” No one raised a hand. Mr. Thompson tossed Davy a pair of waterwings. “Blow them up, son.” Davy did. His face burned bright red. He felt like a baby.

When the bell rang to end first hour, Davy hurried back downstairs to his Math class. Mrs. Wilson told the students to sit on the backs of their chairs, and rest their feet on the seats. That way, everyone’s head was above water. Davy hated the waterwings. It was nearly impossible to walk down the hall now. His feet didn’t touch the floor. Bigger kids grabbed him and shoved him for sport. He bobbed like a cork. On the brighter side, he didn’t need his straw to breathe. The rest of the class was laughing. Davy turned, and saw bubbles popping up around Ricky Richardson. Mrs. Wilson frowned. “Enough of this frivolity! Save your farting for your leisure time, Ricky! We have a lot of work to get done before the MAP test. Pay attention!”

Third hour sent Davy to the basement for Science. They had practiced what to do when the water arrived. Yes, they’d had drills once a week. He took a deep breath and dived underwater. Good thing Mrs. Wilson had given up one minute before the bell so he could deflate his waterwings and stuff them in his pocket. Davy swam his way down the stairwell, down the hall, and into Mrs. Beemer’s classroom. He swam like a dolphin to his desk, snagged his air line from the ceiling, and popped it into his mouth. Whew! That was pushing the limit on his breath. He’d have to take a deeper one next time. Mrs. Beemer started class. It was a lesson on density. Davy liked the hands-on lessons of Mrs. Beemer, but his stomach could only think about lunch.

During lunch, a bit of an argument broke out at the teachers’ table. Mrs. Beemer taunted Mr. Thompson for having a wreck on the way to school.

“Couldn’t you see that GIANT schoolboat in front of you, Thompson?”

“Hmpf! I SAW it, but you can’t exactly put the brakes on like you do with a car, now can you, Mrs. Beemer? Surely you know something about momentum and friction and deceleration.”

“I certainly do. And I know not to follow too closely behind a schoolboat, too. How much damage did you do?”

“I must’ve cracked the bow, somehow. When I pulled into the teachers’ marina, I was taking on water. Bailing couldn’t keep up with it. Lucky for me, I had my emergency raft.”

“Yes. I saw you send those kids out to blow it up. What century do you live in, Thompson? They have those auto-inflate rafts now. You don’t have to make 6th graders blow it up by mouth.”

“They didn’t mind. It gave them something else to do besides annoy the hell out of me!”

“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the dock this morning.”

“Get off my back, Beemer! This is harrassment!”

“I’m just teasing. You never could take a joke if it was on you.”

“Shut up, you stupid…PUCKER! That’s what you are, you basement-dwelling denizen! PUCKER!

You spend all day underwater and think you are our equal. One of these days, I’m gonna put a kink in your airhose. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“Don’t threaten me, Thompson! I’ll file a grievance!”

“Grievance, schmievance. Keep flappin’ your jaws, you damn PUCKER! You’ll get what’s coming to you. And that’s a promise.”

The lunch bell ended the spat, and all rushed back to class. For the most part, the days began to stretch into one another as everyone adapted to the new routine. Davy became adept at evading the kids who wished to make sport of him. He found that a well-placed underwater knee did wonders to discourage other students from turning him into their own personal beach ball. He didn’t even need his locker any more, what with the books being stored in the upper classrooms. Mr. Thompson let most of the kids with bottom lockers keep their paper and pens in his room, in cubbies made from boxes that used to hold copier paper.

Yes, the students and teachers adapted. In fact, they all got along swimmingly, as Mr. Thompson was wont to say. That is, until the day that Mrs. Beemer did not show up for work. The police checked her home, but found only her 13 cats, perched high upon the kitchen cabinets. Later in the morning, about the middle of third hour, the police met with Mr. Thompson in the principal’s office. After one hour and fifty-seven minutes of questioning, just in time for Mr. Thompson to have his planning period, he said matter-of-factly:
“You might want to check Davy Jones’s locker.”

The police rushed to the abandoned locker, and found one Vivian Beemer, bound with an air hose, breathing through two bendy elbow straws. The slight woman had a straw in each nostril, with the other ends poking up through the vent holes into the top locker. Extra straws had been squeezed down onto the long part, making each one about two feet long. The police freed Mrs. Beemer, and took her down to the police station, where the bailiff gave her some towels and chicken noodle soup.

Mr. Thompson was transferred to the high school across town, and padlocks were placed on all bottom lockers. Davy Jones went about his life in the wet new world much as he did before: quietly, without much fuss.

Geez, it's like y'all have a life or something

2007-07-07T17:38:00.000-05:00

I've waited all day, hoping that someone would send another submission, but here it is 5:30 Oklahoma time and nada.

I'll wait a little bit longer and then I'll post the two submissions I do have - mine and Hillbilly Mom's.

As she said, "...may the best woman win. Or, considering that it's just us...may the least annoying woman win." She pretty much nailed that one.

Extending once again

2007-06-29T16:47:00.000-05:00

Since it's nearly 5pm on deadline day and I haven't received a single story submission, I think it's going to be wise to extend the deadline until after the 4th of July holiday.

The deadline is now Friday, July 6th, 10pm. Voting will begin on Saturday the 7th.

Have a happy and safe holiday!

Round 6 - Au lieu et place d'une vacances d'été, laissez-nous tout écrit des histoires

2007-06-25T20:34:00.000-05:00

Don't ask me what it means. Ask Elizabeth.

Here are The Words for this round:

pontificate
frivolity
scantily
leisure
swarthy
hedonism

I'm publishing the genres this time because I don't want to sit here and email everyone individually. I'm lazy like that.

Hillbilly Mom - Science Fiction
Cap'n Neurotic - Mystery
Jusdealem - Teen romance
Cazzie - Horror
Elizabeth - Western
Redneck Diva - Soap Opera
Maverick - Historical Romance
Pigpen - Fantasy
Bubblegum Tate - Comedy
Li'l Random - Drama
Mrs. E. - Action

Some are those listed above are from the last round and didn't write, so I just listed them with what they had last time.

Okay, now you know The Words and your genre. You have until Friday, June 29th at 10pm to submit your stories.

Voulez vous couchet avec moi ce soir?

(Yeah, I'm pretty sure I just propositioned y'all, but hey, I'm trying to keep the theme going here.)

The round that shall remain nameless

2007-06-25T08:51:00.000-05:00

...until she sends me a title, that is.

Elizabeth has sent me her list of The Words and as soon as she titles the round, we'll get started.

So far, these are the entrants that have for sure told me they'll be participating in this round:

Hillbilly Mom
Cap'n Neurotic
Jusdealem
Cazzie
Elizabeth

If you were given a genre last round and didn't write, you can keep that genre if you want. If you want a new one, you need to let me know today. The Accounting Firm of Paul didn't get to draw new genres yesterday because my internet decided to be a big poopyhead and wouldn't connect. Sooo.....you've got until this evening to let me know.

And the shoes have it

2007-06-23T12:25:00.000-05:00

Elizabeth, aka The Shoe Diva, put on her walkin' shoes and walked all over the other submissions in Round 5, Cazzmania!!!, this week.

Congratulations to you, Elizabeth!

She'll be sending me her list of words ASAP.

In the meantime, y'all need to let me know if you're in for the next round - genres will be assigned this round, too - although, we are letting pop culture rest this week. I know I for one would run screaming if I had to try that again, lol.

(I do have some really fun ideas for the round after this one - don't worry, it has nothing to do with Tickle Me Elmo, American Idol or KISS.)

Voting Ends Tonight

2007-06-22T12:28:00.000-05:00

I considered leaving the poll open until tomorrow night, but the numbers have remained the same since last night, so I think we've pretty much got all the votes we're going to get. I will close voting around 10 tonight (providing the weather cooperates and I can get online) and the winner will be emailed immediately thereafter.

The new Words will be posted hopefully by Monday. If you want to participate in this round, email me so we can draw genres again. We're going to leave out the pop culture references this time because my brain hurts from this round, but I think the genres at least give everyone some direction. I have some ideas for future rounds, but let's take it easy this time.

Good luck!

Memories at the Monkey-Hog Saloon

2007-06-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

by Cap'n Neurotic

Genre: Western
Pop Culture: Tickle Me Elmo, MTV, Rosie O'Donnell

-------------------------------

“Well tickle me Elmo and call me Spanky!” slurred the drunk who had just collapsed at Ford’s feet. The gunslinger did a double-take, shaken by the sot’s turn of phrase.

“You okay, pardner?” the dealer asked, and Ford waved the concern away.

“Just need to stretch my legs for a minute,” he said, pushing away from the card table. He knew the other players in the saloon would assume he was answering the call of nature again, but that was fine; better they think he had the bladder of an octogenarian spinster than they realize that the ramblings of the town drunkard could put him into such a state. He quickly strode out of the Monkey-Hog Saloon, so named for the rare creature rumored to live in the badlands surrounding the town of Chadwyck, although Ford suspected that its name came less from the fact that the creature was fabled to resemble some weird hybrid of a chimp and a sow than the fact that the whole idea was monkeyshines and hogwash. Still, the usual cynical thoughts which would flash through his mind at shenanigans like the obviously fake stuffed monkey-hog topping the saloon’s entrance were nowhere to be found, drowned out by the tumult conjured by his encounter with the drunk Pacing down the dusty street, he struggled to purge his mind of the images from that night 15 years previous when his youthful quest for enlightenment had led instead to nightmares.

As a young boy, Ford had always felt that he had a special destiny awaiting him, and after the massacre which had robbed him of his family he had set off to discover what that destiny could be. He eventually followed tales of a nomadic Indian tribe whose true name was unknown to all and whose shaman possessed the power to pierce the veils of time. It had taken him months to find the tribe, and then over a year of living with them to prove himself worthy to consult the shaman for guidance. The ceremony itself was cloaked in the fog of memory, with brief snatches surfacing from time to time: he remembered the sweat lodge; remembered the strange incense whose smoke flooded his lungs; remembered the rhythmic chanting which lulled him into a trance; and then, more than anything else, he remembered the visions that followed, terrible visions of another place and time: a shivering, red-haired monstrosity with its deafening high-pitched giggles; a box filled with images of young girls decked out in skimpy clothes and performing lewd gyrations that would have made Ms. Posey, the local madam, blush; a loud-mouthed harridan assailing a handsome mustachioed man about his right to bear arms; these sights and sounds filled his mind, and did many more, some more horrible than others.

When he had regained consciousness, he had found himself alone, abandoned in the middle of the now-deserted field where the tribe had last encamped. Even with the considerable tracking skills he had learned in his year with them, Ford was unable to find a trace that they had ever been there; indeed, in the many years since then the mysterious tribe had remained as elusive as their ineffable name. His only souvenirs were the frequent nightmares fueled by the strange visions, and the odd stares from many a companion over the years who, after having to listen to a night of his restless mumblings, would ask him questions such as “What is this ‘emteevee’ and why do you want it so bad?” or “I hope I never meet this Rosie O’Donnell of yours, boy, it sounds like she hurt you but good.”

After a few minutes, Ford was able to shake the uneasy feelings the drunkard had inadvertently caused, and he returned to the Monkey-Hog Saloon to reclaim his place at the card table and, he hoped, reclaim some of his money as well.

“Feeling better, friend?” asked Blonde John, the dandified card sharp to Ford’s left, whose faux geniality failed to conceal the condescension which dripped from every syllable that dropped from his mouth. From the instant Ford had met Blonde John, he had detested him; the slick-haired so-called gentleman’s clothes reeked of too much privilege, his vocabulary reeked of too much education, and his tendency to use both to intimidate others reeked of too little class. Having to play against him had set Ford’s teeth on edge earlier; now that his concentration was shaken, he was afraid he was going to need to swipe a horse tranquilizer off of the doc just to keep from losing his cool.

“So, what is it you do?” Blonde John asked, absentmindedly fingering his daffodil cufflinks as the next hand was dealt.

Ford had witnessed the cocky player weasel his way into the heads of the other players over the course of the evening, and decided he wasn’t going to provide the forked-tongued devil any ammo to shake Ford’s game. “Me? I’m just a student of the human condition,” Ford said with an air of distraction.

Blonde John snorted. “Oh, yes, I see, I haven’t just stumbled into any old saloon,” he snarked. “Why, it’s really just a psychiatric experiment in disguise, and you’re part of its Byzantine ruse.” The snobbish dandy grew more agitated as Ford studiously ignored his ribbing. “So, let’s see-- you’re a ‘student of the human condition,’ disguised as a pugnacious scofflaw, with no one the wiser. I’m sure our dealer here is a trained alienist, using our betting habits to write his thesis. And Ms. Posey over there, well, obviously she is secretly an erudite sexologist, and not just a common tram--”

His comment was cut short as Ford’s fist shot out, knocking the loudmouth backwards onto the ground; dazed, Blonde John reached for his gun, only to stop when he realized that the barrel of Ford’s revolver was inches away from his forehead.

“You really need to watch your mouth,” Ford said in a toneless voice.

“Ah, yes, in retrospect, I suppose I should,” Blonde John said carefully, obviously reassessing his position and not wanting to exacerbate the situation. “I suppose when I reminisce about this with my grandchildren one day, I shall describe it as the day a student of the human condition taught me something, eh?” Ford recognized the battered man’s feeble attempt to save face, and slowly put his gun back in its holster; there was a small corner of his mind that still hated resorting to such behavior, but over the years as his quest for a greater purpose in life had brought him nothing but pain and misery, he had come to accept that such actions were the only way to get along in this world.

“Hahaha, that tickles!” The voice of one of Posey’s girls flirting with a flush prospector sent chills down Ford’s spine as he was once again plagued by the high-pitched echoing cries of a strange creature from another time and place.

Vibrator Hotel, No Batteries Included.

2007-06-19T14:55:00.000-05:00

by Cazzie!!!

Genre: Soap Opera
Pop Culture: E.T., Brangelina, Princess Diana

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SCENE 1: Brad enters hotel foyer, dressed in a pin striped suit, complete with top hat and spats shoes. He has a rolled up newspaper under his left arm. Peering around the foyer, Brad steps up to the front counter.
Brad says in a whisper "Why, hello there. I have a reservation to see the Sexologist Miss Selina at 1400hours".

Desk attendant: "Why yes sir, right this way" She rings a small bell, the consierge comes out of a small room to the side of the desk. He hurriedly walks Brad to an elevator. The door opens, and a person steps out. Brad and the consierge enter the lift, second floor is selected as destination.

Stepping out of the lift they make a right hand turn down a small hall and knock on the large pink door. Consierge nods and leaves Brad alone.

Miss Selina: "Enter!" Is the command.
Brad, "Why hello Miss Selina"
Miss S: "Where is Angelina today? Is she not coming, it is not like you to go anywhere alone...Brangelina "
Brad: Well even love birds have to have time apart"
Miss S, "So, you are both having a hard time again? Tell me more"

Brad takes a seat on the sofa, Miss S sits to his right.
Brad: "Do you believe in destiny Miss S?
What if Brangelina was never meant to be?
Look at Princess Diana, her and Dodi, they never had a chance.
What if we don't stay together, will we ever know what we may miss out on?"
Miss S: "Only time can tell the tale. Unless you want to stop time itself, as if having been given a tranquiliser of some sort....time, standing still..." Miss S, starts to unbutton Brad's shirt. He does not resist. Miss S moves to Brad left and pulls him up off the sofa by his forearms.

They stare into each other's eyes....SCENE PAUSED HERE...

SCENE TWO: in the hotel kitchen, the head chef, wearing his white tall hat and chef checkered pants with white buttoned top is busy preparing for a banquet in the restaurant.

Head Chef: "Look, all my assistants have called in sick..what am I to do? How am I to cater for all these people in this short space of time before the restaurant opens? We may have to just go to Subway and order rolls for everyone to eat tonight!!"

Hotel Manager: "I have got some agency assistant chef's coming in. One of them used to work in the kitchens of some of the biggest chains of restaurant in the World..he is reportedly very accomplished"

Head Chef: "What..he worked for McDonald's or something? Gimme a break!"

Manager:"I will do my best. But, in retrospect, I can safely say the agency I called have such good repute, they will surely come through to help us out in our time of need here".

A clumsy waitress drops a whole tray of whole fish, it slops on the floor at the feet of the head chef and the hotel manager. She bends over to pick up the mess, as she bends, everyone can see she has a pattern of ET The Extra Terrestrial on her undergarment...it causes everyone to laugh, lightening the mood in the kitchen.

SCENE 3: Out at the pool there is a small gathering of elderly citizens. They are playing a game of cards, sipping pina coladas and smoking Havana Cigars.

Bob: "Say, Harry, get a load of the young birds coming out of the hotel for a swim over there"

Harry:"Oh, come on Bob, look the other way, you know they are out of our league. I mean, look at us."

Bob:"Speak for yourself old timer, I am going to get me some whoopee before the end of this vacation, and I am not talking about sitting on a cushion that just makes fart sounds..get my drift"(winking and waving his havanna around in the air"

Harry, "Well, it might be nice for you to reminisce about our younger playboy days Bob, but I got other things I want to do in the next few days"

Bob: "That's a full hand I got there..you are out mate" Bob slaps the cards down on the table, looks at the young girls in the pool, gets up and does a bomb into the pool. The young girls yell at him for wetting their hair, and they get out of the pool and go back into the hotel.

Harry laughs so hard he collapses.... an ambulance is called via a poolside phone.....

SCENE 4: Inside the recreation room there is a gathering of ladies, they are dressed in after 5 clothing, having their make up applied for a photo shoot for Little Ladies Magazine.

Florence: "I just love the feel of this silk dress, it makes me feel so fem-i-nine and all"

Stella: "Well, it would never compare to the feel of this velvet chemise Flo...so warm and soft".

Tilly: "You ladies know that Brangelina are staying here in our midst at the Vibrator Hotel don't you?"

Gasps heard all round.

Florence:"Well, I know where Brad is, but I do not know where Angelina is...I saw him enter the room of the sexologist Miss Selina"

Gasps all around again.

The waitress with the ET undergarments appears, she smells of the fish from the kitchen, this causes the ladies to vacate the room.

SCENE 5: The ballroom of the Hotel is where the next scene takes place.

Opening scene, Shot of the Enlightnment Ballroom sign on the double breasted door.

A waiter walks through the double doors, cameras take shot of the expanse of the room.

The ball gets underway.

Bob and Harry share a table with the ladies from the magazine shoot.

Brad and Angelina sit with Miss Selina.... Miss Selina stands up and profess out loud to everyone in the ballroom that she is in love with Brad and is having his baby. Angelina faints to the ground. Brad storms out of the room and Miss Selina is left looking silly at the camera until next Friday's episode...

Life Lived in Turmoil After Childhood

2007-06-19T14:50:00.000-05:00

by Maverick

Genre: Drama
Pop Culture: The Brady Bunch, Smurfs, Play-doh

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Hi, my name is Jan. Well, that was my name on the famed TV show The Brady Bunch, and I’m her to tell you a little about my life story. From early childhood I thought it was my destiny to be in show biz. I loved acting and it was fun for a while. Being the middle sibling on the show gave me a huge complex; being behind Marcia made me feel less of a person week after week, but as I reminisce about the shortcomings of my childhood, it helped me grow up quicker. When the show went off the air I had trouble finding other work besides some infomercials and bit parts that underused my talents. I began to believe that there wasn’t anything left out there for me. I had a bit of a breakdown in the middle of Saks Fifth Avenue on Rodeo Drive. Someone called for an ambulance and when they arrived one of them gave me a tranquilizer and admitted me into the mental wing of the local hospital. Yeah, I was in there for a while. The hospital assigned me a doctor who, in turn, sent me to the in-house therapist who got down to the root of the problem. The therapist put me through a lot of tests and told me that the lack of a relationship with a man led to my breakdown, so I went to a sexologist who explained it to me through using something I thought was weird – playing with Play-Doh. She told me to mold it into a male and female figure and, because the Play-Doh was blue, all I could think about was those blue creatures The Smurfs – you know, like Smurfette and Brawny Smurf, so, I molded it into them. Then she told me to act out some very personal scenes with my figurines until she told me it was the lack of dating and male contact that had put me in the downward spiral through my adulthood. She recommended a few things I could do to fix my problems. I took her advice and within months my life was back on track. After all that enlightenment from my doctors I felt like a new person and, in retrospect, I think my childhood would have been better if I wasn’t so hard on myself for being the middle child on a sitcom that lasted forever and made me lots of money and residuals throughout the years.

A Timeless Tale

2007-06-19T14:45:00.000-05:00

by Hillbilly Mom

Genre: Historical Romance
Pop Culture: M. Night Shyamalan, KISS, The Beatles

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(We got a two-fer here, people! She's making up for her self-disqualification last time!)

The great hall was hung with tapestries of rich reds and greens and blues, with gold and silver accents. One was a magnificent unicorn, contained in a small pen. Others showed battle scenes, and the Lord and Lady, while yet another depicted a brightly-colored bird. I made note to ask Edward what kind of fowl sported such bright plumage, for I had never seen one such as this. I walked across a layer of straw, in which dogs wrestled about over bones from the most recent meal. The fire was banked in the huge stone fireplace. People bustled here and there, putting away salt cellars and cups and spoons. It smelled as if chicken and stew had been served, and perhaps mutton. A richer diet than my family was accustomed to, by far. Most of our meals consisted of beans and vegetables, from our own fields. The fields we worked for the Lord.

This was my first time in the castle. Edward had asked if I wanted to come. As a carpenter’s apprentice, Edward often worked inside. His father, Gilbert, agreed to the arrangement, so I put my hair under a hat, and walked along behind them, carrying the toolbox. I did not know the names of all the tools, though I recognized a plane and a chisel. Edward said his father valued the plane above all his other tools. It was covered with fine ornamentation. Edward and Gilbert handled the wood, which I believed to be walnut. We were to build a chest in the Lord’s sleeping area, in a secret compartment, to store his jewelry. With the Lord and Lady away to visit the Lord‘s family, this was the perfect time for the work to be done. The constable had no idea I was along for the job. Even if he had, it would have meant little to him if a farmer’s daughter visited the castle with the carpenters. I could do no harm to his Lord’s property. No one would be the wiser.

It was good of Edward to include me. As the son of a craftsman, he enjoyed more opportunities than I. Edward was fearless. Just last evening, he came by to fetch me to the river for some fishing. My father was still in the fields, and when I heard Edward whistle, I told my mother I was going to look for some truffles. She did not care. I was a big help to her during the day, and when my father was not home, she often let me go off by myself. As I entered the wood, Edward jumped from behind a tree. With a shock, I saw that he had painted his face with clay and soot, so that it nearly glowed white in the dusk, with jagged black outlines of soot about his eyes. Edward stuck out his tongue, so long that it nearly passed his chin. "KISS?” he asked. I blushed. He could be so much fun, so daring. I shook my head. Edward took my hand and pulled me down onto the damp, mossy bank. We sat for a moment in silence, only the babble of the water over the rocks to be heard.

Edward began to hum, then to sing a little tune. “Love, love me. Do.” He treated me as if I was special, not just a plain farmer’s daughter. As though I was nearly his equal, as if he cared about my opinions. He was my destiny. My reason for living. We both knew we were meant to be together. I put my hand on his arm. “Shhh. What was that?” It would not do to be caught alone together on the riverbank, especially by my father. “It is nothing. Just the Beatles chirping in the tree bark,” said Edward. “No one is coming.”

“And what are you, pray tell? Some kind of…m…night shyamalan?” I asked. Edward laughed. “You need some enlightenment, my dear. Methinks the word you are looking for is ‘shaman’.” He pushed the hair from my face and smiled, his countenance eerily white in the half-light. I shall never forget his gentle touch, ere I reminisce into my dotage. “We will be together,” Edward promised. “Nothing can keep me from you. You shall be my wife. It is only a matter of time.” His voice was as soothing as mandrake. Edward said mandrake was a tranquilizer the Lady took for a pain in her tooth. The Lord had sent out a page in the night to find a merchant with the mandrake, which was from a land far away. Edward’s mother was friends with the ale wife, and learned of goings on in the castle from her. It seemed as if Edward knew everything of the world, while I knew nothing. Already, Edward was in the carpenter’s guild, and would never have to want for anything, even when he grew old and could no longer work. My father respected Edward. He would allow me to marry Edward, I was sure, when I was old enough.

In retrospect, Edward had an other-worldly quality about him. He knew where the largest fish lurked under the roots that hung over the riverbank. He could seek out the sweetest honey in the hollow trees of the wood. He sensed which thicket the rabbit would dart into during the chase. He whispered things in my ear the likes of which I had never heard. Words like ‘sexologist’, of which I did not know the meaning, but did not want to ask. Edward was a man ahead of his time. He had traveled out of the village with his father to work on jobs for the Lord. He knew more of the world than most young men his age. Or old men, for that matter.

Something rose from the river and grabbed my foot! Edward put his arms around my shoulders and hugged me tightly. The thing that had my foot would not let go. It squeezed and shook my foot, pulling me toward the river…

********************************************************************

“Hey! I said wake up, Colleen! Yer out cold! Whadya do , take a freakin’ tranquilizer? Them pals o’ yers is on the way over. Ya sure know how ta find ‘em, gal. That long-hair with the KISS t-shirt is about the pick o’ the litter. Try ta get ‘im to shut his infernal yap, wouldja? And I don’t mean set him to singin’ those Beatles songs. He thinks that’s gonna make me like him more, but I’d as soon hear him screechin’ that ‘Rock ’n’ Roll All Night’ crap as mutilatin’ Eleanor Rigby.

“Sit up there, gal! You’re in a daze. Ya dropped yer book. What’s this? Ivanhoe? Jeez! We had ta read that same junk when I was in school. The sisters oughta change it up every century or so. Somebody tell ‘em it’s the Age of Enlightenment already. What’s yous kids need ta know that fairy tale crap for, anyways? Nowadays yer all sneakin’ the TV on at night, watchin’ some freakin’ sexologist or psychic friend. More Phil Donahue--that‘s what we need. It’s tough raisin’ kids these days.

“You watch out for that Shyamalan kid. What’s he go by? M. Night? What the hell kinda name is THAT? Last week, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and said ‘Good evening, Mrs. O’Mara’ to your dear departed mother, God rest her soul. And her been gone 5 years now. What’s in that kid’s noggin, I’ll never know. Be careful ‘round him. I wouldn’t wanna have somethin’ happen, and in retrospect wish I’d a kicked that little sicko to the gutter.

“Well, I’d love to reminisce with yas all night, kiddo, but it’s my destiny ta crack open a cold one and watch the Cubbies. Ya holler if yas need anything. And keep this door open!”

Untitled

2007-06-19T14:40:00.001-05:00

by Eric

Genre: Fantasy
Pop Culture: Google, the TV show Wife Swap, Frank Sinatra

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“This doesn’t look good.“

“In retrospect it may have been a bad idea.”

“Oh really? ….May have been a bad idea? Ya think?”

Her retort was not as sarcastic as it sounded, but nonetheless hurt Mark deeply. It had been his idea to go through the portal they had created in Sara’s garage. “It’s not all my fault, you made the portal.”

“Let’s not reminisce about who did what and whose fault it is, the fact remains that we need to find a way back.” Sara had started the argument, and as per her usual need, she had finished the argument. It was true that she had drawn the circle in the floor using her niece’s chalk, but she had no idea that it would open a portal to another dimension. And although Mark had suggested jumping in, the lure of the lush forest and golden sunshine in it had more of an appeal than the eight straight days of rain they had been living through . “So you got any more bright ideas Einstein?”

As if on cue her palm pilot lit up and played one of those Avril songs she had on there simply to annoy her husband. “You’re getting service out here?” “No, it was just a reminder that we were supposed to go see the sexologist today.”

This caused Mark to laugh. It had been her idea because she thought there marriage needed a little spicing up. Sara had seen a clip about the sexologist while watching an episode of Wife-Swap. That had also made him laugh. Wife-swap, sexologist…he still couldn’t believe he was going to go see her. I mean Sara had just picked the first doctor off a Google search and made an appointment.

“You know, I don’t really think she would have helped us anyways.”

“Yeah, like you got all the answers.”

