The Fresh Maker

Hello, everyone! It's good to be back. Thanks to Chris McQueeney for getting me back on Blogger.

*****

Club wielding imps were nothing.  I took them out with some well-placed Mentos and a Pepsi bottle.  But the assassin sent more fantasy creatures to dispatch me.  There were creatively concealed as always.  My box of Corn Pops did not hold delicious corn bites, but rather, unicorns.  They came charging out as I poured milk in my bowl.  Unicorn Pops!  I screamed.  Luckily, I remembered Tinker Bell from Peter Pan and called out, “I don’t believe in unicorns!”  They burst into flames and died a horrible death.

I packed my belongings and prepared to move again.  If I kept going place to place maybe the diabolical zookeeper would lose interest.  Or he would run out of fantasy creatures.  I mean, really, how many could he spare?  I was about to find out.

Before I went to the store I put on a fake mustache and parachute pants.  If I picked items at random there was no way a pixie or unicorns could hide inside them.  I became so confident I grabbed some of everything: Mountain Dew, M&Ms, deli meats, and so on.

I opened the first can of Mountain Dew carefully and there were no monsters inside.  It looked like I had finally fooled my nemesis.  The M&Ms and deli meats were delectable together and I kept gorging myself until I had one left of everything.  That’s when it happened.  The can of Mountain Dew let out a rabid Mountain Dew Goat.  The M&Ms released the Minotaur from Greek mythology.  I had no weapons to defend myself and a serious case of indigestion.


This is the third installment in the Pop Wars Saga started with Sprite...followed by Rasher of Bacon and Club Soda by Chris McQueeney.

The Old Crone and the Princess

When I was a child, my grandmother read my siblings and me pages from a lost story book. This book had no author, title, or publisher. None of us could find out where it came from, and did not think to ask until long after grandma had passed away. I previously published a story in an old blog post about a year ago. I had hoped to get a few leads, but nothing came. This year I've decided to make it a free public domain book. You can find this book free on Smashwords and eventually Amazon. If I can think of how to create a free paperback, I will offer that as well. My main goal is to keep the memory of these stories alive for adults and children.  The title I gave the stories is taken from transition pages where an old crone tells the stories to a princess.

Available on Smashwords

Moonlight

We get it on most every night
When that moon is big and bright

Sid hummed along to the music.  He had every night for the past hundred years.  It was his curse:  The same song, the same restaurant, the same night for all eternity.  All for one thoughtless act he could never take back.

It's a supernatural delight
Everybody's dancing in the moonlight

She was young and he was drunk.  Sid thought she wanted him.  He was blinded by desire as he forced himself on her.  She screamed, but no one came except Sid.

Everybody here is out of sight
They don't bark and they don't bite

The guilt was overwhelming.  Sid woke to see a bloodied creature sobbing in the corner of his room.  He took her to the hospital, and confessed his sins.  It wasn't enough.

They keep things loose, they keep it tight
Everybody's dancing in the moonlight

He met her mother in the same restaurant he had found her daughter.  She stared daggers and he found the retribution comforting.  “I am not here to ease your guilt,” she said over her plate of cold eggs.  “I am leaving, but you aren’t.  You will stay here and remember every detail.  The courts can punish you for life, but I will for eternity.”

Dancing in the moonlight
Everybody's feeling warm and bright

Sid nursed a martini as she left.  He looked around the room and saw an empty booth.  No one sat there, and no one ever would again.  The busboys and servers passed it without notice.  It was their seat.  Or what would have been.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stalkerr/6056325607/

A Christmas Gnome Tale

Motty hated Christmas.  Every year was as disappointing as the last.  No, it wasn’t presents; those were the least of his worries.  Motty was a gnome and gnomes worked constantly.  They didn’t get holidays or sick leave.  The last of his kind to even mention vacation had been tied to a stump and left for dead.

This Christmas, however was by far the worst.  Motty had spent the previous holiday working in the mines and even that did not measure up.  The politicians decided the working class, like Motty, needed what they termed a calling to instill allegiance.  The high stratification of their class system left two options: a more equitable distribution of acorns or war.  Acorns didn’t budge and war was soon declared.

