Category: Fiction

Undiscovered Treasure

Facebook is a source of much of my blog inspiration. Between cute kitten videos and wine humor, political satire and jokes about aging (un)gracefully the social media site is a veritable treasure trove of ideas.

Take this post for example:

  

Here is one of the sentences I culled from the multitude running through my head:

Gabriella Montagne plucked a pomegranate from a basket on the kitchen counter and hurled it at her loathsome brother Claude, hitting him squarely in his one good eye.

Justification for this being a unique sentence: uncommon names, uncommon fruit, one good eye.

The possibilities are endless. Come, give it a try. Who knows where that sentence might lead? 
Peace and happy writing, people!

Path? What Path?

Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:

Alma Mater

You’ve been asked to speak at your high school alma mater — about the path of life. (Whoa.) Draft the speech.

The Path of Life

There is no path, no paved road, not if you live your life.

In the words of C. G. Jung,

  

Instead, you must forge your own path, laboriously clearing trees and climbing over boulders in the rain, but occasionally enjoying stretches of level ground in the warm sunshine.

There will be times when you believe you can climb any mountain. There will also be times when you are certain that the next step will be impossible to take. 

Through it all you keep going. One foot in front of the other. Good days and bad. Mountains and valleys.

Of course, I prefer to dance and skip as often as possible. No one said the journey had to be boring.

  
http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/prancercise-joanna-rohrback_n_3351722.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular
Peace, people!

With a Little Help from my Friends

Note: I had a great deal of help with this post. I left blanks in my story and asked friends on Facebook to come up with content. When I had more than one friend respond I drew names from a hat. The darned story went in a totally unforeseen direction. I like it. 

My helpful friends are listed at the bottom. Underlined phrases indicate where I received help. 

“Flirting with the Law”

Sitting astride her motorcycle in front of a small jewelry store in Panama City Beach, Beth smelled the stranger before she saw him. He smelled like sheets hanging on the line, dried by the summer sun, and she lifted her head to catch his scent on the breeze. 

The scent transported her back to her childhood when hanging laundry on the line out back was a chore, but the results well worth the work. There were few things in life better than sleeping on sun-dried sheets.

Lost in her reverie, Beth startled when she realized the police officer standing beside her motorcycle was attached to the nostalgic scent. He was tall, dark, and oh so handsome.

“Excuse me, miss,” This perfect vision of manhood began, “Did you know that your license plate is missing?”

“Huh?” Beth replied in her most articulate manner. “I mean of course it’s not missing. It was there when I left Tallahassee this morning.”

But even as she spoke Beth swung a leg over the back of her bike and walked back to check. Sure enough, the plate was missing.

“Well that’s just weird,” she said. “Now what?”

The nice smelling stranger said, “Could cost you a ticket, you know,” and without looking at her he ran his leather gloved hand along the curvy contour of her tank, stopping at the crest of her saddle seat.

Beth gulped audibly and felt a slow blush creep over her face. “Honest, Officer, ummm…”

“Greg. Just Greg,” he said. “And here’s your plate. I saw some kids messing around with your bike and caught them red handed with your tag.”

Beth exhaled. “Greg, you just saved me a huge headache.”

“Well, I’m not letting you off the hook just yet,” the officer said. “Did you realize that I just finished my shift and I’m starving?”

“I guess I should let you go then, though, I don’t suppose you have a screwdriver on you….” Beth said indicating her detached license plate.

Greg grinned from ear to ear. “Come, let me buy you some lunch, and I’ll find a screwdriver for you.”

For one brief moment Beth considered turning him down. After all, he was a cop, and she did have a bag of stolen diamonds in her saddlebag. 

“Why, I’ll take you up on that,”she smiled demurely, looping her arm through his. She was running well ahead of schedule.

Many thanks to

Steven Ramos
Bob Walsh
Flora Diehl
Janie Christie Heniford
along with everyone else who submitted suggestions.

Peace, people!

Routine

Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: 

Just Another Day

Our days are organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?

  

Once upon a time a handsome prince asked his lovely princess about her favorite routine.

“Routines,” she said, “are for the bored and boring.”