“I know one thing you don’t know.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

She had turned her head to look at her husband and fell face forward into the ground. The last thing she remembered was a large object blocking out the sun. Had she been awake, she would have seen four men standing above her and her husband. Two of the men were carrying crudely made long pipes. They had hit them with some primitive form of tranquilizers. Had Mark and Sara been awake to see, they would have seen these men dressed in black and white medieval tunics and chain link armor. A fifth man appeared, leading a horse that pulled a small cart. The five of them loaded the couple in with what appeared to be 3 kegs of liquor.

They awoke later that night in what appeared to be a medieval dungeon. Both of them noticed immediately that their shoes had been removed and Sara was missing her wedding ring. There was a little light coming up from underneath a large black door. Mark started knocking on it in several places before pronouncing it solid. Sara had just sat down on hand-woven grass mat when a small piece of wood slid from the middle of the door and a bellowing voice told them to stand back from the door. They both moved to the back of the cell and the opening closed again. The door swung open very slowly and a hunched back little man appeared in the doorway.

“The King wants to meet you oddly clad strangers. Now we can do this the easy way or we can do this the real easy way,” he said as he produced a shackle and threw it down on the floor. “One for each of your wrists” he said as he licked his lips and stared at Sara. Mark picked up the shackle and clasped his wrist with one and handed the other to Sara. She hesitated for a second and the hunchback made a move for them.

“I got it, I got it!” she yelled hoping to keep his slimy hands from touching her. She clasped the shackle around her right wrist and kind of shook it showing that it was on tightly.

“Very well then. Off to see the King.” He motioned for them to follow and they clumsily exited the cell. Standing behind them were two very large guards holding very large axes. They were led down a long hallway, up a flight of stairs and into a huge dining hall.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“We are definitely not in Kansas anymore….” Mark was staring at the room with his mouth agape. He had assumed they were in medieval times, but this dining hall was reminiscent of a night club from the 1950s. Instead of little dining tables dotting the room, there were 3 long tables packed with exquisitely dressed lords and ladies. At the end of the hall was a huge stage with an elaborately jeweled throne. To one side was …unbelievably, what can only be described as a big band box. There were about two dozen black and white clad musicians all holding horns. To the left of the big throne sat four smaller less ornate thrones. As the guests rose to their feet, the big band started playing a song Mark eerily recognized.

“That’s Come Fly with Me.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah my father loved to listen to….”

Mark’s words were drowned out by a huge applause. Both turned their heads to the main stage and saw the king arriving. Sara closed her eyes and shook her head thinking she had to be dreaming. She had expected something weird in a nightclub throne room in a medieval castle…but this was outrageous. After the applause died down and the king took his seat , the hunchbacked jailor strode up and kneeled before the stage. After paying his allegiance to the king he ascended the stage and began to whisper to the king. The king burst from his throne and caused quite a stir amongst the dinner guests making the room fall silent.

“Bring them forward,” he bellowed . The two guards pushed Mark and Sara forward and they moved toward the stage at a brisk pace. As they neared the stage one of the guards tripped Sara , sending both of them to their knees. “You will bow to the king,” one of them said in a muffled voice. Mark looked up and saw the most unbelievable thing in this fantasy world. Standing before him on the stage was a man wearing a tuxedo with a red and gold crown, a lavish cape, and holding a gem encrusted scepter. Mark closed his eyes and squinted, hoping that he was dreaming. The man before him walked forward and offered his hand to Sara.

“You’ll have to forgive these cats, baby. They got no manners for beautiful women.” The king helped her to her feet as Mark rose at the same time. “Are you really Frank Sinatra?”

“It doesn’t get any more real than me , baby.” Frank waved the guards to back up and left the 3 alone at the foot of the stage. ”But…but you’re dead. I saw the funeral on CNN.”

“It was crazy man. There I was on my deathbed at the hospital. I think I was hallucinating or something. Then I see this white light and I think to myself that heaven’s calling me. I remember trying to say that I was losing my grip on the world, but the light flashed and I woke up in this forest. I wasn’t my old self, I was my old self. Well you know what I’m saying , baby. I was as I am now. I look 30 but I got 90 years of experience behind it.”

Mark had a wide smile on his face. He had loved Sinatra as a kid because his grandfather only played Sinatra. It had made Mark a huge fan of his. He began to wonder if he had created this world with Sinatra as the king as a dreamland. “Frank, I gotta ask ya. How did you go from chairman of the board to king of the castle?”

“That’s a great question. Do you believe in destiny?” Mark responded with a simple nod of his head. “Well so do I. If I tell you how to become king here, you’ll have all my power and riches. My transformation here has brought me a certain enlightenment. And I’ll be damned if I let some punks from the future take that away from me!” He made a motion to the guards and two logs were brought in front of them. Mark and Sara were pushed down onto the blocks of wood and had their hands secured to the bottom. “Sorry kiddos, but there’s only room for one king here.” Frank raised a goblet from his throne and made a motion for everyone to raise their cups.
“Let’s drink to tonight’s entertainment. May God grant them the mercy of a swift death.” The crowd raised their cups , drank and then cheered raucously . Frank started singing a farewell song for them. The last thing Mark heard as the guard’s axe fell was the unmistakable lyrics ….

I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way.

Denny Crane and the Case of the Heiress

2007-06-19T14:40:00.000-05:00

by Elizabeth

Genre: Mystery
Pop Culture: Paris Hilton, Harry Potter, Denny Crane (from Boston Legal)

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“The law is crystal clear Mr. Crane. You are not permitted to wear cowboy boots unless you already own at least two cows and no less than 43 Blythe citizens saw your client this very morning, as she walked about in what can only be described as cowboy boots. Hell, TMZ already posted photos of the indiscretion! Now, unless you can produce proof positive that Miss. Hilton does in fact have in her possession two separate bovine, I’m afraid I simply can not dismiss these charges.”

Denny Crane stared dumbfounded at the judge, then sank into the incredibly uncomfortable wooden chair beside his client. Bovine? Blythe? He’d really pissed off the communist regime this time, and now he was paying penance. Plenty of people carry loaded weapons into the courtroom; it’s just makes good sense. He looked again at the judge, whose plaid flannel collar peeked ominously above his robes, then at prosecuting attorney who hadn’t bothered to change from his jeans and Marlboro tee-shirt, and realized drastic measures were needed.

“Your honor I’d like to move for a change in venue. My client is a very busy and very successful celebrity of some importance to the state of California.” Denny rose from his seat and faced the judge with a winning smile, “She’s actually scheduled to make a personal appearance tomorrow at the 8th Annual Erotica Show in Los Angeles. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Famed sexologist Ava Cadell is this year’s ambassador?”

Judge Shermer glared at Denny from the bench before quickly ruling against the change in venue. “Your client can perform in whatever sex show she likes once she faces these charges.” With a ceremonial swing his gavel crashed onto the bench twice as he declared, “The defendant is remanded into custody pending trial. No bail!”

“Your honor! My client will never get a fair trial …your honor???” But the judge had disappeared to his chambers which were no doubt chock full of antlers, kegerators and safety orange. Denny turned to the defendant and celebutante, Paris Hilton, who looked questioningly at him as the bailiff placed handcuffs on her anorexic wrists.

“Don’t worry,” his words were lost in the shuffle of feet as Paris was led through double wooden doors, “Denny Crane never loses a case.”

By morning Paris’ mood was as foul as the body odor, which preceded her into the meeting room. Denny slid a brown paper bag across the table and waited while Paris took advantage of the breath mints, then smiled as she squirted a liberal dose of Binaca into each arm pit. “Ingenious, darling.”

“Tell me you spent the night pouring through little legal journals and have found the perfect loop-hole to spring me from this hell hole!” Her voice rose with each syllable and she looked suspiciously at the guard just inside the door and shivered involuntarily.

“Actually, no. I did spend the night pouring through ‘little legal journals’ and unfortunately you’ve been charged with what we refer to as a blue law.” The blank look on her face prompted further explanation. “Blue laws are obscure, mostly irrelevant laws which are rarely, if ever, enforced. They’re generally not considered worth the time or expense necessary to remove them. In fact, most people outside the legal community aren’t generally aware of them. Which leads to the obvious question…”

“What question?” Paris was hanging onto the conversation, but just barely.

“Someone set you up. These laws are usually so obscure the general populace wouldn’t be aware of them. So, I’m assuming someone who knew you’d be here, and knew about the law, set this situation up. The question is, who? Who knew you’d be filming here yesterday?”

“Only a million people. The shooting schedule for the show is set months in advance so the entire production staff would be aware of it. The media gets a press kit with a detailed schedule, and the production crew has to coordinate with the locals. We practically need permits to cross the street and all that.” Paris popped another much needed breath mint into her mouth and waited patiently for Denny to continue.

“Ok, let’s try something easier. Who, amongst those who knew you’d be here, would want to screw you over?”

“Um, only a million people. Ex-boyfriends, their ex-girlfriends, former employees, attorneys, publicists, managers, directors…” She trailed off and played with a stray strand of over-processed platinum blonde hair.

Denny stared at his client and realized there was quite possibly a million people who would want to see her behind bars. “I’m going to need a list of the crew...anyone with access to the set this week.”

“They faxed all of that over for you this morning. What I wanna know is, when is the arrangement and when am I getting out of here?”

Denny spoke to the guard quickly about picking up the faxes then turned to Paris. “The ‘arraignment’ was yesterday. You were there, remember? And I’m afraid until we figure out who’s behind the wayward cowboy boots, you’re stuck in the clink.”

The cast and crew of “The Simple Life” had been filming an episode just north of Blythe. The episode entitled Enlightenment, was another attempt to showcase the sad and awkward difference between the stars of the show and ordinary folk. Denny perused the faxed lists and determined no less than 79 crew members were present and accounted for the day Paris was arrested. Another 35 were back in Los Angeles. In retrospect, he realized the list of people who didn’t have access to the show and specifically, who didn’t want Paris in jail, would have been much shorter.

Feeling stymied and disgruntled, Denny slammed the faxes onto the rickety dinner table in his less than immaculate hotel room, and turned the television set on. He flipped channels briefly before landing on an entertainment news network. Ah! His new high profile client would warrant a mention on the entertainment networks and by default, he would warrant a mention. Maybe even a photo or live shot from a past case. He allowed himself to reminisce about the good old days when he and his father wrangled the law in and out of court. Things were better then, simpler. Now, the democrats ruled with their taxes and elevators.

“We’re naturally devastated by her arrest, but production won’t stop. In fact, we’re filming revised scenes tomorrow without Paris.” Denny glanced at the television screen and was met by the beaming face of Nicole Richie. “I mean it sucks that she can’t be with us, but I know she’d want me to go on…. in her place.” Denny snatched the fax from the wobbling table and flipped through to the sheet listing cast members. “Nicole Richie…. supporting actress.”

Most of the cast and crew were staying in the equally disastrous hotel four blocks over. Denny knew from his earlier excursions he’d never find anything even resembling a taxi, so he set off on foot. The concierge stared at him with a familiar blank look when he asked for Miss. Richie’s room number and Denny realized she was probably using a pseudonym. He fished the cast sheets from his briefcase and offered them to the clerk, but was quickly informed the man only spoke English. He couldn’t read it.

“I have photos…see?” He handed the clerk the sheet again and the man smiled with recognition.
“Yes, ci. Is Mrs. Potter.” The clerk beamed at Denny and handed him the fax.

“Potter?”

“Yes, ci. Mrs. Harry Potter. She at park, with Mr. Potter.”

Denny shouted a quick ‘adios’ to the clerk and headed towards the park. He heard Nicole and her mysterious Mr. Potter before he actually saw them. Nicole was wearing her trademark voluminous blouse and micro shorts and was laughing hysterically as she straddling a red and green seesaw. At the other end, doing his best impersonation of a Greek God, was Stavros Niarchos.

“Miss. Richie, might I have a word with you?” Denny approached Nicole from behind and caught her by surprise. She recovered quickly and smiled smugly as she dismounted the seesaw.

“Mr. Crane I’ve been expecting you, but I don’t know how I can help poor Paris.” Nicole sidled up to Stavros and flung her arm around him possessively.

Denny laughed facetiously and shot Nicole a piercing look. “I agree Miss. Richie. I don’t think there’s anything you could…or would do to help Paris out of this mess. I am curious about one thing though…who was your accomplice?”

Nicole glared at Denny Crane. She whispered to Stavros and he reluctantly wandered over to a nearby bench and sat. Nicole watched until he was out of earshot before she turned to Denny with a murderous look on her face. “Do you know anything about destiny Mr. Crane? Do you have any idea who my family is? My father was the lead singer for the most successful band of the 70’s and my mother was a model. I was meant to be a star. My destiny…is to be a star!”

Denny pondered this a moment and said, “I thought you were adopted?”

“That’s not important! I grew up in Hollywood knowing I’d be a star someday. No one ever sat me down as a child and said I’d grow up to be a great sidekick, second best co-star to some used up wanna-be celebrity. Her family isn’t even in entertainment! They’re in the hotel business!” Nicole slumped back onto the seesaw and crossed her arms over her chest like a petulant child.

“So you torpedoed her career thinking you’d step in as the star attraction? And you obviously had help. Why don’t you tell me how you arranged this?’

“Fine. It’s not like you can prove any of this anyway. We get the schedule weeks in advance so I knew we’d be in Blythe. It’s as small town as you can get. Kourtney…. Kardashian was telling me about these crazy blue laws one day. Like, in Alabama it’s illegal for a 200-pound woman to ride a horse in shorts. Crazy, huh? So I looked up the blue laws for Blythe. Turns out they’re just as wacky. I found one about cowboy boots and had a little chat with the wardrobe chick. It’s not like it was hard. Paris is fanatical about what shoes she wears. She’s got these boat-sized feet! Anyway, I called the sheriff the morning we were going to film and tipped him.” Nicole laughed. “I actually had to explain the law to him. Then I had to explain how the arrest would make national news and get all kinds of recognition for Blythe. And let’s face it, they can sure use some publicity…it’s like a ghost town around here.” She gestured around the deserted park and streets to emphasize her point.

Denny just stared at her. Despite everything, he liked the kid. She wasn’t nearly as stupid as he’d thought and she had spunk. She was a bit crazy, but then so was he. Unfortunately, she was right about one important fact. He couldn’t prove she’d done anything...and that wouldn’t help Paris.

For the next two days Denny sat next to Paris while the prosecution paraded a stunning array of witnesses through the courtroom. Apparently half of Blythe had turned out to watch the filming of the Simple Life. After each and every witness swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but…they all testified to seeing Paris sashaying about city streets in the offensive cowboy boots. Denny seemed to be paying rapt attention and would occasionally scribble furiously on his official looking legal pad. Paris grew more anxious with each passing witness. From her seat next to Denny she was able to see the legal pad clearly and couldn’t help but worry at the growing number of caricatures of Judge Shermer and the prosecuting attorney in various compromising positions. On day two, Denny gave up his doodles and began making slash marks in count with the number of times ‘ya’ll was uttered by the witnesses.

The third morning of the trial the prosecution finally rested. Paris was near tears by this point by Denny seemed jubilant. He leaped from his seat and approached the judge.

“Your honor, I’d like to draw the court’s attention to exhibit 1-A.” Denny held up a small book. “The Department of Podiatry: A History of Boots written by Cameron Kippen, professor at Cullen University of Technology in Perth Washington.” Denny flipped to a page marked by a yellow post-it.

“Standard cavalry issue during the American Civil War was the Wellington Boot. The modern Wellington had a low cut heel, which was calf high and not thigh high. Low heeled, high-topped boots made in hard, black leather called kip were often made by German immigrants. The most popular was the Coffeyville Boot from Coffeyville, Kansas. It combined the various US Cavalry styles and the original British leather, Wellington boot. By the 1880's the cowboy boot was beginning to emerge as a distinctive style. Starting life as a dress Wellington or full Wellington, the fashion merged with the hardwearing lace up boot (or packer), worn by drovers.” Denny looked up to be sure he had the court’s undivided attention before he read more.

“ Later the three-piece military boot was incorporated and worn by Hollywood's Cowboys. At first, films were made in the Eastern States and the costumes were based on exaggerated clothing illustrated in cheap novels and comics. By the time the industry moved to California in 1914 and employed real cowboys, their clothes were dull compared to the illusion. Instead actors wore highly decorated boots outside their trousers. It is therefore somewhat surprising to think; today’s cowboy boots are really fantasy footwear fabricated by Hollywood and have little to do with the Wild West.” Denny closed the book before he faced the small jury and continued.

“Today’s cowboy boots are ironically enough, an invention of Hollywood...the very place from which the defendant hails. More importantly, it should be noted the term ‘cowboy boot’ is a slang expression adopted by movie producers in relation to the western themed movies produced in the mid 1920’s, in which these boots were used. Cowboy boots are actually an adaptation of the English Wellington boots. So, I ask the court, if cowboy boots don’t actually exist how can my client be guilty of wearing them?

Denny placed the book gently on the judge’s bench before declaring, “I move all charges against my client be dismissed.”

Denny wandered over to the local drinking hole after the trial hoping for a cigar and some libation. Within minutes of the dismissal his cell phone had begun to ring. Now, hours later his head was throbbing from the cheap beer and smokey interior. When the waitress approached he inquired about something for his headache. “A percocet, vicodin, a tranquilizer!” The waitress promised to look behind the bar and replaced his empty bottle with a full one. Denny exhaled slowly and picked up his phone. He’d been forced to turn the ringer off after the twentieth call, but looked at the brightly lit screen to see who was calling this time. Paris? He clicked the ‘talk’ button and tentatively said ‘hello’?

“Mr. Crane, remember those blue laws? Well, apparently there’s some in Nevada too. Something about riding a camel down a highway. Could you come to Vegas?”

In the Woods

2007-06-19T14:35:00.000-05:00

by Redneck Diva

Genre: Horror
Pop Culture: Al Gore inventing the internet, Wal*Mart, American Idol

--------------------------------------------

“Come on, Les! Let’s go! Vamanos!”

Through an open window, they heard,“Alright there, Dora the Explorer, I’m coming.”

The group was ready to go and Les was taking his time, as usual. Dawn adjusted her ball cap and sighed dramatically. She looked at her best friend and their apartment complex’s resident amateur sexologist, Anne, and Anne’s boyfriend, Taco, on the ATV next to her. Anne shrugged and giggled. Taco yawned. Dawn got angrier by the second.

Les finally emerged from the house, doing a half trot, half stagger while tucking in his shirt and zipping his shorts.

“Damn zipper’s stuck,” he grumbled.

“Well, if you didn’t buy your clothes off of the clearance rack at Wal*Mart, maybe they wouldn’t wear out so quick, ya doofus. Y’ain’t savin’ money if you have to buy clothes twice as often as the rest of us!” his roommate Peter said. As Les finally jerked the zipper into submission, Peter, let loose with a guffaw that made the girls in the group grimace.

“Peter, baby? Honestly, you sound like a mule that’s being murdered when you laugh. I love you so much, but you gotta stop. I think Anne’s ears are bleeding.”

The tall blonde with enormous breasts, Daena, a relative newcomer to the group so far, hadn’t worked her way completely “in” the group. Dawn and Anne spent many a night imitating her baby-talking ways toward Peter. Granted, she was getting better, but at first she nearly drove them all bananas.

“Petey-weety? Schnoogum boogum makey me so horny-worny,” Anne would mock and Dawn would fall back on the bed, legs in the air, dramatically making out with a pillow.

“Daena, my darling, I’ve laughed this way since I was born. I ain’t changin’ now. Regulators! Mount up!” he said loudly, firing the engine on his four-wheeler. Les climbed on his ATV, swung his leg over and nearly kicked Dawn in the face.

“Dipshit,” she muttered. Wrapping her arms around him as he started the engine, she bit her lip. It was dusk and she didn’t like riding at night.

“Are you sure we can’t just stay here instead of riding? I’ve got some American Idol on the DVR and I uh, I could make popcorn...” she trailed off when the other two ATVs left them in the dust.
"Alrighty. We’ll just ride then. I guess.”

“Relax, babycakes,” assured Les as he reached back to pat her leg. “American Idol can wait. We’re gonna riiiiiide!” He peeled out in the yard, causing Dawn to squeal. She liked his recklessness, but she still didn’t like riding at night.

“You keep driving like that and I’m gonna need a tranquilizer!!” she hollered.

They caught up with the other two ATVs after watching them swerve at each other for half a mile of gravel road. She could hear the girls screaming and squealing and she was fairly certain that she saw Daena smack at Peter’s shoulder once. She liked to cut up and have fun with them, but sometimes they went too far. She made Les not take as many chances when she was riding on the back of his four-wheeler - she didn’t think her destiny involved body casts and life support. She wanted to have fun while they were young so that years from now they wouldn’t sit back and reminisce about the good ol’ days that weren’t all that memorable. She wanted their good ol’ days to truly be something good. But she also didn't want to die.

They saw Peter’s four-wheeler dart off down a vertical path and Taco followed. Dawn tapped Les on the shoulder and said, “I really don’t want to go down that vertical!” but the words were barely out of her mouth before Les, too, veered off the road. She grumbled, “You are about as dim-witted as Al Gore.”

“The dude that invented the internet?” Les hollered over his shoulder.

“Whatever. Asshat.” Dawn replied.

The further they rode into the darkening woods, the more they realized they had to keep moving at a relatively quick pace. If they slowed down the mosquitoes swarmed. Pete stopped just past a curve in the trail so they could decide if they wanted to ride further or go back to the apartment. The guys weren’t daunted by the mosquitoes, but the girls were tired of slapping at the irritating bugs. Realizing their boyfriends weren’t going to relent and take them back, Daena got off the bike of the four-wheeler and pulled a can of Off from the cargo box. The other two girls sighed in stereo when they saw the orange can in her hand.

“In retrospect, ladies, that would’ve been smart before you were covered in itchy welts,” stated Peter, but after three piercing glares aimed in his direction, he finished with, “I mean, it was just a thought…” After they were covered with enough Off to cover small army, the girls got back on the ATV’s and Taco and Anne took the lead.

Once the bugs weren’t swarming so badly, Dawn was less irritated with Les, but still wanted to go home. She really didn’t like the dark, sticky, noisy-but-quiet woods. Then she had a moment of pure enlightenment – she knew how to get what she wanted. She slid her hands around his waist again and began pulling at his shirt until she released the hem from his shorts. Her fingernails raking softly on his stomach got the reaction she wanted – he grinned and shifted on the seat. She thought she might even try the trick Anne had told her about a few weeks ago. She bit his earlobe and in one quick move, unbuttoned and unzipped his shorts. “Mmm…I didn’t have any trouble with that zipper just now….” He chuckled, then nodded when she whispered in his ear to slow down so they could have some privacy. She was hoping she’d tease him just enough that he’d want to go home and get down to the business she had in her hand. He down-shifted the four-wheeler to nearly a crawl.

The sound of the other two engines faded then stopped altogether. She noticed the absence of engine whine, but figured the other couples were fooling around, too. She figured she'd just get Les good and excited, then suggest - or even insist if she had to - that they go back and get serious, but the plot to get him to take her home was forgotten when he softly growled in her ear that fooling around in the woods turned him on even more. It didn’t take long for her to climb around on the seat so she was facing him. Their kissing became more intense and Les was nibbling and kissing all over her arms and neck. He teasingly bit at her collar bone and caused her to groan. A mosquito buzzed by her ear, but she barely heard it because Les was growling and starting to talk dirty. He reached around and unsnapped her bra as he nibbled up the length of her neck. When he had completed his freeing task, he leaned her back, resting her back against the control panel. His kisses wandered lower down her neck and as he lifted her shirt to expose more, she leaned her head back all the way. With her eyes closed and head back, enjoying the sensations Les was providing and didn’t even see the knife that slit her exposed throat.

The dark figures in the brush moved out into the moonlight and as she gurgled, her hands frantically clawing at her bleeding throat, Les got off of the ATV. She saw him standing beside her, wiping her mouth on his shirt and spitting. "Dude, I’m glad you showed up when you did. I was getting sick of the taste of bug spray.”

I am SO apologizing

2007-06-18T11:23:00.000-05:00

Readers and writers, I SWEAR to you that I am still alive. Last week was one of the worst weeks I've experienced in a long time what with no air conditioning in the house, blog drama, the threat of flood and just general crankiness. THEN the weekend was filled with my oldest child breaking out in a freak rash, the air conditioning going out in my van, a few storms scattered here and there and other mundane b.s.

I am in the process of packing the rashy child off to church camp (let someone else watch her scratch for a week, lol) and, weather permitting, the stories will be posted tonight.

I apologize for the delay. I keep meaning to talk to the Cap'n and make him my partner in crime so he can help out during these times when my life gets in the way, but well, my life keeps getting in the way and I forget to add him.

Just hang on a few more hours. Please.

Cazzmania ensues!

2007-06-06T23:11:00.000-05:00

The drawing has been conducted by the independent accounting firm of Paul and the results have been confirmed. The entrants's missions have been sent.

The rules are:
*All six of The Words put forth by Cazzie!!! must be used in their listed form (there will be no disqualifications this round, dangit)
*The story must be written in the entrant's drawn genre
*The story must contain all three pop culture references, not necessarily in the form they were given, but they must be referenced

The Words are:

tranquilizer

reminisce

destiny

retrospect

sexologist

enlightenment

All stories are due by Wednesday, June 13th at 10pm. Voting will begin Friday, June 15th.

(If you would like to try your hand at our little game, you must email me so I can give you a mission of your very own.)

Good luck, Cazzmaniacs!

The Chamber produces a landslide ATTENTION - important info for next round enclosed

2007-06-03T17:58:00.000-05:00

Because you, Constant Reader, demanded it,

Cazzie!!! is the winner of
Round 4: 36 Chambers of Tate!!

Give her a hand - she pulled off an amazing victory from all the way across the ocean!

As soon as she turns in her list of The Words and the title for the next round, we'll begin.

*******************************************

Regarding the next round - rather than trying to figure out a way to conjure up a virtual hat to throw the writing styles and pop culture items in, I am going to use a real-live hat and let the still dependent accounting firm of Abby, Sam & Kady, LLC take care of the official drawing of things from a hat.

If you have a problem with this, speak now or forever hold your peace. I assure you, they are fair. They better be or their momma will spank 'em.

Also, if you intend on writing, you MUST submit an email of intent to me ASAP so I can commence the drawing of the things from the hat. I need to know your intentions (and there had better be a bunch of you) by Tuesday of this week (the 5th).

It pains me to do this

2007-06-01T12:51:00.000-05:00

As per repeated requests by Hillbilly Mom, I am disqualifying her from 36 Chambers of Tate.

I personally was going to give her grace since it's her first offense, but she's obviously got guilt issues. I fear if I don't disqualify her soon, she will come out of the Blogger Protection Program, detour to Oklahoma on her way to Branson to take over Lorraine the Laptop and disqualify herself forcibly.

So....there ya go. She's out.

*sob*

It will be fun. Truuuuuust me.

2007-05-31T21:46:00.000-05:00

There are obviously two front runners in this round, so the two of you need to start thinking of your words, should you manage to make it without falling on your ass like Miss U.S.A.

But be ye advised, ladies....

There be changes coming to WitToI.

Next round, all those wishing to participate will draw a writing style from a virtual hat and will then draw a short list of pop culture references that have to be worked into the story from another virtual hat. Along with The Words.

Sound fun??

Stop! Don't run screaming!! It'll be fun! Really! We're going to be challenged as writers - just like on the show So You Think You Can Dance, where the contestants have to draw each week for a different dance style so they're challenged as dancers. Except we're budding writers, not dancers. (The only dancing I can do with any proficiency is clogging and that talent has yet to help me writing whatsoever.)

Annnnnnyhoo....I fully expect all of you who have been writing here regularly to particpate. No begging out. You're not THAT busy. Tate, the baby is no excuse, either.

(Any pop culture references that you might want to throw in the hat, send to me in an email. i.e. Paris Hilton, American Idol, TB outbreak on a plane, etc.)

Enter the Chamber of Voting

2007-05-28T23:05:00.000-05:00

Voting is now open in 36 Chambers of Tate, otherwise known as Round 4.

Check out all the submissions, vote once, tell your friends and stay tuned for the results!