Motty mumbled to himself over the injustice as he marched outside his tree.  His neighbors and he were headed for what was surely certain death.  The gnomes of the rich neighborhoods could not be seen.  Motty assumed they were flying above on dragonflies, safe from harm.  They never marched or did much fighting.

The fairies hadn’t harmed a gnome in two hundred years but the politicians insisted they were planning to.  That’s who they would soon attack: the fairies of Evamorf.  Fairies were a shy lot obsessed with security.  Their hill was an impenetrable fortress.  None who ventured inside ever returned to tell the tale.

Ji Phi, the Gnome King claimed a fairy attempted to assassinate him.  His evidence was dust near his cup of tea.  No fairies were found but he stuck to his story.  The king never considered he spilled his sugar…

Motty gathered sticks to defend himself.  There were few weapons.  Potion bottles clanked in his satchel but they were not perfected.  Motty wanted to be a scientist working safely behind from the front.  He lacked the connections, however.  The posts often went to families of higher breeding, leaving the poor with fewer options.  Motty continued tinkering, trying new concoctions with little hope of it amounting to much.  Before the war he had almost finished a shrinking elixir.  It shrunk his coin purse and he didn’t eat for days.

The march was long and Motty’s mind continued drifting.  Much taller gnomes marched in front and behind.  He never saw what came ahead.

“Form ranks,” a distant voice said.  It must have been a general.

None listened.  Gnomes ran in every possible direction.  Motty dodged bare feet and boots before they smashed him.  It was chaos.  Commanders fired arrows from above on dragonflies.  They were not intended for the enemy. 

The gnome who marched in front of Motty minutes prior fell dead.  An arrow was lodged deep into his skull.  Advancing Fairies soon enveloped his body.  They were moving closer.  Motty threw his sticks down and ran for safety.  Hopefully his own commanders would not kill him.

Motty dodged the arrows from above but the spritely wings of fairies caught up with him.  He reached inside his satchel and his hand brushed by the potions he packed.  They weren’t perfected but he had to try them.

Motty closed his eyes and threw a vial behind him.  He ran for another five seconds before he had the courage to look.  It was an amazing sight.  The fairies chasing him had transformed to pink ornaments on a large pine tree with presents underneath.  For a moment both armies stopped fighting to gaze at its splendor and unwrap gifts.

Minutes passed and none resumed fighting.  The rest of the gnomes began dropping sticks and what other weapons they brought.  Fairies did the same with their pink daggers.  Laughter replaced the anguish of death.  The glittering of the tinsel shined bright enough the commanders could not aim from the sky and song broke out below.  Motty partially hummed, singing the words that he remembered and embracing his new friends.  A festive sweater covered the blood stains on his battle cloak.

Whether the battle resumed or not, it didn’t matter.  For the first time in a very long while Motty loved Christmas.

Agent Clarissa

This story was inspired by my friend, Melissa Craig and her mysterious background.

Clarissa was an agent for the Australian secret service.  She had spent her whole career infiltrating the mob and now it was ruined by a partner she hadn’t wanted in the first place.  She told the chief up front Mackenzie was no good.  But he didn’t listen.  The men at the station all thought she couldn’t handle herself.  It wasn’t true.  She’d taken on more than any of them had.  Who was at the casino the night Baby Face Cortez was moving the shipment?  Who broke it up?  Who bankrupted the biggest family in Sydney for almost a year?  It was all her: Clarissa Pfeiffer.  But the papers didn’t know and no one gave her credit.  She was undercover.  Glory wasn’t the point of what she did but, damn it, she could use a little.

Now, a gun was pointed straight at her head.  Clarissa wasn’t afraid of death.  She knew it was a part of life, especially in her line of work.  If they wanted to shoot her they would.  There was little she could do to stop them.  It only killed her no one listened.  Men never did; especially back at the department.