“And yet you drink coffee every morning. Two cups, with a splash of Irish creme,” he chided.

“That’s not routine, darling,” she purred. “That’s for survival. Your survival.”

And they lived happily ever after.

Peace, people
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/just-another-day/”>Just Another Day</a>

Piano Player in a Whorehouse

Welcome to the Divine Church of the One True American Religion. Don’t mind me. I’m the organist dressed head to toe in black robes. But if you do look carefully you might see the chains confining me to the organ. I’m playing our opening hymn, “Come, O’ Come to the Cruz” as a choir of veiled women blend their voices in harmony behind me.

But this pious servitude hasn’t always been my lot in life. Just a few months ago I was playing piano at May’s, an establishment catering to men in need of female companionship.  

It was a Saturday night and the working girls were sashaying down the broadly curved staircase in groups of two and three. Only May herself entered the room by herself. It was part of her routine, this grand entrance, and she looked saucy and elegant in her gown of turquoise.

Men, both the rough and the refined,  began assembling in May’s ornate waiting room shortly after sundown on that cold winter’s night, and were waiting respectfully as they viewed the diverse display of feminine beauty descending the stairs as if from heaven.

At the end of the evening, some of the men would go home to waiting wives, women whose days of child bearing and child rearing, housekeeping, laundering, and cooking, had left them too exhausted for frivolous activities such as lovemaking. 

Most of May’s potential clients, though,  would return to their dreary rooms in equally dreary boarding houses back in an even more dreary Texas border town. For them, the vivid pageantry at May’s was the brightest spot in an otherwise colorless world.

For that moment in time, though, they were all in high spirits after a long week of hard labor building and policing The Great Trump Wall.

Through it all, the expectant arrival of clients and the sultry parade of scantily clad, prettily painted ladies, I poured my heart and soul into playing May’s well-tuned grand piano, a true gem of an instrument, magnificent in appearance and quality. I played the classics: Lennon and McCartney, Morisette, Bowie, and Joplin (Janis, not Scott).

Occasionally a regular client or one of the girls asked me to sing, and often I acceded to their wishes, belting out one of the near forgotten feminist anthems from the turn of the century and bringing the listeners to tears. “I’m Just a Girl” was a crowd favorite. 

The men, all regulars, treated me with respect, and the ladies looked after me like a gaggle of big sisters. May was the mother I never had. So when an unfamiliar, but well-dressed man came through the foyer, and grabbed my left arm in mid-song, I was immediately surrounded by a protective circle. Pete, a cowboy from near El Paso, was the first to intervene.

“Hold on now. No one touches Ella,” he growled menacingly. Pete knew this because his attempt at escorting me upstairs were discouraged in much the same way upon his first visit to May’s.

Other men’s voices chorused their agreement with Pete, but it was May herself who stepped forward to confront the man face to face. 

“Sir,” she smiled gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Ella isn’t available for my clients. She’s our precious pianist, and we place great value on her artistic services.” This last was said with a tinge of steel in May’s voice, and gratefully I leaned back against her protective bosom.

“I’m not here for her services,” the man sneered, while extracting a badge from the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat. “I am Custis L. Biggs, deputy sheriff of Hidalgo County. This woman is under arrest for inciting unpatriotic emotions under code T-001024.”

“Surely, you must be mistaken. Our Ella is but an excess child. If she’s done any wrong it was out of ignorance, and not intentional disrespect,” May assured him.

“Excess child or not, she’s been written up and must be taken in for reeducation. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.” 

Without further ado he snapped cuffs on my hands and yanked me to my feet. I began crying, realizing that there was nothing May could do but stand wringing her hands as the officer led me from the only true home I’d ever known.

A chorus of supportive words followed our departure. May called, “Don’t lose hope child! We’ll see you again!” And I thought it was Pete’s howl of frustration I heard as I was led from the protection of May’s.

As it turned out my reeducation consisted of me sitting in a cold, damp cell in plain view of The Great Trump Wall. Each day for six weeks I was made to kneel while reading from The Gospel According to Cruz. From my reading I learned of the great spiritual awakening decreed after Emporer Trump created the position of Minister of Ministry and named one of his former political rivals to the post. 