Voting will be open until 10pm, June 2nd.

Sad, Sad Sadie

2007-05-28T23:00:00.000-05:00

by Jusdealem

Sadie couldn't find her keys, she was running late again. As she rummaged through her beige Coach bag, for the third time in ten minutes, she softly cursed, gave up and headed for the liquor cabinet. Pouring herself a Stoli rocks, she caught her image in the mirror above the wet bar. Her $800 highlights framed her pretty, slightly botoxed face and she declared Marco, her metrosexual stylist, a genius. She was rather enamored of Marco, having once even gone so far as to invite him home with her for the afternoon. "Only if I can bring along a friend." he'd teased.
She'd been so lonely the past year. Ever since her husband had been murdered in their upscale suburban driveway, Sadie had been simply lost. The local police had thought Dan's death to be a random gang initiation or a botched robbery attempt. There weren't any clues and not a suspect, nor murder weapon had ever been found. Sadie knew, though. She knew why her husband of fifteen years was dead and more importantly, she knew who was responsible for the single bullet that had pierced his heart, his lifeless body crumpled beside her beloved Daffodil.

In their early years, Dan and Sadie had been inseperatable. Two energetic, highly motivated success seekers. Both had come from dirt poor families and they were determined to break the chain, so to speak, by emassing an empire. Their intricate business plan was two years in the making, but was instantly and hugely successful. With their dreams realized, Sadie looked forward to her husband being able to relax and spend more time with her. That was not to be the case, however. The success seemed to distance Dan even more and he began drinking excessively, which made him increasingly pugnacious. She didn't give up on their marriage, though, instead she tried even harder to gain her husband's attention. It worked occasionally, enough to keep her challenged, if not exactly in love.

It was right after their fifth anniversary that Dan decided to take up politics, as well as a new assistant, who Sadie swore was a stripper. Over the years, he'd become quite erudite in the workings of the local political scene and this knowledge set in motion a series of byzantine plots and plans that he hoped would eventually see him elected as mayor of this small, but growing community.

Of course, the new assistant soon became a nightly argument between them. Sadie demanded Dan fire her and insisted that she, more than anyone else, should be his assistant. He grew so irritated with his wife's arguments that instead of coming home late as he usually did, he began not coming home at all. This only served to exacerbate Sadie's anger and she found herself contemplating killing the man. Unable to find enough hatred to do so, she decided to try another approach; she would confront the assistant.

The assistant, Tammy, agreed to meet Sadie downtown at a coffee shop called The Brew Guru. As Tammy walked through the door, Sadie felt an overwhelming desire to rid this woman from her husband's life, the pain was simply ineffable. Tammy would not be swayed, though, even openly admitting her love for Dan. Upon leaving their meeting, she remembered a distant cousin of hers who would know exactly how to handle this situation.

Jimmy was a small time con artist and all-around scofflaw with connections in the criminal world. He'd served a few years in a federal prison for money laundering, as well as other shady shenanigans, but he had been able to beat the murder rap that he was facing. They met in the park on a breezy Sunday afternoon, by Thursday, Tammy had disappeared. She was never seen again.

Afterwards, Dan seemed almost relieved and their relationship returned to the normalcy of the pre-Tammy days and stayed that way for the next few years. Inevitably, though, Dan returned to his old ways and more affairs arose. Finally, Sadie could take it no longer; last year, she made one last call to her cousin Jimmy.

As she sat there, sipping her Stoli, she noticed her keys were on the bar, next to a picture of her and Dan at Cape Cod. "To Hell with this blind date", she said to her dead husband, "I'm not going." Then she drained the last of her drink and took the picture in the silver frame with her to bed.

The Famous Botanist

2007-05-28T22:50:00.000-05:00

by Cazzie!!!

Tomas Ohalleran was a great studious man. He was an erudite botanist, most famous at least in the Western World. At the ripe age of 27, this fine man had been to Oxford, Cambridge, travelled the seas to Australia and studied at Melbourne University. He went on to become a lecturer to many a student.

In his later years, he became known as a scofflaw creating his own set of rules, against traditional classes of other lecturers. One time, a rucous was coming from Tomas' lecture room.. The next few classes in the University block that Tomas was teaching in came to see what was going on.... Tomas had every student there dressed as their favourite plant. One student, aptly named Fern, was dressed as a Daffodil. In fits of laughter Tomas began his teachings of the day, himself dressed as an Orchid. One other student was dressed as a Fungi.... he had a label on the front of him saying, "Ï am a fun guy", well Pete was ever the larrikan.!

The director of the University, a most pugnacious man, came to Tomas' lecture room after having heard word of some shenanigans going on. He ended up sitting in on the class just to make sure the students did not get out of hand. Indeed, his presence only served to exacerbate any laughter.

A field trip for the class was undertaken in first term. The students took a train to the Emerald Forest. There, they alighted, and Fern looked around her and pointed to a tree of such ineffable beauty, even her best friend Sotcha was speachless with what lay before them. The only student who could not give a rats ass about the excursion was Scott Pervis, he who could only ever be seen to be listening to his Ipod, Byzantine playing at 1000 decibels, enough to make him deaf by the time he was 25 years for sure. Oh well, who said botanists needed hearing to be able to retain any knowledge hey?

In his late years, Tomas returned to England from whence he came, living out the rest of his life in The Secret Garden of Smallville. Who knows the reasons why he called it that, it was, afterall, common knowledge of the location of the place. Ever the illusionist was he.

Peep

2007-05-28T22:40:00.000-05:00

by Hilbilly Mom

Once upon a time, there lived a troll under a rickety wooden bridge just outside the village. He was not considered attractive, as trolls go, with his lime-green flesh, tall tuft of lemon-yellow hair, and a shape like the Tasmanian devil of future cartoon fame. The similarity ended with the shape. This troll did not whirl like a tornado. He was bothered by an inner-ear disturbance, and tried not to spin or make sudden head movements. Though he had not been formally christened, the troll adopted the name of Peep.

Peep trolled his days away picking daffodils, arranging them in attractive floral displays under the bridge where he had established residence. Nobody ever came to visit, but Peep liked nice things. What he didn’t like was people. People pissed Peep off. They thumped willy-nilly over his bridge at all hours of the day, causing dirt and sand to sift down in a rain of grit into Peep’s home. To exacerbate the matter, children often stopped on the bridge and taunted Peep. They didn’t know if he truly existed, or was just a legend their parents had made up to keep them off the bridge. They jumped and stomped and hooted and hollered, bringing down grain upon grain of despair into Peep’s peaceful existence.

Peep did not retaliate against the children. He regarded them as merely ignorant, and would not seek revenge for their childish shenanigans . Peep was not of a pugnacious nature. All he wanted was to sit peacefully in his underbridge lair, and gaze upon the beauty of his daffodils. And while the people pissed Peep off, Peep preferred to internalize his anger. It wouldn’t do to lose one’s temper, charge out from under the bridge, and eat someone. The local scofflaws would take matters into their own hands, and Peep would pick daffodils no more.

So each day, Peep arose with the sun, and gathered his beloved daffodils. He licked the fresh dew from their stems, and wove them into the most Byzantine patterns no one had ever seen. He made walls of woven daffodil mats, and rugs, and blankets, and rich tapestries. Peep’s ineffable attention to detail created exquisite treasures the likes of which the townspeople would never encounter.

One sunny day, amidst the shuffle of the shouting children, a tiny tot was bumped over the edge of the bridge, and was saved from a nasty head-knock by one of Peep’s hanging daffodil curtains. The other children saw one of their own disappear under the bridge, and took off for the village. They were too afraid to tell the true tale of what had happened, having been forbidden to play on the bridge. They feigned surprise when one of their number was noted missing, and joined the crowd in beating the bushes for their fallen comrade until sunset. None of them slept well that night. They dreamed of the wee one being mauled and devoured by that ugly old troll under the bridge.

Peep had been much surprised by the chortling child who tumbled down his daffodil drape. At first, he stared as the child blinked in wonder at Peep’s colorful countenance. Then the tot crawled to him and clambered into Peep’s lap. Peep dandled the toddler on his knee all afternoon, and played pat-a-cake, and got-your-nose, and this-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple. When night fell solidly, Peep picked up the sleeping child, and climbed out from under the bridge.

He plodded down the road toward the village, the slumbering tot in his arms, the moon at his back. Peep did not know where the child belonged, but deemed he would find the proper home before first light. The erudite daffodil-weaver knew he would never see his home sweet-daffodil home again if he was discovered with the young one in his arms.

Peep traipsed from house to house, peeping in each window. His eyes, long accustomed to dark nights under the bridge, had no trouble discerning beds full of sleeping children. Unfortunately, they turned into beds full of screaming children each time Peep looked in. Some sixth sense of child-preservation, or perhaps the nightmare of breaking the bridge rules, caused each child to awaken, and scream, “It’s PEEP! It’s PEEP! There! In the window! He’s going to eat me! EEEEEEE!”

Each time this happened, Peep quickly ducked and headed for the next house, sticking to the shadows. At the last house, he spied an empty cradle. The mother lay on the bed beside it, dangling her hand over the side of the crib. Peep took a deep breath, and slipped silently through the door. He laid the gently-snoring babe into the cradle, a lone daffodil clutched tightly in its chubby fist, and backed out as quietly as he had come.

Still in the shadows, Peep tiptoed through the village toward his daffodil-dappled lair. At each house he passed, he heard the stern voices of parents scolding their screaming offspring: “That’s enough of this foolishness! Trolls are not real. Now get back to sleep. I mean it. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!”

Dr. Avel B’hadgai & The Primeval Magus

2007-05-28T22:30:00.000-05:00

in Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!

Part Four: Exposition…of EVIL!

by Bubblegum Tate

Dr. Avel B’hadgai lays ate the center of a large, dark room in a circle of light and nearly prone in a chair of his own invention. Thousands of wires, conduits and cables spread from the chair and hook, plug or tap into a variety of machines and computers. Each device is either a source of information or assists in the collation, sifting and processing of the titanic amount of data flowing into the doctor’s brain. The chair itself was created for maximum comfort and to tend to the doctor’s every need. The doctor seems to twitch in the chair, but this is due to electrodes attached to major muscle groups, keeping them from succumbing to atrophy during the hours, days and sometimes months the evil genius spends in the chair. The headrest of the chair interfaces directly with the part of B’hadgai’s head that is no longer human; the section of his brain that was cruelly destroyed adolescence by Ajax Stewart.

The unblinking electronic eye pulses as information flows into B’hadgai’s mind and his still human eye lies closed, but flashes back and forth beneath the lid. One could say the doctor was dreaming, but B’hadgai would claim concepts such as the subconscious have been left behind by a mind as advanced as his own. His brain is constantly at work; scheming, conspiring, plotting, and each byzantine and nefarious plan pointed directly at Ajax Stewart. If it can be said that Dr. B’hadgai dreams, then he dreams only of the destruction and humiliation of this hated adversary.

From the shadows, a wheezy voice echoes from a reedy frame; a weak vessel that belies the authority with which the figure intones, “Even I, who have communed with the spirits for a moon-cycle, am astonished at your lethargy, Doctor.” A chuff chuff of laughter escapes the lips of the ancient shaman men call the Primeval Magus, amused by his own joke.

The fluttering human eye snaps open and a frown tugs at B’hadgai’s mouth as it creases the half-flesh of his forehead. “Don’t presume to speak down to me as though I were some hubcap stealing scofflaw, Magus,” B’hadgai said with a sneer. “I am the greatest criminal mind the world has ever known!” Smiling evilly, the doctor continued, “And, I might add, the key to defeating your enemy… a woman in an animal skin bikini.”

The Primeval Magus stepped into the ring of illumination surrounding the chair. Once again, Dr. B’hadgai had to marvel at the interesting and striking figure. The Magus was rail thin, but covered in wiry, sinewy muscle. Wrapped in tattered robes, much of his exposed skin from the top of his bald pate to the leathery soles of his bare feet was covered in runic tattoos. He wore several circles of bone and wood at both ankles, each wrist and surrounding the left bicep. He leaned on a staff that was as brown and knotted as his own skin. His eyes, though sunk deep into the sockets, were penetrating and cold. The Primeval Magus was old and looked it. Not just old, but ancient. As ancient as mankind. As ancient as the Enigma Isles. Ancient…and powerful.

For, as loathe as B’hadgai was to admit it, the Magus radiated power. Even as a deposed dictator, he was a man used to being feared and had a voice used to being obeyed. Men, women, even the elements themselves, all obeyed the voice of the Primeval Magus. Dr. B’hadgai believed that there were no ineffable forces in the universe, only forces that had yet to be catalogued by science, but that belief was shaken to its core each and every time he stood in the presence of this most ancient of sorcerers.

It was this voice that intoned, “Tell me, doctor, what progress is Stewart making in collecting the items we require?”

B’hadgai, seeing that the Magus was the first to break off their banter, replied, “Believe it or not, my nemesis has done two things that surprise me; a feat he hasn’t managed in quite some time. First, he simply asked for the Papyrus of Ani and, even more shocking, the British Museum gave it to him. Second, the supposed paragon of virtue cheated.”

The hairless brows of the Magus knitted together in consternation, “Cheated?”

“Yes,” B’hadgai nodded, “Although my instructions didn’t specifically instruct Ajax to work alone, I assumed his natural tendencies would lead him to mount so important a rescue mission on his own. Instead, however, he sent Tiger Jack Hwang to collect Kwan Yin’s Sapphire from Hwang’s old master.”

“Does this aid or hinder us?” the Magus demanded. Even when he asked simple questions, he demanded.

“In the short term, Ajax’s shenanigans mean nothing. In the long term, I will miss Yu Zhi Shou as he was a most cruel and clever collaborator and the Wudan a very useful organization. Still,” the doctor turned with an evil grin towards the Magus, “what need have we of simple criminal organizations when we seek to bend all of reality to our will?”

The Magus shook his head as he answered, “Though you have had far less time to master the disciplines of science than I have had to master the occult, you have demonstrated that you are no less puissant than I. If any two men can combine the powers of sorcery and science, it will be men such as us. Tell me again how you plan to do it.”

“Magus, how have you managed to live so long?” B’hadgai asked, now all business.

“The earliest forms of what men would call magic were sympathetic,” the Magus began to explain, “a man who wished to hunt as a wolf would take a wolf as his totem, wearing its skin, trying to see the world as a wolf would see it. Over time, and with much practice, the man would take on wolfish characteristics. A more pugnacious demeanor, heightened senses, a love of the hunt. In a similar fashion, I was able to form a sympathetic bond with those islands that men call the Enigma Isles.”

Nodding along with him, B’hadgai asked, “And this affected you how?”

“As I told you before, the Enigma Isles are a convergence of powerful forces, a storehouse of occult energies. They are untouched by time because time is a lesser force than the amalgam of forces that have taken root in the Enigma Isles. As I tuned myself to the Isles, the Isles attuned themselves to me. They showed me secrets, mysteries and shared their life force with me. As they stand outside of time, so do I. I have told you all this many times, Doctor!”

“Yes, I know, but tell me again how this made you the ruler of the Isles,” B’hadgai said.

“The Isles seemed to love me as a favored son, they…,” the Magus paused, obviously struggling with concepts no other human could comprehend, “every thing from the lowest daffodil to the largest beast seemed to worship me. Vicious animals refused to attack me, vegetation moved to shade me from the sun, geographical areas to which I wished to travel seemed to move closer together simply because I idly wished my walk to be shorter. The people of the Isles have become attuned to the energies and sensed the support the Isles gave me. I was their natural ruler and the Isles gave them to me as my playthings.”

“Until Shiarra led your playthings in revolt.” Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but say this in a mocking tone.

“Be careful speaking of that which you cannot possibly understand!” the Magus thundered. “After MILLENIA of my mastery over the Isles, they seemed to throw me over in favor of another. I was left, a jilted lover, as it wrapped another in its charms. Shiarra had no knowledge of occult power, but her father loved the Enigma Isles enough to die for them and when I took his life to stop his expedition, the Isles saw this as a betrayal. It was the Isles themselves that sent a Dire Wolf with a new litter to find the toddler. It was the Isles that made her able to understand the wolf pack that was her new family and live as one of them. And make no mistake, Scientist, the Isles themselves sought to exacerbate my misery by causing her to lead the Islanders in revolt against me. Though my knowledge of magic was ancient and vast, with the Isles against me I never stood a chance. And I will hate her until the end of time for that.”

“Hatred like that is something I can…sympathize with,” said B’hadgai laughing at his erudite turn of phrase. “And you can create this sympathy magic with any item of power, correct?”

“Given time, no item of occult power can withstand the will of the Primeval Magus,” intoned the ancient warlock, “even the items of great mystical power you have instructed Stewart to gather to ‘save’ the life of his betrothed.”

“Even as you seek to bend those items to your will, augmenting your already amazing strength, I will seek to unravel the mysteries of the Celestial Stele. Though it is so far removed from modern science as to appear like sorcery, it is a technological marvel lost from the far future in the rushing headwaters of Time itself!” Despite how he hated the “mad scientist” stereotype, Dr. B’hadgai couldn’t help but dissolve into mad cackles that reverberated throughout the chamber.

“And you believe that combining my mastery of occult energies and your newfound mastery of time will allow us to bend all reality to our will,” the Magus said with a firm nod. “Apart, Dr. B’hadgai, we could never undo the evil perpetrated on us by the Engineer and his She Wolf. Together, we will bring all creation to its knees and FINALLY there will be a reckoning!”

“You speak the truth, my ancient ally. Now, if you will excuse me, Ajax is on his way to collect the final piece of our vengeance puzzle and I must monitor the proceedings.” Dr. B’hadgai lay back in the chair, allowing his cybernetic mind to meld with the machines surrounding him. The Magus stepped back into the shadows, leaving his maniacal collaborator to his machinations. Both men were content that soon they would ascend to their rightful places in the cosmos.

To Exacerbate Exasperation: The Byzantine and Ineffable Shenanigans of the Pugnacious, Yet Erudite Scofflaw, "Daffodil" Dean Weslington

2007-05-28T22:20:00.000-05:00

by Cap'n Neurotic

The red-head walked into the corner store, glancing at his list before making a bee-line for the dairy products. After a brief scan of the meager selection, he grabbed a half gallon 2% with an expiration date a little over a week away. "Guess this will have to do," he thought before heading to the counter, paying his money, and walking home, marking off yet one more item on his list as he did so.

THE END?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Oh, wait, yeah, it is. Sorry to get y'all's hopes up.

The End

College Days

2007-05-28T22:10:00.000-05:00

by Redneck Diva

“Dude, you are so stupid!” she screamed at the Polo shirt-clad college boy standing in front of her. She was on her tip toes and in his face in the worst way. He looked like he wanted to fall into the nearest hole in the ground. She looked like she wanted to bury him in that hole.

“Hey, now,” he calmly replied, putting his hands up defensively in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure how the situation ended up like this and he wanted out of it quickly. He’d talk to her calmly if he could just get the pugnacious little shrew to quit screaming at him. He was trying to keep his cool and not exacerbate the situation, but she wasn’t taking any breaths to allow him to get a word in edgewise. The things I get myself into, he thought as he rolled his eyes.

She hadn’t had an angry outburst like this in a long time and it felt pretty good. Her workout schedule didn’t allow for a lot of time with a punching target at the gym to blow off some steam, so screaming at a frat boy on the quad would have to suffice for now.

While she continued her loud rant, he noted her overall appearance. She wore old army fatigue pants that looked like they dated back to the Viet Nam War. Her ponytail was loose at the nape of her neck and the untamable curls were slipping out with every angry shake of her head. Her backpack was OD green, as well, with angry words and byzantine artwork inked all over it. At first glance one automatically pegged her as either a hippie wanna-be, a poor girl on scholarship or a rich girl rebelling and playing scofflaw while mommy and daddy wrote a hefty check each and every month to pay for her unwanted higher education.

She wasn’t any of those things. She had a scholarship of sorts, alright, but she wasn’t poor; she was smart. She had been the most erudite homecoming queen her high school had ever seen. She also was currently working nights as a motel clerk where she was becoming quite acquainted with the hundreds of John Smith’s that checked in with women that were clearly not their wives. Mommy and Daddy didn’t write a check every month because they were too busy trying to convince her that college was just another way she’d end up controlled by some government entity. Hippies (and not the wanna-be kind) and amateur conspiracy theorists were what her parents were. She was just biding her time, but they didn’t know that.

She was still screaming at him when, before she realized what was happening, he grabbed her upper arms, dipped her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She immediately tensed up and the lower parts of her arms that weren’t restrained began flailing in a feeble attempt to make him stop. The crowd that had gathered around them immediately sent up a loud “Oooooooh” and she blushed deeper while his lips were still pressed against hers. When she finally quit trying to smack him senseless - rather ineffectively - he leaned back up, pulled away from her and let go.
“What the HELL was that all about?” she said loudly, but not at the screaming pitch she had been at before the kiss.

“It was the only way I could get you to shut up,” he stated matter-of-factly, hoping he sounded more confident than he actually felt.

“Holy shit, have you been reading Harlequin Romances? Because that sounds exactly like a stupid stunt some muscle-bound hero would pull on the unsuspecting heroine.” And as she spoke she clasped her hands at her chest and batted her eyes. This caused the crowd to chuckle and he looked nervously at the circle of people who had become their impromptu audience.

“Would you please just let me take you somewhere not in the middle of a circle of gawking coeds and we can talk about this?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’m really not enjoying being on stage here…..uh, Ary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s Ary,” she spat, “and we have been in the same PoliSci class for the entire semester AND have been in two discussion groups together. I’m hurt you don’t remember my name,” she said with feigned disappointment, then added venomously, “I’m fairly certain that you remember the tall blonde’s name without having to add ‘Isn’t it?’ afterwards. What’s her name? Ashley? Jennifer? Or is it Muffy? That kind of bimbo always has stupid names.”

Another “Ooooooh” from the crowd.

“And furthermore, I don’t care what you enjoy or you don’t. I’m prepared to discuss this with you all damn day if that’s what it takes.” She crossed her arms across her chest and widened her stance. She was barely five feet tall and knew she didn’t have a commanding presence. She hoped she was pulling this off effectively.

He grabbed her by the upper arms again and she turned her head to the side in anticipation of avoiding another kiss, but instead of kissing her he turned her around and pushed her ahead of him and led her out of the circle of voyeurs. As they parted the crowd, the other students began to clap. She ducked her head in an expression of annoyance, not embarrassment as he insisted on leading her further.

Once they were quite a distance away, well out of earshot from anyone, he let go of her arms, but not before he spun her roughly around to face him again. He dropped his arms and with a sigh said, “There.”

“You ASShole!” she blurted and hit him in the chest with both fists. “What’s the big idea KISSING me in front of all – those – people?” The last three words were punctuated with more punches to the chest. He was just glad she was small and hadn’t had time to go to the gym much. He’d have bruises tomorrow, regardless.

“Agent Sin- Ary. Really. Let me explain.”

“Yes, please. Explain your ineffable and embarrassing shenanigans. Please. Because I’m just dying to hear it.”

“Dying is almost what you did, Agent Singleton,” he said as he moved closer to her and pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “Just as you went into your tirade about ‘ineffective collegiate hogwash’ – which was an interesting choice of words, by the way - and really got yourself wound up nicely, our mark showed up. He had his gun trained on you. I saw him across the quad, but no one else did. If I hadn’t been looking for him, I wouldn’t have seen him either. I didn’t want to see your pretty head splattered on the daffodils underfoot. So I kissed you. I hope I didn’t really make you mad. I’m sorry if I did.” He looked down at his feet, then looked back up at her and grinned.

Unfazed she said, “Shit. I’ve got an Algebra test at 3 – think we’ll be done?” she asked as she pulled her errant ponytail back into submission.

“Should. He’s allergic to peanuts. Shouldn’t take long for the anaphylactic shock to take care of him. You won’t miss your test.”

“Cool.” She adjusted her backpack and reached up to kiss him softly on the cheek.

“Please promise me you’ll kiss me better than that soon, okay?”

“You got it, Agent Singleton. You got it.”

Extension, extension! We want an extension!

2007-05-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

Wait. Why am I hollering for an extension - I'm the one that is in charge of that.

Okay, so because we're all a bunch of non-inspired, unimaginative geeks this week, I'm extending the deadline for 36 Chambers of Tate until Friday, the 25th. If it turns out there is only one submission, well, that'll make voting easy, now won't it?

Block

2007-05-20T17:29:00.000-05:00

Anyone else having trouble finding inspiration for this round??

The Cap'n has mentioned his lack of inspiration as well. Are he and I the only two with serious cases of writer's block?

I don't want to make it a habit, but if everyone is having trouble getting stories written, I'd be open to extending the deadline a few days.

Leave a comment and let me know how things are going.

May I have your attention please?

2007-05-11T23:23:00.001-05:00

Due to some technical difficulties of the graphics kind, two business proposals were not posted yesterday. Seems the pictures themselves were posessed by demons from Hell. So one has sent me her pictures separately and the other has sadly announced that she might file Chapter 13 on her store. I leave in the morning for a trip to Branson, MO, with my kids, but the hotel has wi-fi and if we're not too worn out from walking the endless hills of the Ozarks in 85' temps with 4000% humidity, eating funnel cakes and fried things on sticks, watching clog dancing and listening to bluegrass, jumping on the hotel beds and shopping, I'll work on those last two business proposals. Vacations rock.

But here's something that'll make your day:

Tate has sent his list of The Words for Round 4, otherwise known, from here on out as:

36 Chambers of Tate
(Is it just me or does anyone else feel the urge to do that dramatic "dum dum DUMMMMM" after you say it? No? Just me then. Hmh.)

And here are The Words (Thankfully there are not 36 of them - I, The Walking Dictionary, may have to break out the ol' Websters on a few of these):

Shenanigans
Scofflaw
Erudite
Daffodil
Pugnacious
Byzantine
Ineffable
Exacerbate

Story submissions are due by May 21st at 10:00pm Central. Voting will begin on Tuesday the 22nd.

The Force, be with you it may.

After careful consid'ration

2007-05-10T11:00:00.000-05:00

Ol' Joe Billy Bob has looked over all 'em bus'ness proposals and applications that ended up on his big ol' desk and after carefully consid'ring 'em all, well, it looks like that there mall's gonna have to be built onta! Some of the stores are asking for 5000 square foot!! Hooooodoggies!! Them's some big ol' stores, lemme tell ya!

The submitted plans are in the posts below.

AND Tate, his wife and the baby are home now and he's submitted The Words for the next challenge! Look for that post later tonight or early tomorrow.

The Gettin' Place

2007-05-10T10:34:00.000-05:00

by The Shoe Diva

Attention: Joe Billy Bob, Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations

May 9, 2007

After careful reflection, and considerable mourning because those vermin’ stole my scotch tape idea, I present the following for your consideration:

The Gettin’ Place- A Redneck Haven where all of your redneck needs are met, and one-stop shopping for the thrifty shopper on the lookout for that special item.

The Getting’ Place is truly designed to be one-stop shopping and carries everything a red blooded redneck’s little heart could desire. With that in mind, the store is rather large, and will require at least 5,000 square feet of space. In keeping with your eco-friendly design, we propose an entirely recycled décor for our store. Untreated wood recycled from actual Appalachian barns will line both the walls and the floor. It’s a fine use of available products as well as a durable solution for the stampede of feet.

Curtains in the changing room will be hand sewn from scraps of old clothing, and all items sold will be neatly packaged in old Wal-mart shopping bags. They still have plenty of use in em’!
All products are hand crafted by artisans in the local community. We scour the countryside looking for artists with their finger on the pulse of the community, artists who know just what our shoppers are looking for.

Almost as unique as our product line are the employees we hire. Who better to serve the redneck community than fellow rednecks? Who knows the yearnings of a redneck better and who would be more familiar with their needs? We only hire from within the local community, and to provide the best skilled staff possible, we insist each and every one of them be a genuine high school graduate!

I’ve enclosed a brief catalog. Take a gander and you’ll see we’re truly a one of a kind store and a perfect fit for your mall environment.

All merchandise in The Gettin’ Place is indigenous to Redneck Hills. Each item is handcrafted by local artisans with the specific needs of the local redneck squarely in mind.