She remembered starting out; thinking she could make a difference.  The only place to go was up and Clarissa relished it.  Life was simple and clear-cut.  She didn’t worry over power games, or gender bias as a street cop.  She went wherever Sydney needed her.

Mackenzie stared at her with guilty eyes.  He was crooked.  But he hadn’t always been that way.  Mackenzie had been a good cop at one time or another.  He just let the job get to him; the long hours, the strain on his family.  He started looking for a way out.  That’s how the families turned cops; always offered them a little more than what they had.  On the city’s budget that wasn’t a hard thing to do.

A goon or two approached to disarm Clarissa.  One tried to cop a feel and she gave him a swift elbow to the groin.  He smacked her back across the face but she refused to flinch.  Mackenzie looked sick watching the whole scene.  He cared for her.  They had dated for a short while, before he met his wife, but things didn’t work out.  Their personal relationship started interfering with work and they called it quits.  It was mutual but both kept feelings for each other.  Or at least, Clarissa thought they had…

She was lost in thought and didn’t see one of the other goons come at her.  He grabbed her hair and forced her to a corner.  It was painful but she knew it would be over soon.  The mob didn’t waste time with undercover agents caught in the act.

“Mackenzie tells us, you’re a spy,” said the lead boss, punching her in the stomach.  “That’s good news for him but very bad for you.”

Clarissa coughed up a small amount of blood but refused to give him the satisfaction of begging.  That’s one thing he would never get from her.  She’d seen good cops after they broke; they were never quite the same.  It was one thing to have your body wrecked, but another thing to feel like you’d betrayed a cause you fought for and believed in.

“We’ll let you live.  We only want one, little thing.”  He was holding Clarissa’s cheek up as his goons held her back.  “Tell us the names of the other agents, Mackenzie didn’t know.”

“Eat shit,” replied Clarissa, spitting at his face.  He wiped it off and smirked at her.

“It looks like this one’s going in the river.”

The two goons grabbed her by both arms and led her out the door.  Mackenzie stood watching, hating himself for it.  She had loved him.  But, he couldn’t love her back.  She was too perfect.  Mackenzie needed to feel like he was better.  It was in his nature; why his relationships, especially his marriage, failed.

It was getting to him.  He needed the money.  He needed to get away.  But damn it, the way they were touching her.  It lit a fire inside him.  Those fucking goons, he thought as one forced a kiss on her lips.  She was getting closer to the door that led to the car that drove to the river.

The boss’s holster was within reach.  He wasn’t a careless crime lord.  He just knew a guy like Mackenzie didn’t have the guts to make the move and ninety-nine times out of a hundred he would have been right.  But, not the day they laid their hands on Clarissa.  He was married to someone else but she was his.

Mackenzie grabbed the gun.  In a flash he shot the boss and went running after the two goons.  They were surprised but unshaken.  Clarissa was pushed in the car by one while the other stayed to deal with the rogue informant. 

“Give her up and this won’t get ugly,” said Mackenzie.

“The pig’s already headed away.  There’s nothing you can do.  Maybe next time you shouldn’t turn in the girl you’re crushing on.”

“And maybe,” said Clarissa pointing a gun from behind him, “you shouldn’t leave an Aussie secret agent alone with your partner.”

Before he turned around she threw a punch and knocked him out cold.  He would join his partner, already handcuffed in the car.  In the meantime, however, Mackenzie and Clarissa were left to face each other.

“I didn’t think you’d come through,” she said.

“You know me.  I always stick to the plan.”

They didn’t waste more time talking.  Mackenzie ran up to Clarissa and wrapped his arms around her.  She did the same.  It was the moment both had waited for.  Their lips touched and soon more.  The criminals were watching but neither cared.  Clarissa undid Mackenzie’s belt.  He took off her shirt and started working on her bra.  Before long, they had made love in the grass nearby.

“So, what do we do now?”  Mackenzie asked.  Both were staring at the stars.

“I’m done with it.  I hope you are too.  Maybe we can settle down somewhere.”

“What will we do?”

“Oh, I have a few dreams.  I’ve always wanted to write erotica.”