I also learned that excess children like me had few rights other than the right to be born. Most like me had been abandoned at birth to be raised by strangers. I thanked my lucky stars for the seventeen sheltered years I’d enjoyed at May’s, realizing they might have to suffice for a lifetime.

May was allowed to visit me once. She brought me a delicate handkerchief embroidered with words of comfort from a pre-Trump Bible: 

Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go….

I sobbed when the guards took her away, but she only said, “Be patient, child, for Pete’s sake.”

Upon completing the readings and swearing renewed fealty to Emporer Trump I was dressed as you see me now, in voluminous black robes that provide not a hint as to my gender, and reassigned to the Divine Church of the One True American Religion. My days are now as drab and lonely as my nights once were filled with excitement and affection.

Worship is mandatory, and every man who works on The Great Trump Wall must attend services daily. The staggering number of men working in shifts means that I play organ for six separate services: three in the morning and three in the evening. Only Saturdays are worship free. 

Every man now is required to give twenty-five percent of his weekly earnings to the “greater good.” A slip of the minister’s tongue, as he fumbled with my robes in a drunken stupor, informed me that the “greater good” was how the wall was being financed. I cried silently at his awkward intrusion and filed the information away for another day, taking note of where he stored the revenue.

Now as I play the solemn strains of the offertory hymn, “Render Unto Caesar” I notice a movement from the second row of the choir. A piece of cloth falls to the ground and comes to rest beneath the risers. This cannot be an accident, for the choiristers are forbidden to hold anything in their hands during services. 

None of the singers waver in their neat lines, but beneath a veil I swear I see a hint of turquoise. I blink twice and surreptitiously glance into the congregation. There on the front row nearest me, sits Pete, eyeing me earnestly, and I feel a surge of hope. The minister might be in for a bit of surprise when he comes for me tonight.

http://youtu.be/PHzOOQfhPFg
———————————-

Copyright 2016 by Leslie H. Noyes. All rights reserved.

This bit of post-apocalyptic fiction was inspired by this quote from President Harry S Truman. … “My choice early in life was either to be a piano player in a whorehouse or a politician.”

I’m not sure I’m finished with this piece yet, and would appreciate feedback. 

Peace, people.

The Daily Prompt: Out Foxing the Fox

Unexpected Guests–You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next. (The Daily Prompt on The Daily Post)

  

Before the pair can register my arrival I slide quickly to the floor and roll behind the chaise longue. I knew this day would come, but I had hoped it would be many years down the road. Consciously I slow my heart rate and breaths per minute until I am barely more alive than the errant sock lying underneath the candle stand to my right.

“When did you say you expect your wife?” asks the male half of the duo.

“Any minute now,” my husband replies. “Unless she gets caught in traffic.” His voice betrays no hint of concern, but then why should it? Andrew has no idea of my true identity. 

“More cake?” he asks. “I baked this last night. From scratch.”

“It’s quite tasty,” comments the woman. “But no thank you.”

I hear plates and cutlery being placed on the coffee table.

“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” she asks.

“But of course. Mr. Mulder, would you also like something to drink while we wait for Lana?”

I hear a muted “yes” and then Andrew’s familiar tread on his way to the kitchen.

“Do you think we have the right home?” the woman whispers.

“I’d bet money on it, Scully,” her partner says.

Andrew returns to the room with a hearty, “Here we go! How remiss of me not to include a beverage with the cake.”

The man asks in a strained voice, “How did you and your wife meet?”

“Oddly enough, we met at a Scifi convention,” chuckles Andrew. 

I hear a choking sound from one of our uninvited guests. 

“Why do you say ‘oddly enough’?” coughs the man named Mulder.

“Because Lana detests that stuff. Calls it nonsense. I’m the big fan. She was there doing research on the geeks who attend such affairs. Just my luck she found this geek attractive.”

“Of course,” Andrew continues conspiratorially, “You know she’s one of them. An alien. Just as you expected, Agent Mulder.”

The female, Scully, coughs loudly, a long painful sounding affair. Her partner follows suit. 