We maintain a truly unique line of seasonal items:

The one of a kind Christmas tree all-aglow with festiveness.

For the avid deer hunter feeling the Christmas spirit, this gutted deer

Truly unique Gingerbread House

Speaking of décor, we’ve got the snappiest doo-dads this side of the Mason Dixon line.

Most folks don’t know Miss Mona Lisa was a cousin of the Hatfield’s. Yessiree, a distant cousin to be sure, but a right perty one

We also carry a full line of special occasion items.

Birthday cakes,

Birth announcements

Hot tubs

wedding paraphenalia,

BBQ grills,

fine BBQ accessories

Behold, our useful household appliances:

Palm Pilots

Lawn mowers

Tape measures

Survival Kits

Pet supplies

And finally.....

Redneck Apparel

Yes, we have a complete line of redneck apparel for men and women.

Tours R Us

2007-05-10T10:33:00.000-05:00

submitted by Lisa

Tours R Us

Come on in.

Get below ground and cool off.

Take a tour of a non-workin' lead and zinc mine.

Totally safe EPA Certified SuperFund Cleanup site awaits your visit.

Wear your hikin' boots - Hard hats provided - unless you've got your own.

Tours start purt' near every hour or as close to as we can get and start from right here in the mall.

Don't forget to visit our gift shop and tailings pile to pick up that souveneir to remember you were here.

Origins 'R' Us

2007-05-10T10:20:00.000-05:00

submitted by Cap'n Neurotic

TO: Ol’ Joe Billy Bob
Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations

FROM: Cap’n Neurotic
Origins’R’Us Regional Director

RE: Space for rent

Dear sir,

In lieu of your standard “application,” please see the attached copy of our latest promotional material from our corporate offices in Wakanda. We feel that your rustic atmosphere and “green” philosophy fit well with the aesthetic sense of our other branches, housed in abandoned railway stations, ancient castles, labyrinthine caverns, and Whataburgers across the globe; we hope you agree.

ORIGINS’R’US

Paving the way for rouge justice since the dawn of the Galactic Pax Treaty

Are you tired of getting sand kicked in your face by bullies?

Are you sick of seeing the wicked profit from their misdeeds?

Are you borderline psychotic in your need to avenge your parents’ deaths but aren’t quite sure how to do it?

If you answered “yes” to any of these, then what you need is a visit to everyone’s favorite super-power emporium ORIGINS’R’US!

Yes, ORIGINS’R’US offers a wide range of materials to give every would-be crimefighter a leg up in their never-ending battle for truth, justice, and all that jazz.

Ancient words of power?

We got ‘em!

Mystical gemstones with esoteric abilities?

We got ‘em!

Radioactive isotopes and irradiated lab animals?

We got ‘em!

Implausibly powerful bits of alien technology?

We got ‘em!

And, here at ORIGINS’R’US we do more than just hand over these items of incalculable power

willy-nilly. Each member of our highly trained staff is cloned from one of our founding partners and cybernetically implanted with all the knowledge which has not been lost in the mists of time

on each of our items. These custodians of our cosmic culture will not only help you select the life-altering item which best suits your personal needs, but will give you all the assistance you need to activate and access the powers and abilities which will make you so far above us mere mortals that you are like unto a god*!

Our patented TARDIS technology allows our store to be infinitely larger inside than it appears from without, allowing us to house our mind-staggering amount of merchandise, as well as special genetic-mutation-inducing environments such as:

Gamma testing ranges
Particle accelerators
Lazarus Pits
Rifts in Time and Space
Terrigen Mist chambers
Symbiote breeding grounds
And many more!

In addition, our special three-day suspended animation waiting period with full psychic scans insures that only the most stable of vengeance-hungry vigilantes are allowed to roam free with catastrophic powers at their fingertips in order to take the law into their own hands.

And be sure to visit our sister store, SPANDEX WISHES AND CAPE-&-COWL DREAMS for all of your super-hero apparel needs.

ORIGINS’R’US: tracking down items of earth-shattering importance and universe-shaking power so that you don’t have to.

*Actual divinity not implied

Beck's Tea to Dye For

2007-05-10T10:12:00.000-05:00

By Mrs. E.

Women Have I Got A DEAL FOR YOU!!!

I recently decided to do somethin about the grey in my hair which were beginin to show along with some dark roots. So I went to the Walmarts and got what was supposed to be just one shade darker than the last time because I had gone lighter but the grey was showin way too much with that color so I had to go darker. They had a new box with new pictures and this lovely color that would make my grey disappear and my roots too. That gal on that box had used that color and it twere down right beautiful. Well I snatched that baby up and took it home just waitin' to have enough time to use it. This weekend the time were right.

So I did just what it said except I didn't do a color test because heck I'd used this brand for many years and had never had no reaction or nothin just beautiful hair color. Imagine my surprise when I looked in the mirror as I was a dryin my curly locks and noticed the color was redder than the box showed. Matter of fact my hair was orangish. It twere Whore red!!!

Now I got a neice and she gots pretty red hair. Her daughters gots pretty red hair. Their hair is prettier than anything you'll ever see on a box of hair color. Mine was not that color. I don't usually get too bent out of shape over hair color. I mean I've been doing it so long that I have had a few times when the color weren't quite what I had hoped for. Why I've had my hair have geenish tints to it where it kind of glowed like them glow sticks you can get for Halloween so as to see better in the dark but never, never, never, ever have I seen my hair look this bad. I panicked.

I called my friend who later told me that the sound of my voice really had her scared. She thought there was some major disaster. She thought she was a gonna haft to get into her car and drive half way across town just to rescue me from whatever fiend was a tormentin me. When she heard it were just my hair, she tried to reasure me but I was havin' none of that. Bein the good friend that she is, she called her sister who called a friend who wasn't home and I still was freakin out. I washed my hair twice while I was waitin for her call back.
\u003cdiv\> \u003c/div\> \u003cdiv\>Any way she called the girl who does our hair who by the way was in St. Louis at a hair show. This darlin girl called me all the way from St Louis and then went to talk to all those high falootin hair people at the hair show. She called back with a solution. I was willin' to try just about anythin and heck them hair people in St. Louis surely knew somethin about fixin bad hair dolor. So I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, stuffed\n it under a ball cap of Duane's so that none of it was a showin and headed for the Walmarts to see if I could find a remedy.

Well, I had to get something that had Ash in it. I thought I had already made an "ASH" of myself but I was willin to try anything. Whore Red!!! Horrid Whore Red!!! Well, it worked. I still have reddish tints but the color does look more natural and I can go out in public again.

At school on Monday nobody even noticed or at least they never said nothin.

So I said all of that to tell you about a new store that I am openin for women only. Its gonna be a hair colorin place. Now I know they already have these things I've been there but dang those gals charge out the wazoo. I'm thinkin it would just be a place where women could sit around discussin whatever came to mind and then when someone needed a\n hair colorin done we could all look her over real good and then as a committee pick out the right color. We could help one another get it on right. You know like only coverin the roots for awhile and then spreadin it out thru the rest of the hair. We could help time one another and cheer each other on. Heck we'd only have to charge a dollor or two more than what it cost at the Walmarts.

We'd have to call it somethin that don't sound like no beauty shop stuff 'cause you gots to have a license to call it that. I was thinkin of pretendin the shoppe were a fancy tea type place. We'd have a code we used. You'd order green tea and that would be the ash colors. You'd order tomato juice or red soda pop for the redder colors or lemonade for the blonde.

I gots a plan here. I'm workin on a name. We'd have to be exclusive. None of them funny boys a hangin around. I'm thinkin of callin it Beck's Tea to Dye For!!!!! Snappy! Huh!!

Look for it the next time you head out to cruise main street. This is an idee that is way past due. We'll be a lookin for you and have the teapot ready to boil unless your in the mood for some red soda or some lemonade.

Cazzie's Hats for You

2007-05-10T09:59:00.000-05:00

submitted by Cazzie!!!

To Ole' Joe Billy Bob (POA),

My name is Cazzie, I am the proud proprieter of "Cazzie's Hats For You". I am writing of my intention to market my wonderful hats in your Mall. Proposal is as follows: My store needs to be large, 800 square metres of floor space to be exact. My products are displayed in a manner to which no other hat store can top..pardon the punn. One quarter of the floor space will camoflage. Complete with metal shelving and netting from the roof. All types of military hats will be on display here Two of my ex Navy Service people to assist in getting the fitting to the customer's mug..sorry, head, correct.
The next quarter of the store will be set up in a Horse Carnival Scene, complete with statues of horses and models wearing race day gear and my brand of headwear designed for comfort for the race goer. Of couse, if people want to buy a hat for their loved one, or someone who lives abroad, this can be arranged. The sales staff in the Carnival area will be wearing the finest race wear and of course, our very own hats.
The last half, the front half of the store, will be adorned with tuelle and lace and organza. No shelves here but there will be lovely golden hat stands displaying some of the finest head wear going. Staff in this area will be some of the top models from around the Globe, a sure attraction to your Mall. This will be a shop that will attract all the best customers who will just want to go on spending at the other stores your Mall has to offer. At Cazzie's Hats For You, the customer comes first.

And away we go!

2007-05-06T15:44:00.000-05:00

That Hillbilly Mom is so durn creative she should be a teacher! After my last post asking for suggestions about a mini-task to complete while we wait on Bubblegum Tate, (And trust me, we are not complaining, dude. Take your time.) she promptly sent me an email just chock full of ideas! I'm telling you, she should teach.

So without further ado, I am announcing Mini-Task #1!

--------------------------------------

Welcome to Redneck Hills Mall! Nestled deep in the flat hills of northeastern Oklahoma, Redneck Hills Mall offers shopping for every taste. Come on in and browse our un-airconditioned shopping haven. Oh, don't worry - the lack of air conditioning isn't a big deal. We've got lots of stand fans and box fans stuck in the windows. Plus, when we have them in stock, we hand out those Jesus fans at the door. (You know, the ones on a popsicle stick.) The floors are luxurious hardwood - if you interpret "hardwood" as 1/2" plywood - and the skylights offer you to see nature in all of its uninhibited beauty because well, there's no glass in them. We do have one of the most comfortable restrooms in the area, according to most rednecks who shop here. Well, just have a look-see for yourself:

The carousel in the entrance is a favorite of the young'uns who come to Redneck Hills Mall. Ordinary horses aren't good enough for us high-falootin' shoppers - we have mules, deer and a few large dogs. The kiddies just go berzerk to ride the thirty-point buck.

The parking lot is large and again, we've kept the nature-lover in mind by leaving weeds and brush in their natural state. We try to be a "green" mall when we can. By "green" we mean "we don't mow."

We have many stores here at Redneck Hills Mall. The Scotch Tape Store and The All Applesauce Store are two area favorites. The Quirky Maladjusted Borderline Sociopath Store went out of business last year because the proprietor kept refusing to open for business and when people would peek in the window he would throw tennis balls at them. But that was one isolated incident and the screening process is a little more stringent now. We do have openings for a stores and are accepting applications and business plans now.

Apply today. Applications will be accepted through Wednesday, May 9th, so don't delay!

In your application/business plan, you need to describe the products sold in your store, how the store is laid out, what kind of employees you will hire to run the store, basic decor, etc. Include pictures, if possible. Be creative because Ol' Joe Billy Bob, Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations, while he can't read past about a first grade level, does like to listen to a creative tale written by prospective proprietors in his mall. If you get a knee-slap outta Ol' Joe Billy Bob, you are in for sure!

Send applications to: theredneckdiva@gmail.com

Daddy blogger

2007-05-04T20:24:00.000-05:00

Apparently, our most recent winner, Bubblegum Tate, has just had a baby. Okay, not him personally, but his wife just had a baby and well, he kind of participated.

So because he's off establishing himself among the ranks of daddybloggers everywhere, we're sitting here on our laurels. Not that we're complaining - most of us have kid a or two. They truly are a bit time-consuming, the little boogers. So I'm proposing that we do something in the meantime. School's out and I'm still avoiding housework like the plague. I need something to do!

So what's your pleasure, writers at large? We can dredge up old creative writing assignments from our teen years, we have try a limerick writing challenge, we can try plain ol' poetry (although I might gag, but I'll play along)....we can do all sorts of things.

So tell me ....... throw some things out there and we'll see what we come up with. Hopefully, whatever it is, we can end our sentences with prepositions.

The edge of the sword has delivered a victory

2007-05-01T20:38:00.000-05:00

Bubblegum Tate, when he submitted his story, proclaimed "The Nation of Hillmomba is claimed in the name of Tate-ania!"

I guess he has some prophetic qualities in him somewhere.

With 32% of the votes this round, Tate claims his victory and now is faced with the challenge of coming up with a new list of The Words for the next round.

As soon as he gets his title and list to me, the next round will begin!

Congratulations, Bubblegum Tate!

(tap tap) Is this thing on?

2007-04-27T13:49:00.000-05:00

Because the Cap'n and I are both slightly neurotic, we both check the voting results at Write in the Thick of It quite often and today, during my many checks, I've noticed that the numbers aren't going up. Anybody having issues with the poll? Or are you just not voting?

"Let the voting begin!" shouted the Hillmombans as they stormed the hillside

2007-04-24T09:39:00.000-05:00

Voting in The Writing Challenge - Nation of Hillmomba Edition is now open.

There were a record eleven entries this time! WAHOO! The word is getting out there and I could not be happier. Thank you! Let's keep things going - tell your friends and keep writing.

Voting is open until midnight May 2nd. (My last final is April 30th and I'm giving myself a cushion in case some evil instructor throws something unexpected at us.)

Curses!

2007-04-24T01:33:00.000-05:00

It's 1:33am.

I just wrote a 7-page paper on Freud.

I just posted 11 stories to this blog.

I have an overwhelming urge to call my father.

And I can't get the poll to post.

I'm tired. I'll try again in the morning.

In the meantime, start reading this week's entries - we had a record number!

Jocelyn's Journey

2007-04-24T01:12:00.000-05:00

Jocelyn's Journey by PigPen

The sun was in its final stages of clearing the horizon when the queen finally threw open her shutters. Her view was exceptionally beautiful on mornings like this. The sun was basking her realm in early morning beauty. The blue-green waters of Kings Bay, where the Mason’s River ran into the Smugglers Ocean, were alive with yellow fire as the sun glistened and shimmered across it. Her view was the most commanding view in all of the Valley Lands. Looking out to the northwest, away from Kings Bay, ran Garrison’s Way, an enormous road that stretched the entire length of the kingdom, north to south. She could still remember riding down Garrison’s Way and seeing Hammond Hall for the first time -- the largest and grandest castle in all of Duramond, befitting the royal seat and home to the “Largest Fleet.” There was no power at sea with half her might. They had launched a new dromond the day she arrived and it was her honor to name it. She had been dumbfounded when her good father had bestowed that as a wedding gift. When her wits returned, she had naught else but to name it after he betrothed. Henry’s Hammer was the biggest, fastest ship ever to set sail, as her prince had been the best knight in all the kingdom.

She turned around, intending to call her handmaidens and have them fetch up a bath. Her husband was propped up on his elbow and eyeing her lovingly, a small, innocent, yet playful, smile playing at his lips. “You seem very happy with yourself today, my Lord.” She couldn’t help but smile back, knowing how he disliked his wife calling him that. The first time she had made that faux pas had been their wedding night. Now, she only did it when she wanted to get a rise out of him.

“How not?” he replied coolly. “I bedded the most beautiful woman in all my kingdom last night and woke up with her in my arms this morning.” She could feel her cheeks heat up instantly.

She went to him, wrapping her arms around him and placing her head upon his chest. She could feel his heart beating slowly and surely.

As she lay there, her thoughts went back to when she was but fifteen, a maiden freshly flowered. Harold Hammond had arrived at their castle with the biggest retainer of knights, servants, squires, handmaidens, camp followers, and cronies that she had ever seen. Snow Fall was a large castle by any standard but could never hope to hold Harold’s entire host. Most had camped outside the castle walls, which made a city outside the castle. Her heart had begun to pound inside her chest the minute Harold’s outriders had been seen. He had come to see if she was fit for betrothal to his son. Stories had preceded his coming about how scathingly he had judged the first two maidens whose fathers saw them fit to wed the prince. She had met both girls at the last Kingdom Tournament, held every spring. Neither had been exceedingly comely, but neither had they been homely by any means. The girls had been pleasant and been her friends during the tournament. Some of the tales that had reached her claimed King Harold had gone as far as to call one girl a lack-wit and the other a freak. Her sisters had done little to lift her spirits. They had taunted her mercilessly from the day the raven arrived, heralding the coming of the king. She had been on edge from that day until the king claimed her worthy of his son almost a fortnight later.

Now, she couldn’t be happier. She had come to love her betrothed despite thinking she never would. He had been kind with her and generally wanted her to be happy, starting from the first day they met on the steps of Hammer Hall and ridden through the city and out the Kings Gate. They had ridden out to the cheers of all the small folk, a wave of noise that seemed to swell and followed them out through the fields. They had stopped after several hours and eaten a picnic that Prince Henry had packed in a handbasket. They sat and talked till the sun was low in the sky. They talked of childhood memories, friends, secrets that they hadn’t told anyone, and many other things that were of meaning to them. This was one of many quiet times Prince Henry had planned for them in the week prior to their wedding. It was the most magical time of her life. She felt as if she were in some fairy tale, told by wet nurses to young children at bedtime.

The wedding had been no less grand. After a resplendent ceremony in the Most Holy Sept, they had returned to Hammer Hall for the reception. It had been immaculately decorated from floor to ceiling. There had been seating for a thousand wedding guests, but more had packed in along the walls. Singers were all about, as well as jugglers and jesters in motley. They had even brought in dancing bears from the Isles of Veramell. She had not seen anything half so beautiful in all her life. The highlight of the evening for her came as the feast was drawing to a close. The hall was in a rare lull when the heralds began shouting the arrival of a late guest. As the doors parted, the Bard of Bention strode into the hall. The most renowned singer in all the kingdom bowed before the dais. “I am afraid that my tardiness will limit the amount of entertainment I can provide,” he said. “But if you will allow me, I have a new limerick I wish to share with you.”
He looked directly at the future queen, smiled and said, “It’s called ‘Jocelyn’s Journey’.”

The Potluck

2007-04-24T00:58:00.000-05:00

THE POT LUCK by Hillbilly Mom

Mr. Prufrock smoothed the crease of his gray polyester slacks and sighed. This unrequited love business certainly was not so romantic as literature would have you believe. He put the finishing touches on his love letter. Love limerick, as it were. He closed his eyes and imagined how her eyes would light up when she got it. Carla. His inamorata. The mere thought of her set his heart aflutter. Mr. Prufrock slid his calligraphy pens back into their clear plastic case. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” he said, tucking the pens back into the top right compartment of his antique oak roll-top desk.

Carla was everything he was not. Vivacious, popular, young. “Opposites attract, “ stated Mr. Prufrock in a sing-song manner. He often talked to himself these days. The house was lonely, now that Mother was gone. He smoothed the lace runner on the dining room table as he passed by. The smell of last night’s sauerkraut still lingered a bit in the dim, stuffy air of the living room. He settled back in his La-Z-Boy recliner, the one splurge he’d made with the insurance money. The TV was tuned to the weather channel, but Mr. Prufrock no more knew the forecast than a dog knew how to solve a quadratic equation. He sat, as had become his habit of late, dreaming of his soul mate, Carla.

Carla ripped open the bag of Ruffles and dialed her best friend. “Di. Watcha doin’?” She chugged half a can of Milwaukee’s Best, and emitted a long, rumbling burp.

“Just finishing my Mississippi Mud cake for the Pot Luck. Can you chew with your mouth closed?”

“Why? It’s just you and me. I ain’t tryin’ to impress anyone.”

“It’s kind of hard to understand you with all that crunching.”

“You’ll get over it. What should I take to the Pot Luck?”

“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking about that now?”

“Yeah, well. Call me Susie Homemaker. I was out in the back yard hitting golf balls all afternoon.”

“Don’t your neighbors complain?”

“Not real golf balls, you twit! Wiffle golf balls. So, I thought I might bring corn.”

“How are you making it?”

“Making it? I thought I’d bring a bag of that frozen stuff. If somebody wants some, they can heat it up.”

“I guess that’s no worse than the annual loaf of sandwich bread from the day-old bread outlet.”

“Exactly.”

“Hey, I saw your lovah looking at you during the meeting.”

“Ha ha. That bald little old freak? He told me he thinks you’re attractive.”

“Nice try. You’re making that up. You’ve never even talked to him, have you?”

“No. But he was watching YOU.”

“Only because I was in his way when he undressed you with his eyes.”

“Yeah, right. You crack me up, Di. He’s a 53-year-old virgin who looks like Montgomery Burns. Only not so attractive.”

“That’s a mean thing to say about your boyfriend.”

“He’s NOT my boyfriend. The day he becomes my boyfriend will be declared National Handbasket Day.“

“Don’t get you panties in a wad. It’s not like he’s even asked you out. He seems content to admire you from afar.”

“And he’d better stay a-far away from me. I heard him talking to Debbie after Open House night. You know how Danny had the flu? Creepy McGeezerson said, ‘I hope your betrothed is on the mend after his bout with the influenza. Perchance it has gone from whence it came.’ Then McPervy asked Stacy, ‘Are you and your cronies off to trip the light fantastic at a local speakeasy? Don’t overindulge, my dear, or you shall pay for it on the morrow.’ What’s THAT all about?”

“Aww…don’t be so hard on him. He’s just an odd duck.”

“Time to play Duck Hunt, I say.”

“It’s been fascinating, chewing the fat about your secret crush, but I still have papers to grade.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. On the morrow, heh heh.”

Mr. Prufrock lay back on his virginal bed, hands clasped behind his head. “I am quite the catch, if I do say so myself. I’ve held a steady job for nigh on 20 years. I have saved my chastity for the marriage bed. Those rowdy fellows who have taunted me all these years shall rue the day, when they spy the fair maiden, Carla, upon my arm. They shall be dumbfounded by the beauty of my bride. And when we retire to the marital chambers for our honeymoon, none of them shall know the measure of our passion. For I shall skillfully wield my battering ram to fill my fair lady with boundless pleasure.” Mr. Prufrock shuddered involuntarily. “Though I must take precautions to ensure that I do not commit a premature, seed-spilling faux pas. That would sorely disappoint m’lady, methinks.” Mr. Prufrock drifted into a pleasant slumber, dreams of his impending nuptials dancing in his head.

The next morning, Mr. Prufrock retrieved his Pot Luck corn casserole from the harvest gold refrigerator. He had prepared it two days ago, using Mother’s special recipe, which included creamed corn, Jiffy cornbread mix, and Eagle brand condensed milk. “I’m off!” he announced, to no one in particular.

Carla and Di filled their Chinet plates from the 20-odd covered dishes at the Pot Luck.

“Thanks for saving me a place in line, Carla. I’d hate to think that all the good stuff was gone before I got here,” Di commented, rolling her eyes like a world-class ocular orbitist.

“That’s what friends are for, Di. What’s that stuff? Mmm…it looks like a cheese casserole. Slop me a big pile of that on my Chinet.”

“No need to be greedy. Other lunch shifts need to eat, too, you know.”

“Yeah, well they can eat what’s left. You snooze, you lose.” Carla looked scathingly toward the end of the line. She did not see Mr. Prufrock, standing in the doorway, unrequited love oozing from every pore.

Di sat down, and Carla followed. “Let’s dig in!” She scooped a large plastic spoonful of the cheese casserole into her mouth. She immediately spat it back onto her Chinet.

“That is the nastiest stuff I ever put in my mouth! I think I’m going to vomit! What IS that shit?
Nobody noticed the single tear that slipped over Mr. Prufrock’s left lower eyelid, and slid silently down his cheek.

Deprecations on the Themed

2007-04-24T00:46:00.000-05:00

Deprecations on the Themed by Cap'n Neurotic

Panic fell from the sky.

As he fell, Panic loudly cursed Miitrian’s over-zealous cronies for jumpstarting his powers in mid-air, sending him sidestepping into yet another dimension, sans airship. Or, at least, he would have been cursing loudly if his mouth had been able to act on the signals it was receiving from his higher brain functions. Unfortunately, as was generally true in Panic’s life, all higher brain functions were powerless before his more primal instincts, which, in this case, demonstrated themselves in the form of a continuous incoherent bellow of terror. Never before had his “fight or flight” response wished for a more literal translation of “flight” so powerfully.

He was distracted from his impending doom by a voice faintly calling his name from a distance.
Dumbfounded as to how he could hear the soft voice over the rushing wind roaring in his ears, he suddenly realized that this deadly plummet was taking an awfully long time, with no ground in sight . . .

“You really need to find yourself a new dream cycle to ride; that one’s getting old.”

The young man known as Panic awoke from his dream to find Taps, the source of the mysterious voice, standing above him. “You’re telling me,” he replied, pushing himself upright in the recliner which had lulled him into sleep. He wasn’t in the least surprised that Taps had known that his recurring dream had been playing out yet again; her Talent (although they don’t call it that here he reminded himself) allowed her to “tap” into a wide variety of information, from computers to telepathic hive-minds to the collective unconscious zeitgeist – sometimes whether she wanted to or not. “Was my dream so bad that you had to wake me to get some peace?”

Taps shook her head, her long unkempt hair obscuring her plump features. “I wouldn’t have bothered you for that; your subconscious needs to work that stuff out.” She brushed her hair back out of her face to give him a meaningful look; the infopath (as she had dubbed herself) had been after Panic to confront the root cause of his dreams ever since she had accidentally tapped into one a couple of weeks earlier. After pausing long enough to allow Panic a chance to agree -- a chance he, once again, ignored -- Taps carried on. “No, I just sensed a good old fashioned rant brewing on the horizon and didn’t want you to miss out.” And with that she grabbed the groggy teen by his skinny wrist, pulling him out of the recliner and dragging him down the hallway and into the meeting room populated by figures decked out in costumes straight out of the comic books his friend Burn used to smuggle into the orphanage .

“Superheroes,” he thought, still not quite believing it despite having lived among them for the better part of a month. As a “Traveler-with-a-capital-T” (as his one-time would-be mentor Cutter would say) Panic had visited a wide array of worlds and seen some unusual things – heck, his home world was filled with people displaying Talents ranging from telepathy to telekinesis to Panic’s purview, teleportation -- but even alternate Earths populated by dragons, cyborgs, or sentient slime molds paled in comparison to a world where people willingly slapped on capes and cowls in order to stop crimes - - or commit them, as the case may be. Taps’ fellow team-members were seated in a semi-circle, facing towards their gruff leader, who had apparently finished his diatribe just moments before.

“Oh, darn, did we miss the rant-storm?” Taps asked, crestfallen.

“Afraid so,” the stocky hero known as Heavyweight said, “although we might just be sitting in the eye; you know how easily these things can flare up.”

Taps nodded sagely. “True enough; but I hate that we missed the initial wave. Catching the aftershocks just isn’t the same, is it, Panic?”

Panic, true to his name, froze up at being drawn into the conversation; the others teased their leader about his tendency to rant up a storm constantly, but the grizzled hero had made Panic nervous from the first time they met. He wasn’t sure if joining in the ridicule and alienating the target or staying silent and alienating the rest would be the bigger faux pas in the long run, but then again, long run thinking had never been Panic’s strong suit; for most of his life, short-term survival was all his uncontrollable Talent had allowed for.

A feminine voice rang out, saving him from having to decide. ““Don’t worry, Taps,” the speaker said with an inhuman undertone which always reminded Panic of Theremin music, “I can fill you in.” With that, the slender figure with skin of polished glass pushed past the formerly ranting hero with a wink. Much to Panic’s surprise, the older hero just rolled his eyes and took a seat with no protest. A strange ripple flowed across the body of Mirrorgirl as she transformed herself into a virtual doppelganger of the now seated and mildly scowling leader of Vox Aequitas, Cloudburst.

“Do you know what I hate more than anything in the world?” Mirror-Burst called out stridently in a near perfect imitation of the real Cloudburst’s voice, the imitation marred only by how over-the-top the performance was. “Criminals. Law-breakers. Nasty little vermin. Need to be shipped off to Cloud Cuckoo Land and never heard from again.”