They laughed together; Mackenzie not knowing she was serious.  But she was.  Clarissa had never been more certain.

My First Kindle Short: Witherspork!

Hello, everyone! I recently published my first short story on Kindle, Witherspork.  You might remember me posting some of it on the Spice way back when.  Well, I think it was a little lengthy for a series here, but you can read it all from start to finish now for just $1. Hope everyone gives it a shot!

The Adventures of Prince Preston

Our hero, Preston has just woke up. Deciding he is hungry, he grabs his keys and heads for White Castle, little expecting anything extraordinary to happen.

“What’s going to happen?” he says tiredly.

Nothing to worry over. Now, get in the car. And off, he went!

“But...”

Off... he... went. There’s a good chap. Down McNiven Street, a left at Broad and in he pulls, eager to begin an adventure!

“I don’t know what you think will happen. I’m just getting a slider and heading back to bed.”

Our hero opens the door. He approaches the counter. And what does he order? A slider! God save the queen, he orders a slider!

“This is getting really annoying,” he replies. But I’m not listening.

“Listen, there’s no way I can sleep with your disembodied yapping all night.”

Really now? I bet you aren’t expecting a trap door to open beneath you.

“Of course, I’m-” he begins but does not finish. For he fell through the very trap door I so wisely warned him of.

“Ouch,” Preston exclaims, rubbing his knee. The fall had took a heavy toll on his morale. He begins to question if his life is worth living.

“Oh, come, on. I’m not that bad off,” I hear him lie. Tears sprinkle his young eyes.

“It’s the pain for Christ sake, the pain!”

What’s that? A light shines ahead. Preston supports himself with the wall to move closer. Perhaps they might help him.

“Is anyone there?” he asks. No one replies. The light grows fainter. Preston runs after it, his heart pounding faster than his feet.

“Stop!” he yells. It stops, miraculously. Oh, the power of our hero! I marvel at it.

“Shh,” whispers Preston. “I need some quiet.”

But, why? I need to tell the audience what lies ahead. There could be a mighty dragon or a clever mouse on the piano!

“Okay, okay, just say it quietly.”

Preston inches forward, I narrate in the softest of tones. He turns the corner, entering an antechamber. A warm light envelops him. Could it be? Yes, it could! A clever mouse is playing the piano!

“But, why?” asks Preston.

It’s your adventure, young lad. I can’t go telling them everything.

He rolls his eyes at me, which he thinks is somewhere above him, and begins approaching the mouse who has kept playing the whole while.

“Hello, Mr. Mouse,” he stutters. “Might I ask why you’re down here in a tunnel beneath the White Castle?”

“The White Castle?” the mouse exclaims as he stops playing. “That is but one turret of the White Castle!”

“There’s more?” our hero inquires.

“So, much more. The Burger King sleeps deep within our halls, frozen by the Dairy Queen. Her and Lord McDonald have slowed his mind with special sauce and you alone may save him! What say you?”

A pause. The tension builds.

“I don’t know what the narrator’s trying to say, but sure. Sounds like a trip.”

The mouse steps off his stool. He bows before our hero presenting an offering of cheese.

“Long live, Prince Preston!” The mouse exclaims.

Sprite

I don’t know who’s reading this. You may be too late. If so, try not to go insane over the perplex situation of my corpse. The tiny bite marks and miniature hand prints around the throat area would be unsettling if not mystifying to most. But really, if I were you, I wouldn’t sweat it. These things happen. You just never read about it. I imagine this is because the media shies away from stories involving Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or in my case, fairies.

Just two hours ago, I wasn’t a believer either. In fact, I was the worst sort of skeptic and annoying debunker. I recall my nephew telling me how rainbows were God’s miracles. I broke it to him, they were an optical phenomenon only visible to human eyes by a mere accident of evolutionary development. He cried like a baby to his mother and I haven’t seen him since.