“Yes, it’s part of the reason I found her so fascinating at the convention. You see, I’m one, as well. My darling Lana, like myself, is a Mirbeesian, from the planet Mirbee 2, just a couple of light years from Earth.”

The coughing crescendoes to a shattering peak and then subsides to be replaced by a weighted silence before Andrew intones, “Lana, come out. You’re safe. The agents won’t bother you now.”

I emerge from my hiding spot to find Andrew grinning from ear to ear and the agents lying motionless on the floor.

“Andrew!” I cry, “What have you done?”

“Oh, they’re quite dead, my dear, but it had to be done if we’re to have any peace.”

“That’s awful, but I suppose you’re right. Andrew, you’ve never given any indication that you knew about me. And I certainly didn’t know that you were like me. How did you know?” I break down, crying at the enormity of it all.

Andrew takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. “My Lana, remember how I insisted on doing all of the cooking?”

“Yes,” I whimper, beginning to understand. 

“Had you been from Earth, my food would have had the same effect on you as it had on the agents here. I came to Earth specifically to find a mate so we can finally begin our infiltration.”

“How fortunate you found me on the first try.” I sigh.

“Who said you were the first try?”

The Case of the Missing Mary

I leaned back in my wooden chair and tossed a dart at the picture of Donald Trump scotch taped to the door of my cramped office. Bullseye, baby. Before I could launch another sharp projectile at the human embodiment of evil there was a tentative rap at the door.

Quickly I stashed the darts, downed a shot of Glenlivet and hid the bottle under the desk. 

“Come in,” I intoned with as much gravity as I could muster. I was new at this detective gig and badly needed a client. Throwing darts at Trump, no matter how satisfying, wasn’t paying the bills.

The man who walked through my door was a sight for hungry eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome, and apparently built like Thor if the bulges in his well-tailored suit were to be trusted.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Noyes, the private investigator…”

“It’s Ms. Noyes,” I smiled. “My receptionist just stepped out for a bit.” Little did he know my receptionist, Glenlivet, was hiding under the desk. I nudged the bottle with my foot for reassurance.

“Oh!” He was clearly flustered, so I rushed to reassure him. Rising from my chair I stepped closer, hoping to encourage him to stay.

“Don’t let my gender color your expectations,” I said. “I’m fully qualified to handle discreet investigations.”

I held my breath as I watched him wrestle with his thoughts. Finally he extended a hand, and I exhaled.

“My name is Joseph. Joseph Carpenter, and my wife has gone missing.”

I motioned for Joseph to have a seat and took my place on the other side of the desk. Pulling out a pen and notepad I asked Joseph for details.

“She was right beside me. We were watching over our newborn son and I turned away for just a second to greet a man, a foreigner of some distinction, who’d brought a baby gift. When I looked back, Mary was gone.”

Joseph’s rugged face collapsed in tears. It took all of my strength to maintain a professional distance. My maternal instincts were urging me to comfort this man, but he didn’t need a nursemaid, he needed a detective. And by God, that’s just what he’d get.

“Do you have a recent picture of your wife, sir?”

“No, we weren’t into pictures. But she was just a little thing. Maybe five feet two. Brown eyes. Dark brown hair. Olive skin. She was, is, beautiful. She has the most beatific smile.”

I tried my hand at sketching a picture of Mary. “No, her nose is a bit larger,” Joseph said. “Yes, like that. And her lips fuller.”

Finally we had a sketch that Joseph approved. 

“Joseph, did you notice any strange characters hanging around, let’s see, the manger on the night of your wife’s disappearance?”

“Well,” he began, “Besides the foreigner there were a couple of other visiting dignitaries. They looked fairly trustworthy; although, come to think of it I have no idea why they dropped by.”

“Ok, that’s a starting place. Anyone or anything else?”

Joseph snapped his fingers. “There was a shepherd there ranting about some star he followed. Could it be…?”

“I couldn’t say right now, Joseph, but I promise to do everything in my power to find your Mary.” I stood and indicated we were through.

“By the way, how’s the baby?” I asked offhandedly. “I know newborns can be a handful. Is it possible Mary just took off?”