Panic -- who wondered briefly if Cloud Cuckoo Land was a real place in this world or not -- couldn’t help from glancing at the real ‘Burst, whose face was fixed in a purposefully neutral pose.

“But you know the one thing I hate more than criminals?” Mirror-Burst continued, beginning to pace around the room. “Super-villains. Take a two-bit hood, add a death ray or two, and you’ve suddenly gone from having a nuisance to having a deadly nuisance.”

Panic’s unease was gradually dissipating as he was drawn into Mirror-Burst’s performance, although he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the real ‘Burst occasionally. He could almost swear there was the tiniest hint of a smile on the care-worn face.

“And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villains,” Mirror-Burst continued, now gesticulating wildly to emphasize his/her points, “it’s super-villain teams! Bad enough dealing with them one on one, but get two or more of those maniacal pests together, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villain teams –“

“It’s using clichés like ‘hell in a handbasket?” Heavyweight called out, laughing.

Mirror-Burst met this comment with nothing less than Cloudburst’s patented we’ll-talk-later glare. “No, you sorry excuse for a sorry excuse, it’s super-villain teams . . . with a theme!”

Mirror-Burst’s whole body shuddered in such melodramatic disgust at this last statement that it generated a ripple of laughter among the audience.

Puzzled by the reference, Panic was compelled to ask, “What’s wrong with themed groups?”

“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with them?” Mirror-Burst bellowed incredulously.

“Why they’re just so . . . so . . . silly!” he/she said scathingly.

“Oh, come on!” Panic flinched at the outburst from the real Cloudburst; if the journey to this world hadn’t temporarily burned out his Talent, that jolt would have been enough to trigger a fight-or-flight teleport jaunt across town. “’Silly’? Seriously, that’s supposed to sum up my argument? That they’re ‘silly’?” He sighed. “Okay, folks, the next time I recommend sending the Lillian Gish of the looking-glass set here out on an infiltration mission, would one of you please remind me of this scenery chewing fiasco?”

“I happen to think that it was a very accurate portrayal,” Mirror-Burst said, shifting back into the form of Mirrorgirl halfway through the sentence. Cloudburst merely snorted a laugh in reply. Although partially transfixed by the fact that ‘Burst was actually demonstrating a sense of humor, Panic’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Sorry, but new-to-your-dimension guy here still wondering what’s the deal?”

Cloudburst turned towards him, a crooked smile playing across his face. “It’s a bit hard for me to articulate,” he began, flashing a dirty look towards Heavyweight to forestall any smartass comment, “but basically there’s something about these groups which form around arbitrarily chosen schema that really chaps my hide. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities are going to help you in your latest scam -- that I can understand. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities relate to chess pieces or playing cards or computer terminology – that’s just a product of unbalanced minds, and it makes me want to punch them even harder than usual.”

“I don’t know,” Mirrorgirl countered, “I find some of them highly entertaining.” Another shimmer ran across her surface as she transformed into a rapid succession of monstrous shapes, some familiar (werewolf, nosferatu), some less so (a being seemingly made of cornstalks; another made of black ooze), and some surreal (a clown and a car?). “Beware, Panic!” the mirror-menagerie called out, its voice shifting with each new form, alternately growling, burbling, and (oddly enough) honking, “for you now face the incomparable power of The Kingsmen, each wielding a power based on the works of Stephen King!”

Panic wasn’t sure which was odder; the fact that there were apparently super-villains who were inspired by Stephen King – an idea that Brother Staple, the headmaster of Panic’s former school at the Order of the Infinite would have gleefully accepted as proof that King’s work was the source of all corruption – or that Stephen King was a common touching stone across dimensions.

“So, seriously – they based themselves on Stephen King novels? It, Christine, ‘Salems Lot, all that?”

“Well, actually,” Taps answered, “their founder wasn’t the most literate villain around, so he mainly recruited based on Stephen King movies and mini-series. So, ‘sleepwalkers,” yes, ‘gunslingers’, no. Luckily, as a team they’re even worse than most of those films were, so they weren’t much of a threat -- outside of giving ‘Burst an aneurism, that is.”

“Too true,” said ‘Burst, “although they were nothing compared to that stupid bunch of doofuses that The Immortal Bard threw at us a while back . . . what were their names . . .”

“Oh, you mean Bad Poetry,” Taps chimed in. “What a bunch of losers: Blank Verse, Poetic Conceit, The Rhyme Schemer, that mouthy punk Limerick.” She scrunched up her nose at the last name, her voice dripping with venom. Panic looked at her quizzically; Taps was strictly behind-the-scenes support, not a field agent, so rarely had enough direct contact with the criminal element to warrant such an obvious personal distaste. “The Immortal Bard kidnapped me as leverage,” she explained, “and that Irish brat taunted me mercilessly while he guarded me.”

The sound of a throat clearing caught their attention, and Taps groaned as she watched Mirrorgirl (who was clearly enjoying her chance to play the cut-up) morph into a short, scrawny, red-headed figured decked out in horribly ugly green pantaloons.

“There once was a techie named Taps
Who used lots of computer apps
But then at her peak
Zorg made her a freak
And now her whole life turns up craps.”

Taps mock-glared at the mock-Limerick. “Horrible little brat, he was; glad to see the end of him. Still don’t know how he knew about Zorg giving me my powers, though . . .” This last sentence she mumbled so that only Panic could hear her.

“Hey, ‘Burst, just thought of something,” said Heavyweight with a wicked grin. “What about super-hero groups with themes? Y’know like – The Weather Front?”

‘Burst glowered at him. “First of all, I think building a team around a common thematic element is just a ludicrous for heroes as it is for villains, although possibly less indicative of insanity . . . possibly. And second of all, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of The Weather Front.”

“That’s not what their by-laws say . . .”

‘Burst sighed. “Look, I got sucked into their first adventure, and when they did the obligatory ‘Gee, everything must happen for a reason, let’s stick together and fight crime with our eerily similar weather based powers’ shtick, I only got out of it by allowing them to browbeat me into being an ‘honorary founding member’.”

“Like Superman and Batman in the Justice Society,” Panic chimed in, earning himself a wall of blank stares that told him that, while Stephen King may be universal (or, more accurately, multiversal), DC comics, apparently, were not.

Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword!

2007-04-24T00:28:00.000-05:00

Tiger Jack Hwang, Shining Blade of the Wudan
In
Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!
Part Three: Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword! by Bubblegum Tate

“Tiger Jack” Hwang moved into the cavernous inner chamber of the monastery where he had spent so many years of his childhood and youth. The clean scent of scrubbed wood underneath the powerful aroma of incense, the recently risen sun peeking through the latticework surrounding the great iron doors, the eerie quiet of a monastery first thing in the morning, before the monks begin their day. Each of these things alone would have recalled better days, but together they were almost enough to overwhelm him with nostalgia; days long past when he felt protected and was constantly taught about the great destiny set before him by his teacher, or sifu, the learned Yu Zhi Shou. How Tiger Jack had loved Sifu Zhi. How he hated him now. The truth about Yu Zhi Shou hovering just under these pleasant memories was like the stench of rot barely masked by the scent of your mother’s bread.

High atop the Wudan Mountains in central China, far above the reach of the ChiCom government, sat the monastery. It was the center of a vast criminal web that stretched all over the world. The fat spider that sat at the center of that web was Yu Zhi Shou. Many years ago, he had been a mentor and more to Tiger Jack, but Tiger Jack realized the “great destiny” for which Sifu Zhi Shou had raised him was simply that of a thug, a killer, a weapon to protect the Wudan…a weapon to be wielded by Sifu Zhi Shou himself. The day that this became clear was the day that Tiger Jack became the Shining Blade of the Wudan, the pinnacle of martial mastery for the monastery. Though it dumbfounded him to imagine life outside the monastery, it was also the day that Tiger Jack left, a wake of lesser men broken and suffering behind him. That day, he vowed that when he returned, the Master would be brought low.

Knowing nothing of the world below the mountain, Tiger Jack had wandered the earth looking for a purpose and honing his skills, preparing for the day he would return to battle his master directly. As he traveled, he waged war against the Wudan’s many arms, destroying cartels, gunrunners, opium dealers and whatever other corruption he could find that bore the stamp of Wudan. It was inevitable that he would cross paths with Ajax Stewart. It was destiny that they would become such fast friends. It was legend that was created from their adventures. Today, Tiger Jack would fulfill a vow to an old master as well as a pledge to his best friend. Tiger Jack smiled at the thought, and made his way deeper into the monastery, the only sound the swish swish of his saffron robes.

The silence of the monastery’s morning was suddenly broken by a disembodied voice echoing through the main hall, commanding in tone but paper thin with age, saying “Welcome back to the Wudan, Hwang Ki Chak. Or should I debase myself to name you as the gweilo, Tiger Jack?”

The name was said scathingly and with an unmistakable sneer.

Allowing his body to fall into a comfortable, but ready, stance, Tiger Jack taunted his old master, speaking loudly into the seemingly empty hall, “You can call me whatever you like, old deceiver.
Even my true name is a lie dripped like poison from your viper’s lips.”

An old man’s cackle cut through the hall, twisted and evil, as a reply. “I never told you a lie, little Ki Chak. I always told you how powerful you would be, how special, how important a Shining Blade is to the Wudan. If you turned your back on this, how can one old man be to blame?”

Despite himself, Tiger Jack felt himself leaping to the argument. “The Wudan were once a powerful force for justice in this land, Sifu, and the Shining Blade was their vanguard! You took those who would fight for justice and made them wage war for greed! You took a beautiful poem and turned it into a dirty limerick. Well, the Wudan may no longer be what they once were, but this Shining Blade will continue to be an example of what they ought to be.”

Suddenly dour, the voice replied, “And how do you plan to do this, oh mighty Shining Blade of the Wudan?”

His mouth becoming a grim line and his brows knitting, Tiger Jack Hwang answered with steely resolve, “You taught me the journey of a thousand steps must begin with only one, old Master. My first step is to kill you.”

“So be it,” the voice hissed

Instantly, Tiger Jack was surrounded by similarly dressed young men, blades flashing around him, tassels from the handles of the swords whizzing through the air with blinding speed. Tiger Jack spun, whirled, stepped, leaped, pivoted and moved with the flowing grace of a dancer, managing to avoid all but the shallowest cuts. Summoning his chi, the internal energy that powered his amazing kung fu, Tiger Jack spun on one toe with arms outstretched and a mighty wind seemed to emanate from his open palms, pushing the throng of attackers away and leaving a slowly revolving Tiger Jack alone in the center of the massive room. Many of them stumbled and fell, but the more accomplished students rolled and somersaulted to their feet.

As he came to a stop in a much more aggressive fighting stance, Tiger Jack tore the robe, now tattered from thousands of barely dodged cuts, off his upper body. The early morning sun glinted on the gold-orange ink of the tattoo that surrounded much of his torso and was the source of his fighting name. The great tiger seemed to stalk across Tiger Jack’s back and over his left shoulder with a massive head and swiping paw across his chest and abdomen. Despite themselves, and in the face of the massive punishment Zhi Shou would visit upon them for the faux pas, the men surrounding Tiger Jack gasped at the tattoo that seemed so real you could see individual hairs of the tiger’s fur. Tiger Jack couldn’t help but smile.

“It sounds like your cronies weren’t properly prepared for the coming of the Shining Blade, Sifu. Also, you may have miscalculated the sheer volume of manpower you needed to throw at this particular problem.” Despite the fact that thirty or forty finely trained martial artists, each one a deadly weapon even before they took up a sword, surrounded Tiger Jack, he couldn’t help but feel smug. His old master must have forgotten his prowess if he expected these men to handle him. They couldn’t even stand up to Kwan Yin’s Hurricane, his most painless technique.

“I engendered that overconfidence in you, my student. Oh, make no mistake, you are formidable, but I led you to believe you were invincible so that you would never question any mission I gave you, suicidal or not. You are NOT invincible, my Shining Blade, not in the face of the entire Wudan Order!” The last words rose to a shriek and robed man after robed man stepped from the shadows or dropped from the ceiling rafters. Suddenly, the room was full of monks, grim and ready to do battle with Tiger Jack. Hell in a handbasket barely did the situation justice.

Tiger Jack made an intricate swooping motion with both arms that loosened his tendons and prepared him mentally for battle. Stepping into a powerful stance created by ancient Wudan masters to minimize the effect of great numbers, Tiger Jack motioned, palm up and with his fingers, for the monks to attack.

With a yell that shook the ancient foundations of the monastery, the small army of Wudan monks attacked in unison. Tiger Jack was instantly a blur of motion, dodging, kicking, punching and striking at sensitive vitals. Several times, he took control of a monk’s body and used him as a shield while forcing the man to use his weapon against his martial brothers. This was a typical tactic that Tiger Jack used against overwhelming odds, but he was both chagrined and impressed to see that these men, despite the singularity of most kung fu styles, had trained together as a unit. They adapted to Tiger Jack’s methods of attack and worked as a single organism with no member getting in the way of the whole. Even as he fought, another part of his brain realized that he had finally met his match. It was taking a small army with precise special training, but Tiger Jack was finally going to be beaten in hand-to-hand combat. There
was only one thing he could do.

Tiger Jack’s moves became faster, too fast for the eye to follow as more than a blur. He began to glow, first lightly and then more and more strongly until he was a man-shaped high wattage bulb smoldering with a baleful, red light. The men attacking him were constantly attacking and receding, like a never ending wave, but they began to realize that, when they were nearer to him, they were feeling nauseous and unwell. Every man that Tiger Jack hit instantly fell down, dead. A glancing blow to a minor area of the body or a direct hit to a vital, it didn’t matter; anyone touched by the glowing body of Tiger Jack dropped lifeless to the floor. The men, knowing what was expected of them, pressed in hoping to overwhelm Tiger Jack before their numbers were depleted. This was just what Tiger Jack wanted from them. As they pressed in, Tiger Jack pressed both palms together and a bright red light exploded silently off his meditative form, spreading out from himself at the epicenter. As the blinding flash moved across the men attacking him, they dropped like so much wheat. After the explosion, there was no one left because Tiger Jack knew Dim Mak, poison hand, the touch of death.

Tiger Jack was left breathing deeply, drenched in sweat. The Dim Mak is very draining, usually shared by a touch and meant to be used on individual foes so that one’s chi would not be so exclusively focused on Yang energy. But Tiger Jack new it was the only way he could have won. A dry, cracked voice broke his reverie as his old Master finally deigned to speak to him “in person.”

“Well done, my student. I didn’t think you would use the Dim Mak, even against the Wudan. I certainly didn’t expect you to survive such a flood of Yang energy,” Zhi Shou clapped lightly, as though at a golf match. “Catch your breath, Ki Chak. If this is to be our final climactic battle, I will have none of your friends claiming I took advantage of you. Would you care to see the garden?”

Nodding, Tiger Jack followed the old man through the room that was now a charnel house and outside to the meditation garden. “Beautiful, is it not,” Zhi Shou said over his shoulder as he gestured at the beautiful garden. “It is likely much as it was when you left, Ki Chak, much as it has been for centuries.”

“It is indeed both the same as when I left and more beautiful for not having seen it in so long,” Tiger Jack agreed, “but it is no longer a picture of the Wudan Order. Even such beauty as this cannot cloak your corruption.”

Zhi Shou turned on Tiger Jack slowly and with a beatific smile on his face. “The West has tainted you, Ki Chak. Where once you knew the meaning of the yin yang, now you only see the black and the white with no part of one touching the other. You will never understand what I had to do to preserve the Wudan, even if what I preserved is different than it once was.”

“Master,” Tiger Jack pleaded, “Listen to yourself! The Wudan of your youth was an Order dedicated to justice! You have preserved a freak mutation of the Wudan, a perversion!”

Zhi Shou waved his hand dismissively, “Despite our love of philosophy, we are men of action, Ki Chak, and this conversation does not become us. You came for battle, though you use the flimsiest of excuses for it. I will give you both of the things you seek, one after the other. I will give you battle, my former student, and, if you defeat me, you will have Kuan Yin’s Sapphire.”

Tiger Jack nodded curtly, “My best friend in the world needs that gem to save his one true love. I fight not only for vengeance, but for friendship and for love. That is why I came to you today, Master, with love in my heart as well as revenge. With vengeance alone as my ally, even in killing you, I would be no better than you.”

“Come then, Shining Blade. I’ll let you try my Wudan style!” Zhi Shou leapt at Tiger Jack in what seemed to be a cloud of silk robe. Not knowing what part of the billowing cloth to block, Tiger Jack leapt deftly out of its way, spinning in the air and landing lightly where Zhi Shou had began.

Only years of fighting the Wudan’s minions could have prepared Tiger Jack for the constant whirling attack that Zhi Shou brought his way from behind his billowing robes. Everywhere he dodged or blocked, the old Master was sending a knuckle, elbow, toe or knee at another vital area of Tiger Jack’s body. Tiger Jack knew that he was the superior fighter on offense, but if he could never get a shot in, the old man would simply outlast him. Despite his age, Tiger Jack was well aware of his old Master’s endurance. When Tiger Jack was young, entire days of his training would be devoted to making constant attacks on Zhi Shou while Zhi Shou blocked every punch and kick and kept up a constant verbal barrage of praise and correction. Tiger Jack had to up the ante of this fight the only way he could. Tiger Jack had to summon the power of the Shining Blade.

Focusing his chi into the edges of his outstretched hands, he felt the subtle change come over his arms from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Suddenly, the swish thud swish swish thud of the battle between the two men was interrupted by the sound of silk being cut and a short intake of breath as Zhi Shou leapt away from Tiger Jack, blood oozing from one fist.

Sucking his bleeding knuckle, Zhi Shou said, “Behold the glory of the Shining Blade, able to combine the empty handed styles of kung fu with the Wudan’s 8 Divine Swords. Though I have not seen it personally in many years, I am still in awe of it.” The old man, took another step backwards from Tiger Jack and reached into a dense copse of growth in the garden’s landscaping. He pulled out a gold blade, slightly waved down its length, unlike the traditional straight blade of the Wudan style. It was sharp as a razor and seemed to hum in the air even as Zhi Shou held it still, leveled at Tiger Jack’s face.

“I forgot how to fear blades many years ago, Master,” Tiger Jack said with menace in his voice, “even one as beautiful and deadly as yours. Match your blade to the keen edges of my hands and we will finally see who is the best blade of the Wudan.”

Without a word or even a hint of breath, Zhi Shou attacked Tiger Jack. His blade struck high and low, it slashed and attempted to prick, it glinted in the sun and then was hidden in the folds of Zhi Shou’s robe. Zhi Shou’s mastery of the 8 Diving Swords was a miracle, but each time it struck for some vital organ in Tiger Jack’s body, it was met by some portion of his hand or forearm. Fantastically, the sword rang off Tiger Jack’s arms as though it were steel on steel.

And even as Zhi Shou made cut after cut, Tiger Jack began to work in his own offensive. Tiger Jack turned aside Zhi Shou’s strike at his abdomen with his left hand, feeling the ringing shock all the way to his shoulder. Lashing out with a toe quickly, he caught the old man’s kneecap and Zhi Shou stumbled backwards. Tiger Jack brought his right hand around, knife edged and glowing with his chi, the one true Shining Blade of the Wudan, and struck at his master’s face with all his might. On his back, clearly in pain from his wounded knee, Zhi Shou threw his own blade in between his face and the striking hand. Tiger Jack’s hand hit the blade and the sound was like the clear ringing of a perfectly made bell. When the note finally dwindled in the air, Zhi Shou’s blade was split in two and the old Master had finished the earthly part of his journey.

Tiger Jack reached down into the robes at the throat of the now dead old man. Pulling a large, midnight blue sapphire from around Zhi Shou’s neck, he used the Shining Blade technique to cut the chain it dangled from. Staring into the deep, blue center of the gem and standing straight in the early morning sun, Tiger Jack felt the approval of centuries of Wudan monks. Turning his back on the garden and the man who had been his master, Tiger Jack walked back into the monastery. Despite the evidence of the violence done that morning, he felt a surge of pride.

With Zhi Shou gone, Tiger Jack would rebuild the Wudan and see that the 8 Divine Swords served justice instead of vice.

That was for tomorrow. Today, Tiger Jack was prepared to help his best friend rescue the love of his life. “Dr. B’hadgai,” Tiger Jack though with grim resolve, “should be very frightened indeed, though he does not know it. He thinks he knows how to manage the Engineer of the
Impossible, but he has no idea what to do with the Shining Blade of the Wudan.”

Mr. Charlie

2007-04-24T00:22:00.000-05:00

Mr. Charlie by jusdealem

Back when I was a child, there was a rather strange man who lived at the end of our street in an old Victorian house with his spinster sister. His name was Charlie, but that's not what most folks called him. Years before, someone had given Charlie the nickname Norman Bates and it had stuck. Over time, Charlie had become our own hometown boogey man. To keep us kids in line, our parents would set rules that always ended with "...or Norman will get you!" When playing outside, we stayed strictly in the front yard, not daring to cross the street even for a wayward ball, for fear that Norman would suddenly appear out of nowhere and surely "get us".

His sister, Ms. Adell, was the local librarian and she managed to get Charlie a job there as the janitor. When I was about ten years old, my mother, too busy with my younger siblings, said I could walk the three blocks to the library all by myself. I could hardly contain my excitement as I ran out through the screen door. The Crawford County Library was my absolute favorite place on earth and I spent many hours there reading Nancy Drew novels and poetry. The best poetry, of course, is a limerick and I liked one that went something like:

There was a young man at our school
Who really thought himself cool.
The girls thought him great
And a really nice date
But I think that he was a fool.

One evening, I was late leaving the library. As I was getting my things and waving goodbye to Ms. Adell, I heard an awful commotion outside on the lawn. Stepping outside, I saw Johnny Reed, the eighth grade bully, and all his cronies gathered around an old man. "Freak!" they yelled in unison. From the steps, I could see that it was Charlie whom they had surrounded. Johnny had a large piece of wood in his right hand and he pointed it at Charlie, "You don't scare me, old man!" He looked so pitiful and confused as the boys scathingly taunted him. Without thinking, I rushed to his side and wrapped my arm in his. "Back off, you bullies!" I screamed at them. "Come on, Mr. Charlie, let's get inside."

He leaned against me as I helped him up the library steps. The boys cursed at me, then began to throw rocks at us. As it so happens, my father, on his way home from work, drove by that very minute and saw the group of boys throwing rocks at his little girl. He immediately stopped the car and ran towards us. Most of them took off running, but he managed to grab Johnny by the shirt collar and wouldn't let him loose. "Hooligins", I heard my father mutter, "going straight to hell in a handbasket if they don't change their ways!" Ms. Adell called Johnny's mother and they all got in alot of trouble that night.

As we were leaving, my father shook Mr Charlie's hand and invited him and Ms. Adell over to our house for Sunday dinner. "Well, take care, Norman." my father said. I gasped at his embarrasing faux pas and he stammered, "Er, uh, Charlie! I'm sorry, I meant Charlie!" Smiling and waving, he quickly ushered me to the car.

After hearing the story, my mother was absolutely dumbfounded about what had happened and said my bravery had earned me a trip to the ice cream parlor. Yum!

Sometimes in My Dreams

2007-04-24T00:13:00.000-05:00

Sometimes in My Dreams by Redneck Diva

We were in the church fellowship hall when I saw you across the room, skinny as ever in your blue jeans and button-down shirt. I don’t think I ever, in my entire life, saw you in a t-shirt. That thought just occurred to me, I don’t know why. Now, as I grew older I noticed you switched from cowboy hats to baseball caps, but you never made the transition to a t-shirt. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen any of the old farmers from the neighborhood in t-shirts. Perhaps it's a farmer faux pas.

But there you were, visiting with a church member, one of the older ladies of your generation. I guess you could call her one of your Sunday School cronies. You were listening intently with your head kind of tilted forward like you were really trying to absorb what she was trying to say. I have that picture of you in my head still – when you were in conversation, you tipped your head toward the other person. Maybe you were a little hard of hearing or maybe you really were just paying attention, I’m not sure. Regardless, it was an endearing trait on you. All of the sudden, as I watched you from across the room, you laughed out loud and there is no way I could ever effectively describe in words what you looked like when you were really amused by something. For one thing, your mouth opened really wide, in a “HA!” kind of manner, like whatever was said, either by you or the other person, was the most hilarious and comical thing ever uttered. I seriously doubt it was a limerick - that didn't seem like your style. It might’ve been a funny story from your farming days, maybe a calf on a freak-out tear in the milk barn. It might’ve been a joke or maybe she was just teasing you, but whatever it was, you were amused from head to toe. If you were going to make the effort to get tickled about something, you went all the way with it. I loved that about you.

You patted the lady on the arm and moved on to visit with some other church member, this time a man. A firm handshake is something lost on newer generations, but it was a serious thing back in your day. You shook the man’s hand firmly and I watched as the two of you talked. Even though I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation, I’m pretty sure it was about politics and how the country’s going to go to hell in a handbasket if the Republicans have anything to do with it. I'd heard enough scathingly vehement comments about it and I would just about bet that was the topic of conversation. I leaned on the counter top, my chin in my hand, and watched you with a grin on my face. Politics aren’t of much interest to me, but I couldn’t have cared less if you were talking about Republicans, the price of wheat or what the almanac was predicting for the summer – just watching you was enough.

About that time, Sam caught sight of you and took off in a run. I started to yell at him not to run in church, but decided not to. I’d run to you, too, if I could, but it seemed I was stuck behind the counter. I knew what he was going to do – he wanted to show you his Easter basket which was chock full of colored eggs and candy. You greeted him just like you always greeted the great-grandkids, “Heyyyy! How’s my baby?” and then leaned down to have a look at his basket. He looked up at you and nodded at something you asked and my heart actually ached. You put your hand on his shoulder and the two of you started to walk toward me. Sam grinned and you looked down at him, then back up at me. I had been leaning on the counter top, but stood up as the two of you approached, ready for my own conversation with you. I wanted my turn. You stopped short of where I was and I was dumbfounded as to why. You stooped down to talk to Sam again, then stood and started to speak to me. I felt so excited to have the opportunity to talk to you one more time.

But I opened my eyes and the tears on my pillow taunted me, reminding me that you’re still gone.

Bitter

2007-04-24T00:08:00.000-05:00

Bitter by Bell

“It’s got to be done.”

“Yes, but how? We’ve gone over this, Marjorie.”

Marjorie paced the Oriental carpet as she thought. How could it have come this far? The relationship was never encouraged. The willful independence! How dare she? How could she?

“We simply must make it clear, Mason. No help will be given. No engagement parties, no wedding, no honeymoon. They certainly can’t pay for it. She must come around to reasonable thought. When she does, it may take some time, but people will come to forget this little faux pas. Maybe even, given enough time, Jonathan will again look her way.”

“A faux pas, Mother? Is that what you would call a marriage between two people who love each other?”

Marjorie turned to see Kate at the threshold of the room.

“Darling, of course that’s all it is. It’s something you’ve taken from books, from too many years at girls’ schools. It’s fine to dream about, but that isn’t what marriage is really for. Be reasonable, Darling. We can’t have you walking down the aisle in a peasant dress next to this, this…”

“Freak, Mother. That’s the word I believe you’re looking for. All you see when you look at him are piercings and tattoos. You will never look to see the kind, caring person behind them. You only see what you know your friends will see. Just yesterday he wrote me the most beautiful poem. Let me get it, Mother. It’s right here in my pocket. You must read it. He’s really a gentle and beautiful person. You’d see that if you took the –“

“Put it away, put it away. I don’t want to hear any love poems written by him.”

“Come now, Marjorie. I enjoy a good limerick.”

Mason’s chuckling abruptly ended as he heard the familiar reprimand from his wife.

“Mason!”

It was all it took. Trying to bolster his wife’s argument, he turned to his daughter in all seriousness. “Be reasonable, Katie. You’ll go to hell in a handbasket with this boy and all his cronies.”

“Mason, don’t be vulgar!”

Mason had done all he could. His wife was in charge, and he knew it. He turned his attention to his newspaper and ignored the battle between his wife and daughter.

“Mother, please,” Kate whispered a plea as she began to cry.

“Mother, please,” Marjorie scathingly taunted.