But, really, about the fairies. I stumbled on them in a peculiar way. You know how litterers throw cans and other trash out their windows? I had grown really tired of it, myself and decided to take action. Luckily, there was leftover celo-tape and paper in my desk drawer. Both are great for lifting fingerprints. The police would finally have the evidence they needed, I thought bagging evidence. What I didn’t count on, however, was a single can of soda. It was like most others; shiny, aluminum, etc. Yet, it was entirely unopened.

Why would someone in their right mind throw a whole can of Sprite away? I know some people prefer Coca-Cola or Pepsi, but really. A whole can!? It’s delicious and refreshing. That’s why I wiped it off and decided to drink. It was not my proudest moment but I popped the tab. I expected bubbly delight and sugary ambrosia. The contents proved to be more disappointing as a hundred fairies flew out at my face. The can of Sprite was full of sprites.

I called them gnats, I called them ladybugs, but neither insect screamed in childish delight. Nor did they have glittery, pink wings. Perhaps it was a hologram, I contemplated as I ran for dear life. Holograms are just projections, however, and in most cases decline to eat your face. My hands protected from the worst of it. But fairies were getting through the gaps, clawing mere inches from my eyelids.

That’s when I spotted the tool shed. I never kept tools in it, I just preferred the quaint look. Also, it made me seem handy and was therefore important to my dating prospects. Yet, quaintness and potential girlfriends were far from my mind as the need to have a face superseded. The shed was a haven. Fairies weren’t termites. They couldn’t chew through wood.

For a minute I felt safe in my accomplishment. I even gave fairies raspberries through the window. It proved to be a bad mistake. Fairies have hands and the shed had a doorknob. They turned it before I found anything to block their entrance.

Suffice to say, I was cornered and out of options. I tried explaining I wasn’t the one at the bottling plant who canned them. I even proclaimed my love of mischievous creatures in Shakespeare’s a Midsummer Night’s Dream. They didn’t listen and my eyeballs were far too tasty to ignore. I imagine they had the consistency of those round pears from the Chinese buffet, but can’t be sure. All I do know is it doesn’t pay to be a skeptic. You may think it does before a goblin attack or a unicorn stampede, but you’ll be wrong.

Battle of the Sexes Part 3

I wasn't a virgin. I had sex before the war started. And no, that does not make me some sort of slut who deserved what she got. I felt just as humiliated as any pure woman would. My heart crumbled just as fragile. I even blamed myself. But it wasn't my fault. He was an animal. Maybe society had crafted him but he was still responsible. If the law is all that keeps you from ravaging and killing women you are less than human.

As three men dragged my beaten body into an abandoned house, I told myself these things. I needed something, anything to draw my mind away from reality. How did they find me? I'd hidden for so long and the instance I came out from hiding it was over... Men were looking for any sex they could find. I guess I was it.

The pig, no worse than pig, was unzipping above me. I struggled and he hit me. My mother flashed through my mind; raped and murdered just as easily. My father protecting her; my sister leaving me; it was all surreal and yet too real. At times, before they had impunity, men pretended to be police, and got inside. That's how they killed her, my mother and the closest thing I ever had to a friend.

Oh, God, he was inside me. I wanted to throw up but threw my mind toward memories that were only slightly less horrifying. Father struggled. He was strong, maybe stronger. He could have won if not for the blade. It stabbed his side as I watched helpless from the stairs.

Nausea took me. Every thrust made me wish he'd end it all and slit my throat. Worse, my mind became focused on the living hell. He grabbed for my breasts and I had no will left to stop him. I heard a door opening. Was it heaven? Maybe God had come to take me away, if Satan had not already. It was impossible to tell before I saw her. She was not a demon.

A halo hung above a goddess with an automatic rifle. The worse than pig pulled out. I felt bleeding in full force. He rose toward her, moving inches seeming miles and was shot. The other two were next. I may have cheered if not for her own blood pooling on the carpet. "She was a hero," I thought, witnessing her body collapse. "I wish she hadn't paid the price."