Joseph’s temper flared. I could see I’d hit a nerve. “Absolutely not! You have no idea what Mary has gone through to have this child, why….”

I held up one hand. “I had to ask Mr. Carpenter. I believe you.”

I told him I’d need a retainer and I’d bill my services at a hundred dollars per hour. Then I assured him I’d get on the case immediately.

“Money’s no problem. One of those foreign dignitaries brought gold. For a baby!” He shook his head sadly.

As he paused at the door, Joseph Carpenter turned, his face half in shadow.

“Ms. Noyes. Have you done anything like this before?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Every December.”

Almost every year one piece of my nativity goes missing. One year it was the lamb. I found it nestled next to the Christmas snow globe. Another year it was a wise man, the one carrying myrrh. He didn’t turn up until I was putting decorations away. Apparently the myrrh king had been napping in a Target bag. This year it’s Mary. One can’t very well have a nativity scene without the mother of Jesus. I’ll keep looking. Until I find her I have a cut out Mary from a Christmas card to stand in for her:

  
 The scale isn’t too far off. Right?

Peace, people!

 

Ghouls: All Together Now

After tons of requests, alright, only three requests, I decided to merge my Ghouls trilogy from Halloween past into one story. It was either that or write a Turkeys of Thanksgiving piece, and I had trouble wrapping my mind around that one.

Ghoul of Halloween Past

Sam Hollis had driven most of the day and into the night trying to get home. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and his head kept nodding and then jerking to an upright position. When a rest stop exit sign appeared in his headlights at 9:30, he decided to pull in and sleep for awhile.

The I-10 rest stop was lit up like noon, so Sam backed into a spot furthest from the lights and reclined his seat. He cracked his windows an inch and settled in for a nap. Just before he fell into sleep an image of his former business partner and friend, Eric Marks, popped into his head. Eric’s funeral was the reason Sam was traveling on this late October night, and Sam couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Eric’s death was his fault. No, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, Eric had done that, but his suicide came hard on the heels of the end of their longtime partnership.

A scratching sound awakened him. Sam sat up, disoriented. Beside him, on the passenger seat, sat a man-sized rat.

“What the hell!” screamed Sam, scrambling for the door handle. The door wouldn’t budge, and Sam felt his heart banging against his chest wall.

“Relax, Sam,” said the rat. “It’s me. Eric.”

Sam screamed again and felt a liquid warmth spread across the front of his suit pants, “Just a dream, just a dream, just a…”

“No Sam. You’re not dreaming. This is Eric, and I’ve got a message for you from the other side.”

“Heaven?” gulped Sam. His heart continued to race and he thought a heart attack imminent. Oddly, the thought that he should have exercised more crossed his mind.

Eric laughed grimly. “Not exactly.”

“Look buddy,” the rat with Eric’s voice continued. “I’ve only been dead for three days and already it feels like eternity. But the big boss downstairs offered to lighten my torture if I could haunt you into following my lead.”

“You mean get me to kill myself?”

“Exactly. I mean, what have you got to live for? Marie’s about to leave you. You’re gonna get audited by the IRS this year. Your old man’s about to cut you out of his will.”

“Wait, you’re making this up. None of this is true.”

“Whatever. I’m out of here for now, but before the night is over you’re gonna have some visitors. Three of them. Once they’re through with you, you’ll be dying to join me.”

With a start Sam awakened. “Holy shit,” he said aloud. He cautiously felt the front of his pants and let out a sigh of relief. Dry. So it had been a nightmare. Shakily, Sam started the car and pulled back onto the interstate, anxious to put some distance between himself and the site of his dream. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard he realized he’d only been asleep for twenty minutes or so.

His mouth felt cottony and Sam decided to stop at the next town on his route to get some caffeine in his system. Already the nightmare had begun to fade. Sam shook his head and smiled at his own foolishness. “That’s what I get for eating greasy fast food after a funeral,” he thought.

At the Live Oak exit Sam located a mini mart and parked. Inside the store he grabbed a donut and poured a steaming cup of hot coffee. For good measure he grabbed a bottle of water and waited in line behind an elderly man at the checkout. The man was buying scratch off tickets and taking his sweet time.