The tears flowed freely now, but Kate’s voice was clear. “It’s the last time I’ll ask, Mother. If you won’t support us, that’s your choice. You can’t bully me any more. I really couldn’t care less about engagement parties or receptions. I just would love it if we could have a relationship beyond this theatrical performance dictated by the social club biddies of the community. I’m finished, Mother. You won’t change my mind. Even without him, I would be done.”

Dumbfounded, Marjorie watched her leave the room. It was over. All her sacrifices were for nothing. Her work was undone. Just like that. There would be no recovering from this. They would cease to be invited to events. No one would come to their own. They would be a laughingstock. And Marjorie would be stuck with him. She looked over at Mason reading his newspaper. She remembered the conversation she had had with her own mother nearly 30 years before. She had been a good girl. She had listened. Now, look what she had. The right husband and the wrong life anyway.

The Professional

2007-04-24T00:02:00.000-05:00

The Professional by MR

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was a clear and colder night. Night baseball in September was never meant for Montana, an unforgiving scheduler’s faux pas. He had played through August snow flurries in Butte with a grimace and a chuckle. The night air was more than crisp, it was cold. “This is definitely not Dodger Stadium” he thought to himself as he stood in the on deck circle. Would this be his last at bat? Would this be his last night in uniform playing the game that had consumed his identity since early childhood?

If so, he never dreamed it would end like this. His dreams were of the old tabernacles of the game in the Northeast, the bright lights of metropolitan America, the big show he never made. His aching throwing elbow and surgically repaired knees taunted him, reminding him of the freak collision that transformed from a bonus baby on a fast track to the big leagues into ancient minor leaguer who never made it past Pawtucket or Nantucket, one of those places you hear about in a naughty limerick that just happen to actually exist. His cronies advanced, some excelled, most lived on the fringe of the league, child all stars now utility players and bullpen catchers. But they were in the Show! He made the slow descent back to the Montana rookie league where he would help the Helena club by showing the young studs the ropes of being a professional. Be on time, do your work in the cage, stretch, take care of the body, offer proper respect to your teammates, your coaches and to the game, all these had been his life, his truth.
He was despite his broken down body, the consummate professional. His dream was to retire in a Dodger uniform not as a Helena Handbasket, playing out the string in a rookie league hoping to get another invite to spring training. He was dumbfounded as to what he would do without the game, without the uniform, the clubhouse, ritual that evolved from Little League through his known adulthood. Baseball had been his ticket through school, where with the exception of one veteran English teacher who insisted that he WOULD read Beowulf and write a research paper, his eligibility had been more important than his academics. The game had defined him, and it still did….

Lost in his own rare self awareness was the screaming old man behind him. He began to snap back into the surreal reality of the night. “You don’t need this at bat, I need to see what the kid will do in this situation.” He looked scathingly at the belligerent face stained with tobacco juice who dared to rob him of this moment. “Sorry Skip, I’m going to the plate, it’s who I am, this is my moment.”

That thought quickly passed and he nodded in agreement and headed back into the dugout, offering an unsolicited and unaccepted “be patient up there kid, you dictate the moment, don’t let it control you, get a hit” because that’s what a professional does.

Untitled

2007-04-23T23:53:00.000-05:00

by Peg

Eliza Weathersby moved to Rogansfield from a small town called Farfa a week before starting the 8th grade. She was used to walking through a wooded field to get to the school house, not riding a bus through a bustling suburb to a brick monstrosity called the middle school. She had always done her shopping in the only store in town, Farfa Dime and Dollar. She carried her goods in a handbasket that had been woven long before she was born by her grandmother. She had never seen the likes of the Rogansfield Shopping Plaza or the glossy paper bags that men and women seemed to enjoy cramming with items purchased with credit cards. Eliza was the epitome of a country girl, right down to her sweet southern drawl.
Eliza never imagined herself living in a large city. She never bothered to let her imagination wander to shopping malls, fashion, or boys. Those were things that simply left her dumbfounded. She wasn't the least bit prepared for the changes she would soon find upon moving to the new town. Her grandmother had assured her that she would make new friends and soon forget all about her simple life in Farfa.
The first day of school at Rogansfield was always electrifying. The excitement of reliving summer memories with old friends, starting new classes, and each student securing their place on the social ladder buzzed through the halls as the doors swung open.
Eliza stepped off the yellow school bus and felt the electric currents racing around the school yard. She made her way up the stairs and into the main building as the first bell rang. She hurried to the first classroom listed on her crammed schedule. When she reached room 701 she was sure there had been a mistake. This class was filled with girls and boys that appeared ready for a magazine photo shoot, not school work. She looked at the main door anxiously awaiting a casting director to storm in and remove her from the set.
Not wanting to be embarrassed by a forceful removal, Eliza decided to wait in the girl's restroom for the tardy bell to ring. She figured that after the bell rang, a teacher would appear in the room or a director would start yelling action. That would answer her question.
While standing in the restroom Eliza watched the other girls applying make up and talking about their outfits. She looked at her own clothes and for the first time in her life felt ashamed of her self. She turned her attention to the walls and began reading a toilet humor limerick penned by a student with apparently no sense of etiquette.
A blond girl and her cronies walked in the room and a hush fell over the once talkative crowd.
"Are you new?" The girl shot out at Eliza.
"Umm, yes, I am Eliza new. I mean I am new here, and my name is Eliza." She managed to stammer out.
"Well, it that sweet, now could you move your shit out of my mirror space." The girl replied scathingly while hoisting her enormous make up bag onto the sink.
The other girls began giggling and pointing at Eliza as if she was a caged animal in a zoo. She had never in her life been taunted and she instantly felt like a freak.
"Oh, umm, yes, sure, umm no problem."
Eliza quickly walked into the first bathroom stall and locked the door. She sat on the lid of the toilet and felt her entire body redden with embarrassment. Today was the first day of school and she had apparently made a major status faux-pas.
The tardy bell rang and the gaggle of girls rushed to their classes. Once Eliza thought she was sure the room was empty she slowly unlocked the stall door and walked to the sink. She looked into the mirror and saw the blonde girl staring at her.
"You don't have to be embarrassed, but if I were you I'd not let it happen again." The girl said through her perfectly glossed lips.
Eliza took a deep breath and smiled at the girl, "It's alright sweetie, if my face looked like the ass end of a donkey, I'd want to cover it up quickly too."

Sally, Sally, Sally

2007-04-23T23:47:00.000-05:00

Sally, Sally, Sally by Mrs. E

"Had she pulled another faux pas?" Sally wondered as she left her mother-in-law's hospital room. Why was she always saying such innocent things that came out so wrong. Surely everyone knew that she didn't mean anything by her ridiculous ramblings. Clive's family had known her long enought to understand. Right? Sure! Like that was ever going to happen. She knew in her heart that Clive understood. He was always so patient. Why couldn't she just sit around smiling, nodding and looking sweet? Never going to happen.

Sally arrived at the elevator just as the doors were shutting. The man saw her coming, and she waved for him to hold the door, but did he oblige her? No. She was dumbfounded that even strangers seemed to be against her. Now even the elevator taunted her as it left her behind standing there gaping and shaking her head.

What kind of a freak was she? Well, if you must know, all of her cronies thought she was an exceptionally nice freak. No one would ever call her ordinary. She wanted to let the world know that if they didn't like the way she was--- well, they could all just go to hell in a handbasket, whatever that meant. She had heard that phrase used countless times in her life and yes, she used it herself, but she didn't quite know how you could go to hell in a handbasket or for that matter exactly what a handbasket was. She needed to research that sometime when she got a chance.

Any way she wanted to tell them off but she never quite had the nerve. Once she wrote a cute limerick expressing how she felt but then, she never shared it with anyone because she didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings. It really was a good limerick. It followed all the rules she had learned in school about the 1st, 2nd, and 5th lines rhyming and having 8 syllables while the 3rd and 4th lines rhymed and had only 6, or something like that. Yes, maybe she was a headcase but she knew her way around a poem and was quite proud of herself. So his family wasn't impressed with her degree from a small not quite up to snuff local college, Clive accepted her and all of her ideosyncracies. She was his headcase and he loved her.

When the elevator finally stopped to pick her up, she had regained her composure and was ready to face the world. She climbed on the bus and started the long dreary trip home. Why was February so grey? It's the month of love, red hearts, candy and flowers so why was it so depressing?

Sally knew she had to shake off the blues so she tried closing her eyes and humming to herself. It was no use. Even with her eyes closed, she could see the looks everyone had given her as she fled the room. Scathingly, they turned their noses up. Their looks and body language said it all. What did their darling Clive see in this misfit? She had no sense of propriety. She just let fly any silly thing that came into her head. Did she have no sense of decency?

Well, of course she did. She had just been raised in one of those relaxed families where laughter was the norm. They laughed and made jokes of everything. That was the way they dealt with grief or tragedy or illness or any of life's many set backs. Clive's family didn't get that. Everything was so solemn, so reserved, so downright blah. How had Clive survived this cold no nonsense raising and become such a wonderfully, perceptive man? She didn't have the answer to that and didn't know if she ever would. What she did know was that when she got home, he would come in, place his arms around her, and make everything all right. He was good that way.

Maybe by the time she went back to the hospital tomorrow evening the family would have forgotten her lapse of dignity. Oh well, maybe they would let it slide, and maybe they wouldn't. She had more important things to concern her now. For instance, she really felt the need to get to the computer and find out what it meant to go to hell in a handbasket.

A DaY tO ReMeMbEr

2007-04-23T23:42:00.000-05:00

A DaY tO ReMeMbEr by Cazzie

It was a day that the small town of Limerick would never forget, a day that would be etched in the minds and indeed, the very skins of every single taunted resident.

In the house that the hand basket maker lived, also lived two old cronies, age did not weary them...not like the people who lived next door to them, that's for sure. The people next door were always calling the fuzz, every day of their lives. Complaining about the smell resonating from the house..I mean, what would you do if you had the scent of a sewer next door? You would surely call the authorities.

Not this morning, this morning, there was no phone call, no police visit, no blaring sirens to awaken the whole neighbourhood. What WAS wrong with these people?

I sat in our front yard tree, eating my red shiny apple, watching, waiting for action. Nothing...so I skipped on across the road to have a perve in the window of the old cronies and hand basket maker's abode, a faux pas in these parts I know, nevertheless, I wanted to know what WAS going on.

The sight before me was alarming...I was in shock, they were all sitting there playing cards..WITH the neighbours. All the fights they had had over the years.

Then, the worst freak scathingly looked up at me. The hand basket maker leaped out through the window, "Gotcha kiddo". I scampered free, ran down the road, only to look behind me and see them all chasing me, they were stark raving lunatics, NUDE lunatics at that!!!

My Dad came running out of our house to see what the commotion was all about, he had a stroke and died on the spot. I think the sight of the naked old gits was just too much for him. His death dumbfounded many people.

Yep, the story of the old cronies, the hand basket maker and their neighbours was one for the history books of this town. The memories taunted by this. Never before had anyone been so brazen as to run naked down the main street..... on what was Christmas Day.

If you'll excuse me please

2007-04-20T15:57:00.000-05:00

While I have no intention of making this a common occurence, I am extending The Nation of Hillmomba challenge deadline to Monday, April 23rd.

Why?

I have a hot date with Sigmund Freud this weekend. No, that wasn't a Freudian slip, I'm just writing a paper about him and it is consuming my very being - which means (from what I've learned so far, anyway) that according to Freud I have a secret desire to date my father and lick a Congressman's toes while wearing sunglasses. Or something like that.

Regardless of any repression going on, that's the only writing going on around here and because I missed last week's challenge and I'm kind of the boss.......well, anyway, have your stories in by Monday, dammit.

The Writing Challenge - "Nation of Hillmomba" Edition

2007-04-15T21:42:00.001-05:00

Oklahoma's weather has been insane this past week and my computer has been shut down and unplugged since Thursday night because of the highly electrified atmosphere around here. Usually my personality is pretty electric, in and of itself, but the weather even outdid me the last few days.

But now, I'm back in action and (drum roll please) hooked up to broadband internet (wild applause here), so all should be groovy from here on out. Or until the next storm rolls in.

Hillbilly Mom sent me her list of The Words nearly a week ago, but they've been locked away in a 55-gallon drum for safe-keeping until now. So now, with crowbar in hand, I present to you...

The Words for this week's Writing Challenge - "Nation of Hillmomba" Edition:

faux pas
taunted
handbasket
limerick
dumbfounded
freak
scathingly
cronies

Writing is open NOW and all stories must be submitted by Saturday, April 21st.

Get writing, by cracky!

Well done, Hillbilly Grasshopper

2007-04-09T22:49:00.001-05:00

The poll is closed and it's official - Hillbilly Mom is this week's winner!!!

Stop by her blog and congratulate her or just say it here - she checks in here often while she bounces her chilly Ice Baby on her hillbilly knee.

Okay, so now Hillbilly Mom, it's up to you to provide us with a new list of The Words by Thursday. Get crackin', by cracky!

To everyone else, tell your friends, tell your neighbors - we need more story submissions! (We also need more voters, but we'll tackle that after we get more writers.) So write! And make your friends write! They'll thank you for it. Trust me.

Questions? Email me. The little white box in the upper part of the sidebar tells you how to do it.

Super Tiger Dragon wants you to vote

2007-04-05T22:31:00.001-05:00

Voting is open in the second Writing Challenge, the one known as Super Tiger Dragon. Your humble host did not participate this round because her life sucks this week. You can forge on without her this once. Super Tiger Dragon has faith in your abilities, Grasshopper.

Vote once for your favorite story and feel free to leave comments.

Voting closes Monday night around 10ish.

When you think you are all alone in the Outback…

2007-04-05T22:17:00.001-05:00

When You Think You Are All Alone in the Outback

Cazzie!!!

The day was set to be a lovely clear one. Nothing in particular seemed out of place, it all appeared normal. That was until I turned around, what I thought was my shadow, was not my shadow. It was, indeed, the sky above, becoming darker and the air felt cooler by the second.

I looked to my left, over there, behind the hill, there was a place to find cover. In the Outback, the weather can change so suddenly. A cloudburst could dump thousands of litres of water in a matter of minutes. The wind could whoop up and push away the clouds and the Sun would shine through vividly. The ground, so arid, would sop up the rain in minutes, leaving the place looking just as it was before the rain even came.

Plodding footsteps came from behind me. Could it be a kangaroo? No, it was too heavily set to be a kangaroo, and I was not about to stop and look around, I wanted to get undercover.

Flummoxed by the sound even so, I kept my pace. I finally reached the hill, I found a rock ledge protruding from the hill and took shelter there. A cacophony of screetches ensued. It was the sound a flock of Gala’s flying hurriedly for cover, alerting each other to the ensuing rain.

Then, it hit, the deluge of water making the rock face all shiny and smooth looking. Those footsteps from before, they were those of a little Aboriginal fellow. He began speaking in his native tongue, I could not understand him. His expression on his face one of excitement, mixed with alarm. I was not sure what it was he wanted. He scooped up some of the Outback dirt in his hand, held it out under the running water that was dripping off of the rock above us and made the dirt into a paste.

With finesse, he proceeded to mark the underbelly of the rock with indigenous art icons. I remembered in high school, the study of general arts. Australian aboriginal art is a representation of visual history of the stories, song, dance and spiritual beliefs of the indigenous people of Australia. It plays an important cultural role in the "passing on" of traditions, myths and history. Originally, the art was painted on surfaces such as walls of caves, rocks and Aboriginal bodies for ceremonies. The form and style of Australian Aboriginal art is very different by region in Australia and by artist. Indigenous Australian art is tribal in nature, often with imperfections, with color and iconography or symbols used as part of the story telling process.

The boy was drawing me, evidently, a white woman with a scarf on her head, then he drew himself, the boy with long curly hair, strikingly white teeth and a bright yellow T-Shirt. Then, I thought he was finger painting an image of a monkey, but it turned out to be that of, what seemed to be, a little girl. Yes, it was a little girl, she was stuck inside a corrugated iron shed. This thought triggered a plethora of emotions for me, I was remembering a time when I was trapped as a little girl, down in a water well…

I had to get a grip. I knew that we needed to make a break for it, run for it, but to where? He seemed to know the way. I followed, using his footsteps as guidance, as the rain was pelting down again. We came to an abrupt stop. The boy ushered me underneath the verandah of the shed, the one he drew. I could hear a call for help. Inside my backpack I remembered I had a key. I felt around for it, through the change that was floating around the bottom of the bag, as well as the pens and crayons and markers I had in there. Ahhh, the key, I unlocked the door to the shed, it was, afterall, my place. The girl had gotten in through the small loo window, and could not get out. Her sigh of relief was music to her brother’s ears.

Today I had met two lovely friends, who would soon teach me the customs of the Indigenous people of this land. What I had to offer them in return, I was yet to figure out.

Rainy Days and Mondays

2007-04-05T22:12:00.001-05:00

Rainy Days and Mondays

Mrs. E.

The sun was shining for the first time in many days. Bobbi couldn't bring herself to actually go outside to enjoy the break in the weather. She was totally flummoxed. How could she act normal? What was normal? She had just received the notice that the divorce was final.

She was relieved or at least she thought she was. She had been waiting on the papers for some time now. So she and Joe were now officially divorced. After all that was what she wanted. So why did she feel so empty. Their relationship had never been amicable. It was just that animal magnetism thing. The only thing they had in common was they were good together in bed. Ah yes, those were the best times they had had over the past few years. They had nothing else in common. What had she been thinking? Well, you know sometimes passion has been known to monkey around with clear thinking. Oh well, she was thinking clearly now and that was what counted.

Bobbi thought that she had handled the break up with great finesse. She had packed up all of Joe's things, set them on the front porch so that he would find them when he got home from his business trip, and changed the locks. Sure the cacophony when he returned home and couldn't get in was quite annoying. The neighbors sure had been insensitive to what Bobbi was going through. If they had just been patient and waited for a few hours before calling the police, she was sure that Paul would have stopped all the ranting and plethora of cursing. Oh well, the police did take care of everything, showing up with their shiny badges and weapons. At least that whole bad scene was over.

Bobbi's problem now was that she couldn't shake off this feeling of depression. She had thought that by this time she would have been ready to get back out there on the dating scene. She knew that even though she was older now, she still had what it takes to get noticed by the opposite sex. Some good looking hunk out there would want to monkey around with her if she could just once force herself out into the world again.

Bobbi looked out at the sun and decided that today was day to start over. She showered, fixed her hair and makeup, and headed out the door. But where was the sunshine? Where had all of those clouds come from? How was she supposed to start her life over? As the cloudburst poured down buckets of rain, Bobbi thought I could sure use Joe right now.

The Ice Baby Cometh

2007-04-05T22:06:00.001-05:00

The Ice Baby Cometh

Hillbilly Mom

She was born into a cold, heartless world. The Ice Baby. Never having known her own family, she was chunked unceremoniously into a bag, a bag which was immediately cinched shut. The Ice Baby, and countless other ice babies born that day, were abducted from their birthplace within minutes, and trucked across creation.

It was cold in the truck. OH SO COLD. The Ice Baby held her breath. If she ever had a breath of life to call her own. The back of the truck was pitch dark. The Ice Baby could not see, but sensed a plethora of ice babies allaround her. Crushing her, even, in their flummoxed, disoriented state. The Ice Baby did not think to panic.She endured. It was her nature.

The truck rumbled through the land, bumping, thumping, jouncing its precious cargo without remorse. Where it stopped, the Ice Baby did not know. The door was flung open. Intermittent flashes of light flooded the compartment.The calloused hands of hard-muscled men grabbed at her. She did not want to leave the cold, dark truck. Certainly she would perish, once removed from her safe haven. The men tossed her this way and that, in the rough manner of men, with little finesse. The Ice Baby would not have fought them if she could. It was not in her nature.

The Ice Baby was thrown onto a type of wheeled conveyance, and rolled through a sudden deluge into her new foster home. This cloudburst was surely an omen of the life that lay before her. Upon exiting the truck, a cacophony of epic proportions had greeted her. The Ice Baby knew not what the sounds were, but only that she longed to return to her peaceful existence in the cold,dark truck. But the Ice Baby did nothing. It was her nature.

The chapped, chilled hands of the men grabbed the Ice Baby again. She was tossed into her new room, a room shared with a great number of her ice baby companions from the truck. The Ice Baby didn't mind sharing. It was normal for her. In fact, she would have thought it odd if they were separated. If the Ice Baby was capable of thought. She had been at her new home for a mere week when the Boy came into her life. He was a medium-sized boy, with a bit of a monkey face. He chose the Ice Baby from the multitude lying about the room with her. His hands were smaller than those of the men, more gentle. The Boy slid the Ice Baby from her resting place. The Ice Baby did not resist. It was not in her nature.

The Boy had been sent on this mission by his Mother. She provided him the funds to purchase the Ice Baby. But with Mother's money came strict instructions: do not cradle this ice baby like the last one. Yes. The Boy understood. He knew he had held the last ice baby too tightly, and had overheated her little body. They had barely made it home with her. This time, he was careful. He did not cradle this Ice Baby. He grasped her by the tousled topknot, careful not to touch her precious body.

The Ice Baby dangled, and swung to and fro as the Boy carried her to the car. She felt no pain. No fear. She had never been cradled, anyway, this Ice Baby. The shiny silver barrette in her pale hank of hair did not even slip. This Boy was calm, careful. The Boy placed the Ice Baby on the back seat, beside his Brother. He laid her on his old coat, and covered her with his new coat. He didn't need the coats. The temperature had reached 81 degrees today. The boy wanted to protect the Ice Baby from the sun, which had emerged from the unexpected cloudburst, unscathed. It did not enter his mind to strap the Ice Baby into a car seat. His Mother grunted,"Get in the car. We've got to get her home." The Boy climbed in.

The Ice Baby could not see where she was going. She layon the softest thing that had ever touched her small body.This ride was smoother than the truck ride, though noisier.The family talked, but not to the Ice Baby. The Ice Babydidn't mind. It was her nature.

When the family arrived home, Mother parked the car inthe garage, and gathered her purse. The Boy and hisBrother jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to theporch. Three dogs and two cats greeted them, amidst muchgalloping and gamboling and whining and licking. Motherwent into the house to start supper. The Boy and his Brotherstraggled in to do what boys do after a long day of school.

The Ice Baby lay patiently on the seat of the car. She began to get quite warm. A bit of liquid seeped out of her. The IceBaby was not embarrassed. Nobody had ever fussed over her. She waited. She expected nothing. It was her nature.

By and by, the Mother had a feeling that something was amiss. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it lingered near the fringes of her consciousness. What was it? She screamed: "THE ICE BABY! We've forgotten theIce Baby in the car! Boy! Go get her! NOW!"

The Boy ran to the car. He saw the Ice Baby, prone in apuddle of her own secretions, and was ashamed. The IceBaby could not care for herself. He had left her alone inthe hot car for nearly 30 minutes. Mother would be angry.He picked up the Ice Baby by her tresses, and carried her gingerly to the kitchen door, drops of her essence leaving a trail across the sun-faded boards of the porch. Holding the Ice Baby at arm's length, the Boy poked his head into the kitchen. "Look at her, Mother. She's full up to her waist, and she's still leaking." He held her up for Mother to view, much the way a fisherman holds a prize catch for a photographer.

Mother grabbed a sharp, black-handled kitchen knife."Don't bring her in here! Hold her over the rail!" The Boy moved quickly across the deck, and dangled the Ice Baby over the 15-foot drop to the backyard. Mother rushed to his side, and quietly, deftly, stabbed the IceBaby's bottom with a flash of her kitchen knife. Two sharp jabs. "There. Hold her until she's done."

The Boy held the Ice Baby dutifully. When Mother was gone, he hugged the Ice Baby close to his chest. Her fluids drained quickly, splashing onto the barren ground below. The pets watched, heads tilted. A yellow cat ran down to lick the Ice Baby's juices from the soil.

"I think you're done now," the Boy said softly. Adjusting his grip on the Ice Baby's topknot, he carefully carried her through the kitchen. "Put her in the freezer," commanded Mother. "She's worse than the last one." The Boy placed the Ice Baby on the third shelf, next to a box of State Fair corn dogs.

"Don't worry about the Ice Baby anymore, Mother. She's in a better place now."

Vox Oraculum

2007-04-05T21:48:00.000-05:00

VOX ORACULUM

Cap'n Neurotic

The costumed hero floated gently down to the rooftop astride his unlikely cotton-colored conveyance, alighting easily and quickly sinking through the cloudlike mass as it dissipated back into the ether from which it was called until he stood firmly on the building itself. He took a few strides to the edge of the roof, glancing over the side to catch the work of a potential recruit in action; he would have had a much better vantage point from the sky, but had been afraid that one of the earth-bound players would have noticed a 6’3”, 240 lb. figure in a brightly colored costume floating over-head on what could easily be mistaken for a cumulonimbus. If he had been forced to engage in the battle below, it would have been a chaotic mélange of brute force, sonic booms, and broken bones, as opposed to the exercise in finesse being practiced by the rookie hero unknowingly under his scrutiny, the latest in a long line to adopt the costumed identity of Balance.

He grunted as he noted how long the fight was taking; the new Balance obviously outstripped her opponents in every way, and could have easily trounced the thugs in the amount of time it would take for their pilfered possessions to fall to the ground from out of their limp arms. But instead, the lithe brunette was drawing the confrontation out, content to furnish three or four lesser blows to each combatant in lieu of the finishing blows that were wide open to a super with her enhanced physicality.

It was a trait he had observed in some of the pervious Balances – the only one to actually be a member of Vox Aequitas had explained the philosophy behind it as an attempt to demoralize opponents

“If I take them out with one blow,” the middle-aged Balance had explained in a thick brogue, “then there’s every chance they’ll use their immense powers of self-delusion to talk themselves into thinking I just got in a lucky punch. But, if I prolong the battle, and outshine them at every turn, then they may finally get it through their thick skulls that they’re outmatched, and possibly be willing to forego engaging in such activity again.”

"Either that, or they’ll spend all of their time in the pen obsessing over how you humiliated them, and set out to become your new arch-nemeses.”

The British Balance had merely laughed at his teammate’s gruff prognosis. “A ray of sunshine as always, my friend, a ray of sunshine.”

The hero closed his eyes in regret; it hurt to think of the former Balance, just as it hurt to think of any of the long gone members of the Vox. But he had spent too much time in regret, too much time wallowing in seclusion, a fact he had recently had his nose rubbed in thanks to some tough love from the vigilante known as Bloodstain. Now, he was determined to reform Vox Aequitas and wipe away the shame and disappointment which had accumulated

"Shame, shame, Cloudburst. I’m disappointed; very disappointed.”

Startled by the words which seemed to echo his thoughts so closely, the hero whirled around, instinctively sheathing his fists in miniature storm clouds crackling with energy instants away from blasting the figure hidden in the shadows.

“I mean, I can’t believe you’re getting the band back together and haven’t asked me!”

As a tall, lanky figure in a motley costume ambled from the shadows into the light, Cloudburst allowed the energy encircling his fists to discharge harmlessly around him; he was all too familiar with this character.

“Ooo, shiny!” the wiry man exclaimed at the light show produced by Cloudburst’s energy release.

“What do you want, Gremlin?”

“Um, I believe I’ve already established that I’m here to lodge a complaint about not being asked to be a part of the Vox reunion tour.” Gremlin cooked his head quizzically. “Now, is it deafness or senility to blame for you missing that? I know how spotty you old folks can be.”

Cloudburst silently gritted his teeth and counted to twenty – getting irked by Gremlin’s antics served no purpose, but it was nearly impossible for him to control his temper around the wisecracker. Choosing to ignore the senior citizen crack (especially since, from what he had gleaned, Gremlin had probably been around for the signing of the Magna Carta), Cloudburst addressed the complaint directly.

“First of all, it would be hard to ask you to be part of a reunion since you were never on the original team –“

“True, but then again, neither are ¾ of the group you’ve recruited so far.” Gremlin flashed his bizarrely wide grin, which Cloudburst strove to ignore; he wasn’t about to fall into the trap of pondering how Gremlin knew about the reformation of Vox Aequitas, let alone who had been selected. The pest popped up in the most unlikely of places, equipped with information as infallible as it was esoteric, making him both an indispensable aid and an infuriating nuisance.