Battle of the Sexes Part 2

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT

Women called it a Battle of the Sexes. We were just after the pussies God made for us. If that's wrong none of us cared. My buddies Buck, Tyson and I were winning, getting our fill. So were any women we came across. Most of the mature ones died off fastest. That left younger ones without hair on their cunts. I'm sure some born out of the struggle. Maybe twenty or so were my own kids. I only felt a little guilty. The pleasure made it worth while. Them girls were so lean and tender, like a fresh cut of veal. My mouth waters just thinking of it. I remember pulling one of these young calves into an abandoned house with my buddies. She was crying something fierce, maybe a virgin, if there were any left to be had. There'd be some blood, I thought, a little tearing but she'd be good and worn in my the time we all had our way.

I went first, thinking I'd make an honest women out of her. She screamed as I unzipped my jeans with one hand and pinned her with the other. Not an easy flower to unpluck but I was up to the job. A few squirms, a hit to her face and I was in. She wasn't wet but I took it in stride. Couldn't let the little slut enjoy herself too much. Her breasts were small but I grabbed onto them just the same. I missed the fuller ones. A ride was a ride so I pumped her a good five or ten times. That's when the door opened.

In walked this big-breasted goddess with an automatic rifle. I might've thrown the little git aside and gone for the main course if she hadn't fired rounds into me and my buddies. I got one shot off but that was it. I felt a twinge of regret, for her and the other women; a little respect for the bitch shooting. "She was a goddamn hero," I thought, hitting the ground, "and we all paid the price."

Battle of the Sexes

It ended sooner than we thought it could; the last and final battle of the sexes.  The battle for sex itself some said but they were mostly men.  The majority of women saw more; equality, an end to persecution, a host of other pipe dreams. I fought for something else entirely; myself. Ideology just got you killed. It made you a target. I'd seen too many head-in-the-clouds types get themself shot. The action takes place on the ground and you can't afford to be anywhere else.

I holed up in a basement, not hoping for things to get better so much as going down on my own terms. The fire fight still raged around me. I hadn't started it and I wouldn't finish it. There were no goals or strategies; just a gal and her automatic rifle. If vengeance took over for self-preservation, it didn't matter; not at this juncture. I wasn't coming out alive.

A door opened above me. I readied the trigger, waiting to fire. Two men were talking. They had a young girl with them. She clearly did not want to be with them. I felt for her; young, naive, thrown into a war of ceaseless ravaging. That's what it became in essence. Men grew tired of being men, reverting to their natural state. Some tried stopping it but only got themselves murdered by others. My father was one of them; the only decent man I'd ever known.

Her screams shook the walls. I smelled her fear. It wasn't that different from my first time. But it would be. I was alone; a penetrated wretch of guilt and shame. She had me. I readied my rifle once more, climbing the stairs.

I wasn't prepared for the sight but neither were they. Her bruised and broken state ignited a rage I promised myself would never get the better of me. I was idealistic as I fired rounds into a grotesque ape fondling the young girl. It was an unstoppable state. I penetrated the rest of them with bullets; disgusted and joyous at the same time.

The young girl stared at my moment of triumph. Or what should have been. I did not notice how I bled profusely. It hadn't seemed like I was hit. But I was. The room was blurred and spinning from control. I was a hero I thought hitting the ground, and I paid the price.

Gnome More War

It was a Sunday morning and far from curious. Some were mowing lawns, others reading papers; the normal malaise. No one suspected anymore than sunshine and even at that very pleasant sunshine.  Mr. Plant was complaining loudly on the davenport about the stock market in lieu of other things to yell over. His wife ignored him as she looked at invoices regarding a pilates business she was starting. Neither knew much of the other's affairs. Mrs. Plant assumed Mr. Plant spent his day working over new advertising strategies for companies teetering on the edge of collapse. Mr. Plant assumed Mrs. Plant was fighting a pointless battle for fitness; everybody ends up fat, he thought, why fight it? In a strange coincidence, however, so unlike the day we now find them, Mr. and Mrs. Plant could not have been more different from each other's expectations.