“Give me two of them new ones,” the old man told the clerk. “No, not those, the ones next to them.”

“You want the ‘Devil’s Due’ game, old man?” the clerk asked.

“Might as well,” he cackled.”I’m deserving of it ain’t I?”

Sam cleared his throat and the man looked over his shoulder. “What’s your hurry. We all going to the same place.” he told Sam. “Least ways, you and me is.” Sam took a full step back as the man turned to face him. His white hair was long and stringy, his teeth yellowed from years of smoking. And damn! His breath smelled like rotten onions, slick with slime.

In a blink the old man grabbed Sam’s arm and transported the two of them out of the convenience store. For the second time that night Sam felt as if his heart was about to explode inside his chest. A high pitched scream emanated from his trembling lips as he and the ghoul, for that was what he must be, rose into the October night.

“You kept me waiting, boy,” the man growled. “You’ll pay for that, you will.”

Sam closed his eyes as he felt bile rise in his throat. His stomach fell as he and the old man dropped suddenly, landing with a thud.

“Open them eyes,” rasped the old man. “I said open them, now!”

Hesitantly, Sam dared a glance at his surroundings. “Whe-where are we?” he gasped.

“Where’s it look like boy?”

When Sam realized he and the old man were sitting on the topmost arm of an old elm tree he gulped audibly and steadied himself on the branch. One wrong move could send him plummeting to his death.

The old man growled, “it ain’t where we are, it’s where you used to be. Recognize the building down there?”

Sam looked down at the old three-story brick edifice. Every light in the building was on. At first, Sam couldn’t recall where he’d seen the building, then it came to him. Old Andrews Ward, the elementary school he’d attended in fifth and sixth grades.

Briefly, Sam forgot his fear. “My god! I remember this place. Eric and I met here when we were 10 or 11, but this old school was closed years ago. What’s going on here tonight?

“You’re seeing this place as it looked 47 years ago. Halloween 1967. You remember that boy?”

“I remember the carnival. Stupid kiddie games. Eric and I got kicked out for some reason.”

“That’s why we’re here,” the ghoul said. “I’m the ghoul of Halloween Past and you’re gonna get educated.”

The man wrapped his bony fingers around Sam’s arm and in a heartbeat Sam found himself inside the old school gymnasium. Black and orange crepe paper swags looped around the walls and festooned the booths set up on the edges of the room. Kids of all ages lined up to test their skills in tossing rings around bottles and scooping plastic fish from a tub of water. Kids bobbed for apples and had their fortunes told by a fake gypsy.

In spite of himself, Sam found himself grinning. He’d had fun here. That he remembered.

“See that girlie over there?” the man asked.

“Holy hell! That’s DeeDee Dunn!” gasped Sam. “She was the hottest girl in school. Eric and I both had the hots for her. We called her ‘Double D'”. For a second Sam’s memories made him smile.

“How about that girl?” the old man said, indicating a scrawny girl in the corner. “You ‘member her?”

When Sam saw the girl standing alone next to the far wall of the gym his face lost all color.

“Yeah, you know her all right. Little Scarlet Jackson.” The man’s evil grin turned on Sam. “You boys really taught her a lesson that night.”

Sam made an attempt to leave, but the old man held him firmly. “Yep, you and Eric got yourselves kicked out of the carnival that night. Just watch and remember.”

As Sam looked around the room he saw the 14-year-old versions of himself and Eric heading nervously towards DeeDee Dunn.

“Hey DeeDee,” crooned Eric. “Wanna come hang with me and Sam?”

DeeDee shook her head and gave the boys a polite, but vacant smile.

“Bitch,” whispered Sam. “She never even knew we existed. Thought she was too good for us.”

“Is that why you two turned over the table with the cakes displayed? asked the old man.

“We were just pissed off,” Sam said, watching his younger self help Eric heft the cakewalk table onto its side.

“But why did you two decide to mess with Scarlet?”

Sam watched as he and Eric sidled up to pitiful little Scarlet, smiling like they had something good to tell her. “I don’t know,” Sam replied truthfully. “I guess we just wanted to take our bad moods out on someone.”