“Second of all,” Cloudburst continued, “when you actually were invited to join Vox you refused membership, claiming that you didn’t, and I quote, ‘play well with others’.”

Gremlin gasped in exaggerated shock. “Will wonders never cease . . . you actually do listen to what I say.”

“Well, for once, I agreed.”

Gremlin smirked. “I’m sure you did. And, I hope that you’ll agree with what I’m about to tell you now, because you definitely need to listen this time, ‘Burst; a lot of lives depend on it.”

Cloudburst’s jaw tightened as he heard Gremlin’s voice take on the sonorous tone which signaled the quirky crime had been overtaken by the power of prophecy.

“Heed your instincts, ‘Burst,” Gremlin intoned, “for the Voice of Justice has rarely been needed as sorely as it soon shall be. But remember that lesson once hard taught, that few are what they seem, and mysteries reside within us all, whether we acknowledge them or not; the new chords added to your symphony might sound pure and true at first, but if not carefully tuned, your harmony will breed cacophony, which then will spell calamity.”

Cloudburst shook his head, flummoxed by the windings of Gremlin’s pronouncement. He had once been told by the occult adventurer Mister Myster that those with the mystical gift of prophecy (as opposed to the more mundane gift of precognition) were slaves to whatever forces spoke through them, so he couldn’t very well blame Gremlin for the words which had just escaped his lips. But at the same time, Cloudburst had always had a strong, almost primal, distaste for all things connected with magic and mysticism, and any encounter with such supernatural forces instantly set his teeth on edge.

“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

Gremlin’s eyes lost their thousand-yard star, and regained their normal twinkle. “It means this, my literal minded friend: Some serve as a boon / some serve as a curse / some secrets for better / still others for worse.”

Cloudburst allowed a small growl to escape his lips; the initial prophecy may have been the product of some larger guiding force, but that last bit of doggerel was all Gremlin. “You realize that you’ve just given me reason to doubt every single member of the team; I’m going to be second-guessing each of them every step of the way.”

The enigmatic hero nodded sadly. “True enough, I’m afraid, but ask yourself this: would not the old Vox have benefited from such questioning?” The question left Cloudburst momentarily speechless; it was difficult to refute Gremlin’s point. In many ways, it reflected thoughts that had dwelled in Cloudburst’s head ever since the unfortunate events which marked the final adventure of the previous incarnation of Vox Aequitas – reflected the thoughts so well in fact that, not for the first time, Cloudburst wondered if, despite frequent claims to the contrary, telepathy was included in the large back of tricks wielded by Gremlin.

Although he thought he knew what the answer would be, Cloudburst still felt compelled to ask the question. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

The wiry hero drew himself ramrod straight, puffing out his chest and fixing his face into a rictus of outrage. “How dare you question The Great Gremlini!” he exclaimed, twirling around and sweeping his arms around his head with a theatrical flourish. “Am I not the Jester of Justice?” he cried, suddenly bounding through the air over Cloudburst’s head, then springing off sideways to the northern edge of the roof. “Am I not the one chosen to wield the Wrench of the Monkey?” he asked, his long arm sweeping out to graze the rooftop AC unit, which instantly began to stutter and hiss, a victim of Gremlin’s innate anti-technological nature. “Am I not –“

Cloudburst drew in a deep breath, tuning out the indignant rant. He knew that once his mercurial companion had slipped into such histrionics, there was only one way to put a stop to it: sink to his level.

“Am you not done yet?” he barked as his overly dramatic companion launched himself into the air yet again. At Cloudburst’s outburst, Gremlin clutched at his chest, let out an agonized groan, and slammed into the ground.

“Bad . . . grammar . . . my only . . . weakness . . . how . . . did you . . . know . . .”

Cloudburst squeezed his eyes shut, reaching up to fiercely massage the bridge of his nose before letting out an exasperated “Grem . . .”

Gremlin – who had drawn himself into a fetal position, twitching frantically – rose to his feet in a fluid motion, affixing Cloudburst with a mischievous grin.

“Well done with the grammar-bomb, ‘Burst; there might be hope for you yet. You really need to laugh more; it’ll add years to your life.”

“Is that prophecy or platitude?”

“Can’t it be both?” Gremlin asked earnestly before shaking his head. “No, ‘tis not one of my plethora of prophecies, I’m afraid, just some advice from a long-time ally.” Gremlin paused, as if carefully weighing his words. “’Burst, I know we have our differences, but you know I’ve never steered you or any of the others wrong in the past. Take my words with a grain of salt if you must, but do think on them; I promise it’s important.”

“But you have no idea why it’s important?”

Gremlin just shrugged; most of his power worked more on instinct than anything else.

“Besides,” Gremlin continued as he began to move back towards the shadows, “pondering that might take your mind off of other things.”

“What other things?” Cloudburst asked, regretting the question as soon as it escaped his lips.

“Oh, you know, things like the fact that you still don’t know why, 25 years ago, you suddenly manifested super-powers, almost like . . . well, magic.”

Cloudburst’s jaw dropped, but before he could utter a word his impish companion let out a maniacal giggle, burst into a double back handspring, and launched himself into the dark corners of the roof. Cloudburst didn’t even attempt to follow; long experience taught him that once Gremlin wanted to disappear, he was gone, and no tracker alive could find him.

The hero’s attention was diverted from the shadows which had swallowed the soothsayer by the sound of police sirens below; he walked back to his original post overlooking the alleyway where he could now see Balance’s easily bested prey, trussed up in immaculate knots awaiting their impending arrest. Cloudburst allowed himself a moment to admire her handiwork before the question set in: “What’s her secret? Is it a boon or a curse?” He tried to shake it off, but Gremlin’s words held fast in his mind.

“He said everyone had a secret,” he thought glumly. “Does that include me?”

As the uniformed officers swooped in to corral the helpless offenders, Cloudburst turned away from the roof’s edge, conjuring forth his once pristine conveyance, now dark and stormy to match his mood, and rode it into the sky, oblivious to all but the echoes of the voice of prophecy ringing in his ears, his head lost in the clouds.

Doom Strikes Anew!

2007-04-05T21:33:00.001-05:00

Ajax Stewart, Engineer of the Impossible
In
Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!

Part Two: Doom Strikes Anew!

by Bubblegum Tate

The Pyramid has hung above Rio de Janeiro for a little over a year and roughly five miles up. Easily several miles across at the base, it is a giant pyramid made of thousands, perhaps millions, of smaller interlocking pyramids and triangles. Its construction resembles clear PVC pipe threaded with purple neon tubes, although many have seen it withstand blows that would splinter such sundry materials. It looks like an advertisement from Blade Runner. Or a floating casino. Or an overindulged rich kid’s art project. It looks nothing like a time machine so, naturally, that’s what it is. Many would call it an affront to science and many more an affront to good taste. The city of Rio, where good taste is something that happens to other cities, has grown accustomed to the Pyramid. Even the weird attacks that come with hosting the Quantum Pharaoh seem normal to the average citizen of Rio. Even so, the boom of a massive explosion draws every eye upwards and familiarity is shot to hell. Giant, neon pyramids hanging five miles above your city aren’t supposed to flicker like that…are they?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some hours earlier…

Piloting his one-man mini gyro, Ajax rose slowly towards the Pyramid. Avel’s Something New was “something so new, it comes from the future.” Before he even read exactly what it was, Ajax knew he was going to have to deal with the Quantum Pharaoh. He had not been looking forward to it.

When the Pyramid first appeared over Stewart Heights five years ago, Ajax instantly went into panic mode. Although it didn’t look like anything Avel would have dreamed up, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going through a retro phase and 50s-style robots with death dealing laser blasts emitted from eye diodes weren’t going to suddenly erupt from the bottom of the neon construct. As five days passed with no change in position or response to any message sent to it, Ajax shifted from panic to worry and finally to annoyance. When every news agency in the world started showing up on the same day and telling Ajax’s employees they’d been invited to a press conference, Ajax’s annoyance reached epic proportions. At 9 am precisely, a man dressed like a Hollywood fever dream of an ancient Egyptian god-king, except with a lot more silver lame and purple neon, seemed to float down from the bottom of the Pyramid. The theatrical bastard had even brought his own podium, made from the same PVC and neon construction as the rest of the Pyramid. Resplendent and shiny, the man calling himself the Quantum Pharaoh began to speak to the citizens of the world. As he did so, the annoyance Ajax had felt up until that moment was a candle in the face of a million blazing suns.

The Quantum Pharaoh said he was from the future. He said he had fought untold menaces at the dawn of time and under the rays of a dying sun. He proved this by checking his watch and announcing an earthquake was about to occur in Croatia, blipping himself and the Pyramid out of existence, reappearing in Croatia and stopping the earthquake by pumping seismic waves into the ground that cancelled the tremors. After performing this miracle and rematerializing at Stewart Heights to massive applause, he said the only thing that could have gained him more notoriety. “I’ve been sent from the future by my father to aid his younger self in a time of terrible crisis,” the Pharaoh said as he smiled at the millions of viewers, “and that’s why I’ve parked my Pyramid over his building.” Ajax gripped the edge of his chair so hard the steel frame bent a little as the Pharaoh turned to him and said, “Dad, I’m here to help.”

Dealings between Ajax and the Pharaoh had been strained. After a couple of adventures, Ajax couldn’t deny the Pyramid was a time machine. Still, he refused to believe that this overly theatrical dilettante was his son from the future. And if he was Ajax’s son, had the future Ajax sent him back in time just to get rid of him?

Nearing the Pyramid, one of the triangular sections seemed to iris into itself and a bright white light emanated from within. Ajax angled towards the bright, triangular shape and the unmistakable silhouette cast by the master of the Pyramid. As he choppered in, Ajax was again amazed by the tesseract technology that allowed the interior of the Pyramid to be vastly larger than the exterior would suggest. Some theoretical physicist speculated that the interior was infinite, but those types of physicists will speculate anything just to get attention.

“Dad,” the Pharaoh beamed, “I knew you were coming” (Ajax couldn’t help rolling his eyes at this) “how can I help you?” “Shiarra has been kidnapped,” Ajax began, “by Dr. B’hadgai and he’s given me a list of things to collect to save her life. I’ve already got Something Old, and now he wants me to collect Something New.”

The Pharaoh nodded knowingly, “He wants something so new it’s from the future, doesn’t he? He wants the Celestial Stele.” Despite himself, Ajax was a little surprised by the Pharaoh’s insight. “He’s lusted after it ever since he helped us fight off the attack of the Tachyon Trapper. As the power source of the Pyramid and the basis of my time travel abilities, nothing else would ever be good enough.” Both men lapsed into a grim silence thinking of their arch enemy. An outside observer would be struck by how similar the men looked at that moment, despite their obvious difference in fashion sense.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Ajax said “I know we’ve had our differences, Pharaoh, but if you really believe what you say, you have to help me. It’s the only way to save your…mother.” Ajax nearly choked on the last word. The Pharaoh wordlessly turned and headed deeper into the Pyramid.

Ajax followed him through a plethora of twisting and turning routes that led further into the crystalline depths of the Pyramid. After what seemed hours, they finally reached a large, circular door. It was jarring; everything else in the Pyramid was built on triangular theme. The door irised open from the center and the two men walked across a long platform into the center of a spherical room so large that the Pyramid, at least as it appeared from the exterior, would fit with room to spare. Hanging at the end of the platform and in the center of the room, haloed by a purple nimbus of light, was the Celestial Stele. It was shaped and sized like a prop from the Ten Commandments and appeared to be made of a substance so black that it made areas between stars look bright in comparison. Worked into the black substance with such finesse as to make a grown man weep were hieroglyphics that seemed to be etched in violet neon. Ajax had once tried to decipher them, but he had slowly realized that, though the changes had been subtle, the message of the Stele changed over time.

Both men were mesmerized, but worry for his bride-to-be finally overcame Ajax and he cleared his throat before speaking. “Pharaoh, if this is the Pyramid’s power source, shouldn’t we land it somewhere before removing it?”

“Remove it?” the Pharaoh replied, spinning on Ajax wide-eyed and flummoxed. “We can’t give it to that madman! Dad, even if mom’s life is at stake, even if it creates a paradox where I don’t exist, we can’t just hand it over that villainous mastermind!”

Instantly, Ajax slumped. No matter how much he disliked the Pharaoh on a personal level and hated the fact that he just might be speaking with his own son as an adult without ever getting to know him as a child, he knew the Pharaoh to be a courageous man willing to do the right thing at great personal cost. What he feared was that the Pharaoh might be a more courageous man than Ajax himself, because Ajax was willing to trade all the items of power on Avel’s list to save the life of his one love. The look of sorrow appearing on his face was like a cloudburst out of a clear blue summer sky.

The Pharaoh put his hand on Ajax’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, dad. Look at me, I’m living proof that she doesn’t die, not for a long time!”

“I’m sorry,” Ajax whispered.

“You don’t have to be sorry, dad, I understand. Now isn’t the time to tell you all about her, but let’s just say that there’s a young lady in the future, the far, far future, that would certainly make me commit dangerous acts to save her. But this…this is just too dangerous, even for us, dad.”

It was at that moment that Ajax, for the first time, believed that this young man was his son. Did he hear himself in the Pharaoh’s voice or see Shiarra in his eyes? He couldn’t tell, but something about this moment swept all doubt from his mind. With eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched tightly he said,

“No, son, I’m sorry for this.”

Ajax brought an uppercut all the way from his toes and landed it squarely across the unsuspecting chin of his son. The Pharaoh was literally lifted from his feet as his shock-filled eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. He fell backwards and landed on the platform with a dull thud, his headdress fell off and showed bright blond locks just like his mother’s. His head lolled to the side, eyes shut and mouth hanging slightly open. Ajax took a deep breath, stepped over his fallen form and grabbed the Stele from where it floated.

As soon as it left the nimbus of light that transfixed it, the entire Pyramid seemed to flicker like lights during a lightning storm. A cacophony of alarms and klaxons began to sing, chirp and wail. With a sickening, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ajax felt the Pyramid list. He couldn’t tell which way he would fall in the topsy-turvy world that made up the Pyramid’s guts, but Ajax was certain that outside, in the world where physics worked, the Pyramid was dropping.

Ajax stooped, lifted the Pharaoh and threw him over his shoulder and ran for the circular door. With the Celestial Stele in his hand, the entire architecture of the Pyramid suddenly made sense to him. It was as though the Stele was singing in his head and, though the notes seemed strange and alien, they caused the world around him to come into a sharper focus. He thought of the mini-gyro and the triangular panels in the floor seemed to glow and he knew without knowing how he knew that, if followed, he would be led safely to the hangar. Without giving time to marvel at the miracle of technology or magic he held in his hand, he started to run.

As he followed the twisting and curving directions of the humming Stele in his hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched or followed. Did the Pharaoh have companions in the Pyramid? He mentioned a girl, but could he also have servants living here? Had Ajax just doomed an untold number of people living within the tesseract to death? It was too late to figure it out now, he would just have to hope for the best.

He rounded the last corner and found himself in the cavernous hangar with several of the Pharaoh’s wondrous vehicles and his own mini-gyro. Suddenly, the feeling of being followed seemed to collapse in on him, as though he were a tiny man living in a house of cards he’d never noticed before. The Stele screamed in his mind and a blinding flash of light took his vision even as a concussive force blasted him off his feet. The Stele went one way, the Pharaoh the opposite and Ajax straight back.

Ajax, being a man of action who had found himself in plenty of tight scrapes, hit the ground rolling and came quickly to his feet. He fell into an easy fighting stance and begin to listen for sounds that would give away the location of his attackers to the blinded fighter. If he strained his ears he could hear tiny servos, but nothing else. As his vision returned, he began to wonder if his eyes had suffered permanent damage.

Surrounding him were a more than ten man-sized shapes. They seemed to either be men dressed in armor or automatons fashioned somewhat after a medieval knight. The armor appeared to be highly decorated, almost more suited to a parade or display than actual fighting. What’s more, the armor appeared to be almost clear or crystalline and filled with different shades of neon light, not unlike the Pyramid’s interior, though it was always the monochromatic purple of the exterior. Though the armor was beautiful, each of the shapes carried a wicked sword in both hands. The blades pulsed with the same neon energy as the armor. One of the shapes stepped forward and leveled its bright blade at Ajax.

“You have attacked a Paladin of the Knights Temporal,” it said in a voice that was deep and strong, but resonated with the same sing-song quality as the Stele, only from far away as though some distant voice sang accompaniment with his words. “You are also charged with the theft of a holy artifact of the Temporals. These crimes cannot be allowed! Give over the Stele and pray that the Quantum Pharaoh is not permanently harmed, Ajax Stewart!”

Ajax’s mind raced! Paladin? Knights Temporal? Even in all their adventures, the Pharaoh had never mentioned these things! And he was obviously highly regarded by these men, whoever they were. Regardless, he had to get the Stele and escape them. His eyes flickered to his left, glancing at the Stele.

“Do not move, Ajax Stewart! You are a great hero of your time and one day will be both the progenitor of the Pharaoh and the technology that birthed our holy order. Today, however, you are a criminal to us and if you force our hand, we will cut the evolution from you with our blades of pure Time. One good cut, and you will find yourself a monkey!”

Again Ajax’s mind was sent whirling. Progenitor of time travel, is that what they meant? Could it be possible, that HE would harness the Stele at some point in his own future and create the miraculous chrono-engine that was/is/would become the Pyramid? He was startled by a croaking, but familiar voice, from behind the Knights.

“Dad,” it said with great strain, “catch!”

From over the Knights, the Stele flew, singing its siren song of cosmic wisdom. Every helmeted head looked skyward and, although no face could be discerned, the horror was plain. Ajax caught the heavy tablet and it caused him to stumble backwards and fall, ass over teakettle, into the cockpit of his mini gyro.

The Knights spun on the Quantum Pharaoh, their horror turning to utter shock. Before they could say anything, Ajax was righting himself and could see the Pharaoh crackling with the same purple energy that coursed through the Pyramid!

“I’ve spent tens of thousands of years harnessing the Stele and I’ve learned to sing some of its celestial arias,” the Pharaoh intoned, the faraway accompaniment growing louder and stronger as he spoke. “Knights Temporal, I respect your holy Order and we have aided each other many times in the past. My bodily progenitor is your spiritual Progenitor, but I tell you now, no matter how close the ties that bind us, that man is flying out of here and I am taking you someplace where you will be unable to impede his plans!”

The Quantum Pharaoh’s voice was raised and he sang as the Stele had sung, great forks of purple lightning arcing from his body towards the walls. The voice was beautiful, enchanting, and it enraptured Ajax in the midst of firing up the mini-gyro.

The song broke for a split second, and with it went Ajax’s reverie. “Get gone, dad, these men won’t trouble you again!” The entire Pyramid seemed to flicker again and even the Pharaoh and the Knights seemed to go insubstantial for a moment.

Ajax threw the gyro in gear and cranked the stick, gaining altitude and spinning in place at the same time. He broke for the shimmering pyramidal door that had to be the way back into normal space. Straining the small craft to its limit, he sped towards it while the Pyramid’s flickering began to make it look like an old film about to break.

Ajax hit the hole into normal space at full speed and suddenly felt himself whipped around by the warm air of the southern hemisphere of earth, circa 2007. He was spun hard, just in time to see the Pyramid flicker out of existence, leaving a violet triangle-shaped burn in his retinas. He blinked back tears and hoped that he hadn’t sentenced his son to a death in some far reach of space and time. Tapping his ear bud, he spoke to his assistant, Julie.

“Jules,” he said with a throat suddenly sore and parched, “I’ve got the Cosmic Stele, start telling me about the Something Borrowed while I chopper back to the Rio office.”

“Boss, we just read a chronal energy shift that buried the needle! What happened?” Julie asked frantically.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Ajax replied, “My son gave me the Stele, saved my life and probably the entire timeline so that I could save his mother.” Ajax’s jaw tightened with new purpose, “He won’t be allowed to make that sacrifice in vain. It’s time to borrow the Borrowed and give that boy a future!”

The deadline looms once more

2007-04-05T08:50:00.001-05:00

Tonight.

8pm.

So far, I've received 4 entires. Come on, people! It's not like y'all are working or anything right now. In between data entry, graphic design or whatever else you might do in your real job, peck out a story. It won't kill ya. Promise. Might getcha fired, but kill you it will not.

Tonight. 9pm. (I forgot tonight is Scrubs night)

The Writing Challenge Super Tiger Dragon Edition

2007-03-29T09:16:00.000-05:00

The Cap'n has taken his winner's task very seriously and sent me this challenge's name and The Words list on Tuesday. I've been sitting on them for two days now (no, not literally) and can wait no longer! Btw, I know he's a kindred spirit because he used one of my favorite words - plethora!

I shall now stop sitting on The Words and share them with y'all. Here are The Words for
The Writing Challenge Super Tiger Dragon Edition

Cloudburst
Flummoxed
Shiny
Cacophony
Plethora
Finesse
Normal
Monkey

The writing challenge is open as of right NOW and will be open until April 5th. You only have one week to write and submit your stories this go'round, so don't procrastinate (Cap'n). Submissions will close at 8pm on the 5th and voting will begin that night. Don't forget to highlight The Words in your story!

WRITE!

And the winner is....

2007-03-26T22:23:00.001-05:00

It's 10:23pm and frankly, I'm tired as all get out, so I'm officially closing the polls and declaring Cap'n Neurotic to be the winner of Writing Challenge Numero Uno with his story "A Gentlemen's Agreement"!!!

(Wild applause here)

He takes home the imaginary trophy with a whopping 32% of the votes, but Bubblegum Tate was trailing not far behind with 27%.

So now, Cap'n, it's up to you to provide us with a title for the next round and a list of The Words for the next challenge.

The next round opens Thursday!!

The day has arrived

2007-03-22T23:00:00.001-05:00

The stories have all been submitted and posted. Voting is open. Now it's up to you, dear reader.

Check out these six stories submitted by folks all over the internet, then vote using the poll in the sidebar! (One vote per person please.) If you submitted a story, you, too, may vote - just be fair and don't vote for yourself.

If you'd like to leave comments for individual stories, feel free to do so, but if you leave nasty ones I will hunt you down and.......oh wait....nevermind....... I'll just ban you and then I'll have to moderate comments and that might piss me off. So be nice, k? We're all here for fun. That's it.

So have fun!

Voting is open until Monday, March 26 at 11:00pm Central time. (Or 10:00 if I'm tired and want to go to bed. So vote early, just in case.)

A Love Story

2007-03-22T22:50:00.000-05:00

By Hillbilly Mom of Hillbilly Mansion

A Love Story

Gwen tossed the possum into the sack, holding her breath just long enough to avoid the stench. "You ain't playin', are you, Mr. O. Possum?"she quizzed the unwieldy carcass. She sealed the white pillowcase with a fire-engine-red twist-tie, just under the embroidered lilac border. Nobody could embroider like Gammy. Who woulda thunk it, what with Gammy's arthritis and all. It was due, no doubt, to the repetitive motion of flinging poop at any trespasser to venture up Gammy's driveway.

Nothing much stopped Gammy from dipping into the 10-gallon white plastic drywall bucket of turds next to her rocker, and letting one fly across the dooryard at many an unsuspecting parasite. Oh, they wanted to sell her vacuum cleaners, and books, and magazines. Some were students, working their way through college. Others were natural-born hucksters, slicker than snot, chanting a jingle sure to make her bite. But Gammy didn't bite. Not on the sales pitch, anyway. What did she care if some slimy, wet-behind-the-ears snake-oil salesman won a skiing trip to Hidden Valley?

"Time to get a move-on, gal!" Gammy shouted to Gwen. "Won't be long till this fog burns off, and we'll have ourselves a real scorcher. My turds will be melting by the time you get back from that wedding. Why you're a-goin' I'll never know. That Jimmy was YOUR boyfriend."

Gwen hefted the pillowcased possum over her shoulder. The gift-wrap job was quite purty, if she did say so herself. "Don't you worry about me, Gammy. I'm over Jimmy. But I sure hope he got himself a prenuptial agreement with that hoochie. I want to be sure he gets half of my gift if anything happens to break them up."

And a Half

2007-03-22T22:40:00.000-05:00

by Redneck Diva

And a Half

I was fifteen. He was sixteen. And a half. When you are a mid-teen, that half is very important and you never forget to add it. Even if you are talking to the President of the United States and he nonchalantly asks you how old you are, you must dumbly reply your age "and a half." It’s really that important.

So there we were, all wrapped up in our teen angst and madly in love, getting ready to go skiing with my church’s youth group. I was a clutz. A hopeless, eternal clutz and before we boarded the bus to leave, I had asked my mother approximately 2,701 times if she had medical and life insurance on me. When you are a tragic fifteen year old clutz, you worry about those things. He was holding my hand and would squeeze it every now and then, reassuring me without words that I was not going to die while careening down the bunny slope. He was awesome that way. My repetitive voicing of my deathly concerns weren’t annoying him like they were annoying my mother. Mom was about ready to strangle me and make her own claim on my life insurance policy, but he just sat there on the curb, holding my hand, squeezing it occasionally and watched me annoy my mother.

When Dave, our youth pastor, was finally finished obsessively/compulsively going over his obsessive/compulsive checklist for the 60th obsessive/compulsive time, he hollered for all of us to gather in a circle. All of us youth held hands and then our parents gathered in a circle around us, holding hands as well. The parents prayed over us, the youth minister said a rather obsessive/compulsive prayer (I’ve always wondered if God laughs at those of us who pray our OCD right up to Heaven) and it was time to go. The hand that he was holding was sweating, but he didn’t let go to wipe it off on the leg of his jeans. He just kept holding my slimy, nervous hand. Stuff like that didn’t bother him.

I hugged my mom with one arm (because we were still holding hands) and decided against asking her one more time about the insurance. He hugged her, too. One-armed, as well. I was starting to feel like a parasite, but I wasn’t about to let go and he gave no indication he was either. Thankfully all of our bags were loaded in the bus already and technically, unless either of us had to pee or poop somewhere between here and there, we didn’t have to let go for the next 6 hours. My bladder was primed and ready to go and my bowels were up to the challenge. I wasn’t sure about his and I wasn’t about to ask. You just don’t do that when you’re fifteen and prenuptial. That’s something you do when you’re 40 and have been married for half your life. When you’re in your thirties you can broach such subjects as poop, pimples and how eating shredded wheat for breakfast makes you just awfully gassy, but not when you’re young enough to still add "and a half" to your age. I was just trusting in his ability to hold it in and hold my hand.

The bus ride to that point was actually quite uneventful. I slept with my head on his shoulder the first few hours of the trip. He slept with his head uncomfortably leaned against the window. He could’ve let go of my hand to go get his pillow from his bedroll, but instead he let his head bounce against that window. He really was awesome. After most of the group had woken up from their uncomfortable naps, we decided to play some games. We played "Name That Tune", "I Spy" and "Guess the Jingle." I won by default when I sang the entire Oreo cookie jingle without messing up one word. That impressed the entire bus. We held our seemingly conjoined hands up in victory from our seat.

I could tell we were nearing the mountains because the air felt different. The sky was grayer and a few of the girls asked Dave to turn on the heater. When the bus started making funky chugging sounds I didn’t worry too much. I just remembered the time on the way back from a trip to a baseball game when the bus broke down and we sat on the side of the highway singing songs and talking until some church members arrived in a caravan of cars and minivans to either fix the bus or haul us home. I kind of looked at it as an adventure. He didn’t seem worried either, so I just settled in for the wait. Dave was looking pale and flustered when he boarded the bus after having looked under the hood. He said he needed some of the older boys to come out and help him. I silently wondered what would be so bad under the hood of the broken-down bus that would make him look so pale, but didn’t say anything. And seeing as how sixteen "and a half" was the second to the oldest age, he was going to have to let go of my hand and go help Dave.

He kissed me on the cheek and said he’d be back in a few minutes. He stepped out into the aisle and followed the other guys toward the door of the bus. As he stepped down onto that first step, he looked up over the partition and smiled at me. I smiled back and then realized how cold and naked my hand felt, lying open on the seat beside me. The door shut in a whoosh and the younger boys that were left on the bus and all of us girls leaned over and pressed our faces to the windows to see what was going on. I heard one of the younger, quieter boys ask, "Where did that come from?" and then we all watched as one by one the older boys stepped into the fog.