Mr. Gregory Joseph Zinfandel Plant could not have cared less about the stock market. He was a devout liberal with a cover. It seemed the perfect allusion; a middle-aged, stodgy, boring conservative business man. In truth, he wanted to slap his more ignorant peers.  They were so against helping anyone but themselves with tax dollars.  But he couldn't let on he differed in the slightest.  No one suspected him of illicit activities involving the liberation of garden gnomes; not his wife, not the neighbors, not even the government.

Mrs. Regina Georgia Lays-Potato Chips Plant was the opposite as well of what she seemed. Pilates disgusted her.  Quite often she mumbled over the hippie shit she endured to further her cause. Does this dress make my butt look big? Is my wasteline smaller than before? Isn't the Prius soo ecological? Mrs. Plant found her self hearing on a daily basis. She wanted to shout that their asses always looked big; their wastelines were equators and the Prius couldn't make it through a windy day. But she held back. Her real life was a crusade against garden gnomes. For years he had worked behind the scenes, imprisoning the filthy creatures into plastic and selling them at maximum profit.

Yet, both were similar in one respect; neither could have contemplated the hoard of heavily armed gnomes soon marching past their kitchen window.  Mr. Plant was outraged less at the occurrence than at the timing.  This was not what he had in mind.  Weapons were given with instructions to overthrow the authorities covertly.  Mrs. Plant had assumed them all in plastic; her life's work nearing completion.

"I've got to, um, go," said Mr. Plant, getting up off the sofa and quickly to the door.  She ran after him.  The outside air was rich with the smell of gunpowder. Indeed, it appeared cannonballs had smashed the roofs of several unsuspecting neighbors.

"How did the despicable vermin manage to break their plastic encasement?" Mrs. Plant thought loudly to herself.  The words were not missed by Mr. Plant, who had long suspected agents watching him.

"YOU!"

"What's the matter hunny?"

"You are responsible for the enslavement of millions!"

"Oh, please.  These pests running about?  It's a good thing we were taking care of them or else we would never have a moment's piece; always running around, organizing gardens against the owner's wills and what not."

"They are prideful creatures respecting beauty and the proper order! I've worked years to liberate them!"

"YOU! You're responsible for the counter insurgency!?"

The gnomes had stopped marching and were now watching with interest. Their greatest supporter and their greatest rival stood before them.

"Carry away the wench!" said one, "and crown the king!"

A few last shots were fired before the gnomes converged on Mrs. Plant. They tied her up as Mr. Plant said little of it. He waited for the crown before giving his first orders. It was a lovely gold with jewels embedded along the topmost prongs.

"My first order as King is a pardon," he said.

The gnomes laughed derisively. Mr. Plant had obviously misunderstood something.

"King is a ceremonial position.  You have no power.  The wench will live the rest of her soon-to-be agonizing life in the dungeons!"

"The wench is my wife!"

"Then you can join her!"

"Fine!"

"Too late. She's already taken her cyanide capsule.""

"What!?"

Mrs. Plant was dead and Mr. Plant seeing his lifework a conspiracy and farce took off his crown. His neighborhood was burning; the fires spreading to God knows how many others.  What had he unleashed?

"Please, stop all this! We're sorry we hurt you!"

"Apology accepted, but, unfortunately, it's our turn to be sorry."

Negotiation was useless.  Mr. Plant had one option; the same as Mrs. Plant's. He bit down on a capsule and transcended to the oneness of the universe he used to think he felt while doing acid.

The Fall

I grew up in a place without trees.  There was no grass.  Yards were concrete and we dreamed of flowers.  Sometimes my brother and I would draw them with chalk.  It wasn’t the same.  We had only ever seen pictures on the TV; they were vibrant, beautiful and far away.  I sometimes touched the pixelated petals, imagining them soft, fragrant, in a vase or garden I could touch.

 

Seasons never came.  In the same way we dreamed of flowers we dreamed of snow or autumn leaves.  A long time ago children made snow angels, leapt into piles of fresh foliage.  There was a oneness with nature in the old films.

I will never forget the day that it was almost autumn.  My brother and I had finished downloading education for the day into our cerebral processors when it happened.  A leaf blew into the yard, just visible out our window.  We rushed to see it closer.  Another fell and then another.  It was a beautiful spectacle.  I raced my brother out the door.