When the school principal came charging up to banish the boys from the carnival, Eric grabbed hold of Scarlet’s hand and pulled her out the door with them.

“I don’t need to see this,” said Sam.

“Oh yes you do boy.” The old man cackled. “You need to know one of the reasons why Eric took his worthless life.”

It started out sweet. Both boys lied to Scarlet, telling her how beautiful she was. Eager for any kind of attention, the girl quickly fell under their spell. Eric led the trio to the football field and underneath the bleachers.

“Really,” says Sam. “I remember. Please don’t make me watch this.”

The old man tightened his grip on Sam’s arms, forcing him to watch the attack on Scarlet. The two boys threw the skinny girl on the ground and ripped her clothes off. They taunted her with insults, calling her a skank and a lowlife.

Sam watched as Eric held Scarlet down and then threatened her life if she told on them. Eric stepped aside and gestured for Sam to take a turn. But Sam shook his head, “no.”

“I didn’t do anything!” screamed Sam.

“You sure didn’t,” cackled the old man.”Not a damned thing.” He lunged for Sam, his clawed fingers poised to rip and tear.

Continue reading “Ghouls: All Together Now”

Fangirl

There are things in my life that I get a little geeky about. I’m already trying to figure out how to justify going to see Star Wars Episode VII on Christmas Day. I have full color action packed dreams about Han Solo and Chewbacca. That’s geeky.

But this post isn’t about Star Wars, it’s about me geeking out over a favorite author retweeting one of my tweets on Twitter. (Sounds a bit like Rockin’ Robin, doesn’t it?)

When I find an author I like I will read any and everything he or she has ever written. One of those authors is CJ Box. Mr. Box doesn’t write scifi or fantasy, my two favorite genres. No, he writes what I’d call modern western novels, set primarily in Wyoming. One of his protagonists is a game warden named Joe Pickett. 

I know Joe Pickett better than I do some members of my own family. Joe’s one of the really good guys in this world, but he’s not perfect. I’d like to think Joe and I could be best friends, but he’d think I talk too much. He’d be right. 

While driving around Tallahassee today after getting a pedicure:

 

green and sparkly!
 
I saw a sticker on a car window that read, “Blind Eye Outfitters” and all my warning bells started ringing. Blind eye, eh? Does that mean the outfitter will ignore violations of game laws? Instantly I wanted to touch base with Joe Pickett, and see if he should investigate.

Of course Joe is fictional, so I did the next best thing and tweeted CJ Box. Imagine my delight when he not only favorited my tweet, but then retweeted it! This geeky fangirl squealed a little, I’m not going to lie. 

  
Maybe CJ will notify Joe for me. It could happen.

Peace, people!

Sort of a Review of John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War Series

If you’ve followed my blog for any time you know that I’m a terrible reviewer. I either like something and continue to read/watch it, or I dislike it and close the cover/leave the theatre. I don’t offer my opinion on the bad ones; they’ve already taken enough of my time and energy.

John Scalzi is my new favorite author, and definitely worth my time. His novel, Old Man’s War, was brought to my attention by the good folks at Amazon during my never-ending search for something new to read. It is science fiction as its best–witty, thought-provoking, smart, and a tad irreverent.

  
John Perry, the main character of the first novel in the six-book series, has left Earth in his late 70’s as a recruit to the Colonial Defense Forces. The CDF’s mission is to “bear arms and to use them against the enemies of the Colonial Union, which might include other human forces.” 

The Colonial Union oversees the settlement of human colonies on other planets. Earth supplies all of the CDF recruits, but its various governments remain separate, intact, and ungoverned by the CU. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship; although, one that becomes increasingly more fragile as the story progresses.

Each book in the series might have one or more than one different perspective. At the beginning of each I’d think, “Crap! I want to hear this from John’s point of view or from Zöe’s perspective!” But within a few pages I’d be completely engrossed in the new tale and its protagonist. 

The best recommendation I can give is that I have suffered from severe book withdrawal since completing the sixth book in the series. How can the world continue when I’m so bereft?

Book two in the series

Peace, people!