A Gentlemen’s Agreement

2007-03-22T22:30:00.000-05:00

by Cap'n Neurotic of Crisis of Infinite Monkeys

A Gentlemen’s Agreement

“All right, Chris,” Len began tentatively, “I know you’re wondering why I asked you to come over tonight”

“Yeah, a bit,” Chris agreed warily; the day had been filled with last minute wedding arrangements, and the last minute call from Len was worrisome to say the least.

“The guys and I have been talking about some stuff, and, well, after a lot of thought, I asked Barry to draw up a prenuptial agreement.”

”You what?” Chris’s voice rose several octaves, causing Len to flinch.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking --”

"You’re crazy, is what I’m thinking; there’s no way I’m asking Sarah to sign a prenup!” Indignant, Chris turned his glare from Len to the rest of his friends who were gathered closely by, content to let Len take the brunt of Chris’s anger. “Prenups are for rich old men who are afraid their fiancé is going to turn out to be a gold-digging parasite, and I’m not about to insult Sarah like that.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Len, “the prenup’s not for Sarah.”

“Huh?” Chris

“Blood and ashes, bro,” Chris’s younger brother Gary exclaimed, “if you’re dumb enough to let that girl go you deserve to lose half your stuff,”

“Then, I don’t underst—“

“It’s a prenuptial agreement between you and us,” legal eagle Barry explained.
Chris stared at his friends blankly, unable to pierce the fog that had settled on his brain.

“It’s to make sure that things don’t change between us after you get married,” Len said.
Barely aware of his repetitive responses, Chris reiterated “I don’t understand what you mean.” Gary jumped in. “Look, bro, it’s like this: we’ve seen too many guys flake out on us after they tied the knot, and we figured that we’d better make a preemptive strike before you got sucked into the same trap.”

“That’s crazy talk; you guys know that nothing’s going to change between us after Sarah and I get married.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dirk said,” Barry countered, “and then two months later he backed out of our annual skiing trip for good because the little lady didn’t want her ‘oogum-woogums to hurt his widdle heady-weddy’.”

Chris rolled his eyes at Barry’s exaggerated impression. “Sure, but Dirk was whipped before he even met Judith –“

“And then there’s Brad,” said Gary, jumping into the fray again, “who went from cussin’ like a sailor to not even being able to say ‘poop’ without looking over his shoulder.”

“Well, some would say that’s an improvement –“

“Dude, that’s not keys you hear jingle in Karen’s purse, it’s Brad’s –“

“Okay, okay, I get the idea!”

“Are you sure? Because we got a ton more examples.” Gary’s evil little grin told Chris his little brother was enjoying this far too much.

“Thanks, bratling, but I think I’ve got the gist.”

“So, you’ll sign it, then?” Len asked, pushing the document across the table.

Chris resignedly picked up the papers, deciding that reading over Barry’s handiwork would at least give him a respite from the haranguing of the others. After scanning through the legalese, he just shook his head wearily. “You guys are crazy, you know that, right?”

“Don’t act like that’s a surprise,” Barry retorted.

“And what happens if I don’t sign?” Chris queried. “I mean, it’s not like you can call off my wedding.”

“That sounds like a challenge to me . . .” quipped Gary.

“Zip it, squirt,” Len tossed back over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to Chris.

“No threats here, bud; no coercion, no duress. Sign it if you want, trash it if you don’t.”
Chris locked gazes with Len, weighing his best man’s sincerity. He finally leaned back with a sigh. “You know if you had pushed, I would have dug in my heels.”

Len smiled and shrugged.

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘aw, shucks’ routine; I’m half tempted to file thirteen this thing just for the ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine alone.”

Len’s grin widened, and Chris knew that his best friend had read him like a book as usual. No use dragging it out, he thought to himself as he grabbed the pen and signed on the dotted line.

It wasn’t until he heard Gary’s evil little laugh that he thought hit him that he probably should have read the fine print . . .

Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!

2007-03-22T22:20:00.000-05:00

by Bubblegum Tate of Your Blog Must Die, Mine Alone is Best

Ajax Stewart, Engineer of the Impossible
in
Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!

Tracer rounds blazed through the sky, each one spaced as perfectly as the dash on a tombstone and just as final. Ajax Stewart yanked hard on the stick of his tiny jet, a ballpoint pen with stubby wings and tail fins belching fire from its hind end, and banked sharply away from the phosphorescent harbingers of disaster. The jet shook and shuddered like a drunken club girl gyrating to the repetitive, pounding rhythm of a song that ended fifteen seconds ago. Ajax swore under his breath as he felt the jet’s usually pinpoint accurate steering go soft and lumpy like cold oatmeal. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw three flashing, golden jets of his arch nemesis closing in on him and heard the jackhammer ratcheting of their machine guns as they stabbed at him across the azure expanse. Ajax Stewart: scientist, genius, adventurer, explorer of strange and forgotten worlds, crime fighter, finder of strange artifacts and enemy of bizarre and evil masterminds. With a certain resignation, Ajax realized that his wedding frankly couldn’t have gone any other way.

"Ohhhhhh, poop," Ajax whispered as the ground came rushing towards him.

Six Hours Ago…

Ajax Stewart sat in a plush leather chair with his fingers steepled under his chin. Ajax monitored the operations of his global concern, Stewart Trouble Shooting, Inc., from his office at the top of Stewart Heights and with the aid of a multi-layered holographic display and a wall of monitors. STSI was known the world over for solving problems and cutting through the tangle of capricious fate for hundreds of clients and being paid handsomely for it. Raised by his father and a team of scientists and teachers to be the ultimate problem solver, it was only natural Ajax would surround himself with people of similar, if inferior, talents. Traveling the globe and stumbling into trouble or a mystery was simple, but cleaving through it with the sureness that only his extraordinary upbringing could achieve was not something just anybody could do. The amazing skills of Ajax Stewart had put some of the richest men in the world into Ajax’s debt. As his reputation grew, he was eventually hired to spearhead explorations of the strange and weird, which caused his fortune to grow along with his fame. Now, years later, operatives of Stewart Trouble Shooting were the most sought after thinkers, planners and people-of-action in the world; and none more sought after than the Engineer of the Impossible himself.

But what exploit could have prepared him, what criminal mastermind could compare with the danger, what problem was as thorny as the one that lay ahead of Ajax just two days in the future? After years of traveling, exploring and adventuring together, Ajax and the amazonian princess, the Mistress of Tooth and Claw from the shadowy and fetid jungles of the Enigma Isles, had finished their prenuptial dance. In less than forty-eight hours, Ajax Stewart was to be wed to the fierce Princess Shiarra, better known to the world as Shiarra the She Wolf.

Dressed impeccably in a cream suite and tie with a blood red shirt and deep black shoes, Ajax’s powerfully built frame sat at the center of a nearly empty room. The walls were dark mahogany except where they were broken by a screen or technical readout. Just behind him and to the right was his majordomo, Julie. It was her voice that broke him from the fog of his reverie.

"…global operations are more or less as they should be. We still have yet to realign the equipment to communicate with the Imagionauts in the world of fictions, but it has only been four hours since last contact…" she was cut off by a wave of Ajax’s hand.

"I handpicked those men and women for the Imagionauts and the second mission into the Abstract Kingdoms. They are guests of several ‘fictional’ monarchs, I’m sure they’re fine. Tell me," Ajax said spinning in his chair to face Julie, a wicked grin breaking across his face, "about the wedding!"

"The wedding plans are coming together nicely, sir. The Princess’ family is being flown in," Julie cocked an eyebrow at her boss, "especially the ones that ‘don’t approve of my lifestyle, my fashion sense, my taste in men or my ability to kill them with my bare hands’ as the Princess says. The menu is being finalized and the flowers from the Enigma Isles will arrive tomorrow morning. Everything is ready except the Princess’ wedding dress, and she disappeared two days ago swearing she wouldn’t return without the perfect gown." A small frown creased Julies otherwise pretty face, "I can’t help but think that she’ll arrive just in time for the wedding smelling vaguely of foreign liquors and wearing the skin of some endangered animal, sir."

"Surely not again!" Ajax replied with a smirk. "Still, I don’t like her going off on her own just for dress shopping. The entire company has been on high alert since the Primeval Magus swore he would overthrow her kingdom as a wedding present. The Quantum Pharaoh keeps holding press conferences claiming our marriage somehow confirms he’s our son from the future. And the rest of my rogue’s gallery just makes stranger claims and promises than that."

Julie replied archly, "She did manage to carve a protectorate out of dinosaur infested jungles after being raised by a pack of dire wolves when her parents’ expedition to the Enigma Isles was destroyed by the Primeval Magus. Dress shopping shouldn’t be too much of a challenge…" Julie trailed off as, one by one, each of the monitors blinked and resolved themselves into a grinning face of pure malevolence.

"Dr. B’hadgai!" Julie yelped, her eyes widening and her hand flying to her mouth in shock. Ajax spun in his chair and found himself face-to-faces with his most persistent adversary. Coming to his feet, the holographic control matrix surrounding him winking out of existence, Ajax snarled at his most hated foe, "What is it you want now, you twisted fiend?"

"Calm yourself, old friend. Can’t a man wish a childhood pal good tidings on his upcoming marriage?" Dr. B’hadgai purred in his slightly accented voice. Wearing a white lab coat, a monocle in his left eye and with a portion of his head and face replaced by technology, Avel B’hadgai was the very picture of the mad scientist.

With a sigh, Ajax replied "Avel, we haven’t been ‘pals’ since we were teenagers. You’re going to try and ruin my wedding with some Byzantine scheme or giant robot or whatever. You know it. I know it. So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?"

"Very well, Ajax, I bring a matrimonial challenge! Although it is in poor taste to request gifts from the groom, your computers are even now receiving information on the items you will procure for me before your wedding begins." The already grinning face seemed to smile even wider and sparks flashed behind the bionic eye as the evil scientist purred, "In honor of your pending nuptials, there will be four items: something old, something new, something borrowed," Dr. B’hadgai waved his hand in front of his face dismissively as he finished, "ah, the newspapers continuously tell me you are a genius, so I’m sure you can figure out the rest."

"Avel," Ajax sighed and settled back into his chair, "setting aside the fact that I have a wedding in two days and a multinational company to run, I hate you. What, aside from a wildly unrealistic sense of confidence, makes you think I will gather these items for you?" Ajax’s manner was easy, but his mighty intellect was ticking away. He didn’t yet know the answer, but Avel B’hadgai would not make idle demands backed by idle threats. Something was gravely wrong.

Dr. B’hadgai suddenly grew very serious as he leaned towards the camera. "You will do it, my so-called Engineer of the Impossible, because I demand it and it is your rightful place to bow before me. Also, you will jump at my word because the alternative is to never see your beloved She Wolf again."

The camera suddenly swung around to show a statuesque woman manacled, spread-eagle, to a steel wall with thick chains. Though she was obviously exhausted and disheveled, the Mistress of Tooth and Claw would not bow to her captors. Her head was thrown back, eyes were bright with hatred and she stared directly into the camera. "Ajax, dear," Shiarra said with affection in her voice, "thrash this has-been again. For me?" Her lips peeled away from sharp teeth in a feral grin, "I want him broken in body and spirit when I tear his throat out."

The camera spun its vacant eye back to Dr. B’hadgai. "Brave words, bitch of the wolves. Well, Ajax? Ready to play my games yet?"

Through gritted teeth, Ajax said "You’ve got my attention, Avel. What do you want me to do first?"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Strapped into the AJX-Mark II, a one-man jet fighter of his own design, Ajax listened intently to the Julie’s briefing coming over his earpiece.

"The something old is the Papyrus of Ani, sir. The papyrus is a Book of Going Forth By Day created specifically for a man named Ani," Julie said.

Ajax nodded to himself and said, "I’ve heard of it, the so-called Book of the Dead for a Theban scribe…but what makes it so important to Dr. B’hadgai?"

"Unknown at this time, sir," and Julie said," our Mystical Antiquities researchers have long suspected that Ani was no mere scribe, but a powerful sorcerer and cult leader; a mystical parasite that fed off the life force of others to sustain his enchantments. They think his followers may have encoded powerful spells into the papyrus, but that doesn’t explain what Dr. B’hadgai would want with it."

Ajax’s mouth became a thin line, "Avel has always been a man of science, albeit a mad and evil one. It’s strange, but he may simply be forcing me to get an item he thinks is unreachable, to make me jump through hoops. It’s certainly keeping me from mounting any kind of rescue operation for Shiarra for the moment."

"The Papyrus is pretty inaccessible, sir."

"Don’t worry about it, I have a plan."

"What? Are you planning on breaking into the British Museum and stealing it?" asked Julie, shocked?

"Certainly not," Ajax replied.

"Well, you can’t expect to just give the most prestigious museum in the world a jingle and ask to borrow it like they’re the public library and the priceless artifact is the latest Tom Clancy novel!" Julie said, her voice rising just a bit.

"Julie, I’m the world’s greatest problem solver. I’ll think of something."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ajax shook the hand of the British Museum’s head curator, Sir Reginald Huntington III while taking a leather portfolio from the curator with his other hand.

"I really appreciate this, Sir Reginald." Ajax said with earnest sincerity.

"Tut tut, my boy. It was the least we could for the man who brought us the entirety of our Atlantis exhibit," Sir Reginald said with a wave of his hand. "Such wonders, and all perfectly preserved as well."

"Not exactly preserved, Sir Reginald, I brought most of that back through time when I was kidnapped for a skiing vacation in the Ice Age by that shiftless, time-hopping layabout the Quantum Pharaoh. Still, it was my pleasure to donate it to the museum."

"We very much appreciate it, Mr. Stewart, and look forward to your next opportunity to grace our small house of antiquities with a find." Sir Reginald leaned in and winked conspiratorially,

"We can’t have all the good stuff going to New York or Paris, can we?"

"Absolutely not. Thanks again for the loan." With that, Ajax ran towards, and leapt into the cockpit of, the jet fighter he had landed on Great Russell Street with its VTOL capabilities. He knew he was stretching his authority to the limit, but his special deputization from both Scotland Yard and INTERPOL ought to keep him out of trouble for a while yet.

As he put his earpiece in, he was nearly deafened by the piercing squeal of feedback that came through it. Dr. B’hadgai’s voice was in his ear.

"Very clever, Ajax, I must admit I didn’t expect you to simply ASK for the papyrus," Dr. B’hadgai said, amusement in his voice. "Although, honestly, I wouldn’t have expected them to give it to you either."

"Apparently the British Museum lives by the Golden Rule, Avel. Don’t sound too disappointed, I’m sure the something new won’t be as easy," Ajax said as he fired the engines and began rising into the sky.

"Oh ho, Mr. Stewart," B’hadgai barked a short laugh, "I’ve dispatched my Golden Fighter Squadron. They’ll be on you in just under a minute. The papyrus won’t be all that easy after all!" B’hadgai fell into maniacal laughter and the feed was cut off. Almost simultaneously, eight blips appeared on Ajax’s radar screen.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ohhhhhh, poop," Ajax whispered as the ground came rushing towards him.

It had been quite a dogfight, but it was no real mystery who would win in the end. The Golden Fighter Squadron were handpicked and personally trained in the use of Dr. B’hadgai’s own creation, the Blood Eagle. The Blood Eagles were state-of-the-art jet fighters, the fastest and most maneuverable in the world. While they didn’t pack the heaviest firepower, they were well known for their ability to make surgical applications of force and destroy nearly any target in the sky. The Golden Squadron was the elite, the top gun, of Dr. B’hadgai’s criminal air force. The deadliest men in the air at the sticks of the deadliest machines in the air.

The AJX-Mark II was at least the technical marvel that the Blood Eagle was, but they were many and Ajax was only one. Still, Ajax himself could have bested any five of the Golden Squadron, and had done so. But they had bought a precious victory with their lives; the avionics had been knocked out in the Mark II. The three remaining Blood Eagles bore down on Ajax, looking to finish the job.

Coaxing the last bit of maneuverability out of the Mark II, Ajax spun it around, aimed directly for the lead Blood Eagle and opened up the throttle. The Mark II was a silver bullet aimed at a golden target and even one of B’hadgai’s planes couldn’t evade it in time. At the last possible second, Ajax hit the ejection seat.

The canopy broke off over him and he was blasted clear of the Mark II. As his jet pack kicked in, he shot away from the two intersecting planes, but not fast enough to miss the blast of heat as they combusted on impact. Twisting his body before the other pilots could react, he drew one of his custom, nickel-plated .45s and shot an explosive tipped round at the cockpit of another Blood Eagle.

The round went through the cockpit glass as easily as empty air, and a sickening thud was heard as the explosive detonated in the enclosed space. The plane, now sporting a smoking cockpit, careened out of control and crashed directly into its wingman, causing them both to explode in a glorious fireball leaving a quiet all the more deafening because of the tremendous noise just before.

"Julie," Ajax said into his throat radio as he adjusted his grip on the portfolio holding the Papyrus of Ani, "tell the London office I’ll be dropping by and have them assemble a dossier on the next item."

"Already compiled by myself, sir, but I’m sorry to say there isn’t much information on the item," Julie said with resignation.

With deep resignation, Ajax replied "I know; and there’s only one man I can ask about it. My ‘son,’ that time traveling pest, the Quantum Pharaoh."

Once Upon A Prenuptial Jingle....

2007-03-22T22:10:00.000-05:00

by Cazzie!!! of I Don't Do Mornings

Once Upon A Prenuptial Jingle....

There I was, minding my own business, skiing through the course I set out for myself down the face of the mountain. The mountain, in Spring, was covered with scrub and flowers of all colors. Now, in Winter, it was covered with a thick mush of pure white glistening snow. As I came around the last of the tree stumps I was using as markers on my descent, I could see a flash of bright red out of my left eye. I came to a halt, not a gracious one at that...I assed it, head over titt and ended up with a gob full of snow.

A strong hand proceeded to embrace me and stand me upright on my skiis once again. It took a minute to focus, I was looking into the hazel eyes of a gorgeous young man. He seemed, perplexed somewhat, his facial expression said it all..."What are you doing out here on your own? Don't you know there is a storm headed this way?" ...I got myself together, " Oh, no, it all looked fine on the weather radar when I researched it prior to heading out the door of the chalet". " Well, things change rather fast at times. You better come with me and we can hunker down in shelter over there" , pointing over to a tree. " There, under a tree? Isn't that a bit silly?", I said incredulously. " Well, no, not really, you oughta observe your surroundings before coming to such a conclusion. Look beyond what IS". " Huh! " I exclamimed. " Well", he proceeded, " Behind that there tree is the entrance to a cave. We can stay there until the storm passes and there are supplies enough for four people to stay there for up to three days before they truly would have to venture out". " Oh, well then, we better get moving", I said.

Down the valley to the right I could see a very thick fog approaching. We made it to the tree, he pushed aside the branches and let me through before him. I found myself in a pitch black, damp smelling cave of some sort. He turned on his flashlight, it illuminated a hole about 6 foot deep by 3 foot wide. There was a metal box, not locked. He opened it and took out a small tin. " Sit down there, take your skiis off and sit them outside the entrance there", he said. I did as he asked, all the while watching what he was doing. He light a firelighter and placed it under the metal box that was now opened up into a little stove. A can of beans was placed over the flame. " I hope you like beans, it is all we have to eat", ..."Yes, that's fine by me", I said.

"So, what is your name then? ...Oh saviour of mine" I asked chidingly. " You first, ladies first", he said laughing. "I am Tuscany." " What a lovely name. I am Steve, my mates call me Stevo", he said. "My pleasure indeed", I said, feeling like a drongo from the way my response came out. Oh poop I thought to myself, me and my big mouth. Stevo must have read my mind, right then he handed me a cup with some beans in it. " Eat this, it will keep you warm and take our minds away from the storm". I had all but forgotten the storm until he mentioned it, I was under his spell..it seemed.

"So, do you live close to this area then Tuscany?" " No, actually, I am from the Northern Territory, I come here every Winter. I love to ski and I love to explore the place. There is something about this area. It captures your imagination. The smell of the gum trees, the sounds of the wildlife, the colors of the rock areas and the trillion stars you can see on a clear night". " Hmmm, yes, I think the same thing. I too love it here, that is why I am a Park Ranger here", Steve said, resting his gloved hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his eyes again, I began to feel tired. "Oh well, I guess I best try to nap for a little while Steve, the fresh air is making me most tired".

With that, I sat down and rested my head against the wall of the cave. I fell asleep and began to dream the dream that I had been having for the last few nights, that repetitive dream.... I am a little girl again, my dad is leaving, mum is crying, my brother is running after dad's car...I hide in a cupboard, it is the only place I felt safe....I awaken screaming, Steve is there holding me close. " Oh sorry," I say all embarrased. " That's ok Tuscany, no worries"...

Skip ahead a few months, a few months after the storm that brought Steve and I together... until his mates tracked us out and got us home safe from the Winter chill. Reportedly, it was the worst storm in a century, six foot of snow on that mountain. I am walking down the main street of our dusty Outback town, holding my horses' reigns. I hear a voice, "Heya Tuscany". It was a voice I knew, but then again, could not place. I turn around and meet his eyes, Steve it was!!! I fainted right then and there. I came to after a minute of lying flat, those strong hands supporting me once again, un-gloved this time.

" Wow, I never thought I'd see you again", I said. " Well, here I am, and I need to ask you a question....will you marry me Tuscany?" " Wh wh what? But of course I will Steve". He whips out a piece of paper from beneath his Akoubra hat. He starts to sing a little song,

" Tuscany since we met that cold snowy day,
I can't get you outta my mind,
The thought of your soft warm embrace makes me feel oh sooo fine,
We've got two strong hearts,
We stick together like the honey to the bee,
You and me. "

I begin to laugh, and Stevo is still singing his little jingle. "Honey to the bee", I kept giggling like a school girl, "Who could say no to that Steve, of course I will marry you, so long as you stick to being a Ranger and not a karaoke singer that is". Life was never the same again, from the first day I met Steve, that stormy day months before.

Ramblings from Southwest Oklahoma or Skiing in the Flatlands

2007-03-22T22:00:00.000-05:00

by Lisa Kennedy-Szabo (Lisa, I didn't think to email you this week to get a blog to link to you. If you have one, email me and let me know!)

Ramblings from Southwest Oklahoma or Skiing in the Flatlands

It has been rainy for much of the day, just like it should be for this time of year. The fog will be thick as Lima Bean Soup with Ham Hocks in the morning.

As I hear the jingle of the bell on Fiona's collar, I wonder what trouble her little mind will get her and her brothers into this time. I'm sure it will involve cleaning up poop and pee in numerous places like it always comes to when I leave them for any period of time without supervision. Aye chihuahuas!

I wonder what kind of prenuptial agreement Britney and Kevin had before they got married, don't you? And what is with all this repetitive nothingness anyway? Are we all just parasites swimming in the bloodstream of some giant alien stuck in the nether-regions of the cosmos?

It looms! It looms!

2007-03-20T21:49:00.000-05:00

The deadline, that is.

You have until 9pm Central time, Thursday, March 22 to submit your stories to me via email. I will have the stories posted to this site either that night or the next morning and voting will begin.

Also, this is something I forgot to mention, (so those of you who have already submitted don't worry I'll take care of it for you) but please bold The Words in your story. That way it's easier for everyone to see that you've used all of them. Thanks!

Writing Challenge 1 - Let's Get It Started!

2007-03-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Writing Challenge Numero Uno -

Let's Get It Started!

is now open.

Here are The Words, courtesy of me, because well, I started it, so I can.

prenuptial
repetitive
fog
poop
skiing
jingle
parasite

Send your stories here when they are written.

Deadline for this challenge is: March 22nd.

The Rules

2007-03-12T11:17:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Write in the Thick of It!

This writing challenge is open to everyone, regardless of whether you own blog or not.

To keep things simple for me, (Redneck Diva, the moderator of this thing) I have opted to just use my regular email address for story submissions.

Here are The Rules:

* Each challenge has a list of words and all of The Words must be used in your story. I mean, no one is going to hunt you down or come knockin' on your door at 3am if you don't, but the point of The Words is for you to find a creative way to work them into your story. It's a writing challenge, for Pete's sake. Work The Words into the title, the plot, the characters, etc, just so you include them all.

* The Words list consists of anywhere from 5 to 8 words. The words are random and don't have to be remotely related to each other. They don't have to be common, everyday words, but they do have to be actual words.

* The winner of each challenge picks The Words for the next challenge.

* There is no set genre for the stories. Mystery, horror, romance, general nothingness, whatever.

* Keep things relatively clean. No gratuitous sex, violence, drugs and all that stuff. Use your discretion as far as cuss words go - if your story is full of cussin' for the sake of cussin', well, that ain't right. The occasional "damn" and other like words is okay because, well, they're just fun, aren't they?

* There is a set time limit for each challenge. Most should be around a week or two from the announcing of the words to the submission of all entries.

* On the deadline date, all submissions that have been sent to me via email are considered entered in the challenge. All stories will be posted individually on this blog which has been set up for this writing challenge only. It may take me a day or two to post the stories, but once they are posted, the voting is considered open. The stories will be public and you will be given credit for your writing. Comments will be left open so that readers can well....comment. If things get nasty I will shut them down.

* Voting will done via a poll site of my choosing (which hasn't been chosen yet...)

* The winner of each challenge is voted upon by you, the reader. If you submit a story you can vote as well, but not for yourself.

This blog is the hub of all of the activity. Stories are posted here, voting is done here, etc. Bookmark it, share it, use it often. Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Heck, tell your momma.

Now, WRITE!

Write in the Thick of It

Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Pronouns

Redneck vs. Hillbilly

Hatfields vs. McCoys

Jeremiah Falls

Davy Jones's Locker

Geez, it's like y'all have a life or something

Extending once again

Round 6 - Au lieu et place d'une vacances d'été, laissez-nous tout écrit des histoires

The round that shall remain nameless

And the shoes have it

Voting Ends Tonight

Memories at the Monkey-Hog Saloon

Vibrator Hotel, No Batteries Included.

Life Lived in Turmoil After Childhood

A Timeless Tale

Untitled

Denny Crane and the Case of the Heiress

In the Woods

I am SO apologizing

Cazzmania ensues!

The Chamber produces a landslide **ATTENTION - important info for next round enclosed**

It pains me to do this

It will be fun. Truuuuuust me.

Enter the Chamber of Voting

Sad, Sad Sadie

The Famous Botanist

Peep

Dr. Avel B’hadgai & The Primeval Magus

To Exacerbate Exasperation: The Byzantine and Ineffable Shenanigans of the Pugnacious, Yet Erudite Scofflaw, "Daffodil" Dean Weslington

College Days

Extension, extension! We want an extension!

Block

May I have your attention please?

After careful consid'ration

The Gettin' Place

Tours R Us

Origins 'R' Us

Beck's Tea to Dye For

Cazzie's Hats for You

And away we go!

Daddy blogger

The edge of the sword has delivered a victory

(tap tap) Is this thing on?

"Let the voting begin!" shouted the Hillmombans as they stormed the hillside

Curses!

Jocelyn's Journey

The Potluck

Deprecations on the Themed

Mercy Comes at the Edge of a Sword!

Mr. Charlie

Sometimes in My Dreams

Bitter

The Professional

Untitled

Sally, Sally, Sally

A DaY tO ReMeMbEr

If you'll excuse me please

The Writing Challenge - "Nation of Hillmomba" Edition

Well done, Hillbilly Grasshopper

Super Tiger Dragon wants you to vote

When you think you are all alone in the Outback…

Rainy Days and Mondays

The Ice Baby Cometh

Vox Oraculum

Doom Strikes Anew!

The deadline looms once more

The Writing Challenge Super Tiger Dragon Edition

And the winner is....

The day has arrived

A Love Story

And a Half

A Gentlemen’s Agreement

Ask not for whom the Wedding Bell tolls!

Once Upon A Prenuptial Jingle....

Ramblings from Southwest Oklahoma or Skiing in the Flatlands

It looms! It looms!

Writing Challenge 1 - Let's Get It Started!

The Rules

The Chamber produces a landslide ATTENTION - important info for next round enclosed