Like children from another century piles of dark brown crinkled leaves lay before us.  I ran with all the speed I could gather and jumped.

Strangely, it was not the sensation I imagined.  I coughed as black dust stung my eyes.  My clothes lit up with the tiniest embers.  The sky was black and growing blacker.  From the distance a factory of immense proportions loomed.  Our leaves weren’t leaves but paper burnt and littered on the ground.

Eve v. God

Eve sued God today in federal court for damages cited under the Americans with Disabilities Act.  “I was a diabetic,” she said in a recent press release.  “I couldn’t just turn down an apple with my blood sugar the way it was.”

The defense counters Eve was not an American citizen at the time of the incident and therefore not entitled to the act’s protection.  Her lawyers responded she was the mother of all American citizens.  The defense paused for thought at having heard this and proceeded to scratch their heads at a loss for words.

“Her and Adam’s eviction,” Eve’s lawyer stated, “was unwarranted, unethical and illegal.  Would God have kicked a paraplegic out of Eden for taking a crutch?”

In further developments, the serpent is getting in on the action.  He also claims himself as a victim; of defamation from God.  He recently was quoted saying he had only prescribed Eve necessary medicine for her continued well-being.  “God has blighted my good name and reputation,” he told reporters.

Could this develop into a class-action?  Analysts are saying it might.  Stayed tuned to Channel 3 news for the latest!

Caged

The bear ate honey in the forest.  Or what it thought was a forest.  The limbs flickered and a blowing sound emitted from the floor.

“Don’t mind the noise,” a soothing voice said.  “Get back to doing bear stuff.”

“What sort of bear stuff?” The bear replied.

“You know… fishing, hunting, playing with your friend Piglet?

“I’m sorry.  That’s not me.  I need to feel motivated.  What’s my motivation?”

“You don’t need motivation; you’re already a bear!”

“You’re a human but I’m not expecting you to act like Roy Rogers and Clint Eastwood.  How ignorant!”

“Jeff,” the voice whispered.  “Turn on the gas.  It looks like another won’t cooperate.”

“Whatever you say, Bill.”

A green cloud began to fill the room.  The bear merely continued staring at horizon it had figured out was two-way glass.  Impending death had not changed its demeanor, but rather gave a curious expression in the place of fear.

“I surmise,” choked out the bear as its lungs began to give, “you’d like to know what you’ve done wrong in this experiment.”

“We don’t need advice from lesser mammals.  If you were intelligent at all you’d be the one gassing us.”

“I’m going to tell you, regardless.  The obvious explanation is you can’t play God expecting results in your favor; the less obvious being, bears will generally eat fish over honey in their environment.”

The room became completely obscured with gas.  The bear did not use the situation to its advantage for escape, however.  It merely lied down as if going to sleep, happy to have the hard part of its journey over with.

“That one sure didn’t put up a fight.”

“You expected it to?”

“Well, yeah, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m human; my life means more.”

“But will your death in the end?”

“Really!?  You’re getting pretty philosophical.”

“Let’s just bring in the next bear.”

Another bear walked out identical to the first in appearance.  It was not clear where the corpse of the other had gone.

“What do you say we let this one live for a while, maybe get it some fresh fish?”

“I’d say you’re losing your nerve.”

“Didn’t you hear what that other bear said?”

“No.  You heard a bear talking?”

“Yeah,” Bill said nervously.  “Didn’t you?”

“I think you need a break…”

“No… please… I’m really all right!”

These were the last words Bill remembered speaking to Jeff.  He slowly opened his eyes inside the bear pen that was no longer a bear pen.  Bill was back in his college dorm room.  The familiar swimsuit calendar hung on the wall with posters of his favorite bands.  He ran up to his roommate, Zach, he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty-years.  "Hey, man, want to go play some Frisbee in the quad?"  Zach didn't respond.  Bill noticed him flicker.  A familiar blowing sound emitted from the floor.

Bill felt his lungs begin to seize.  The room was filled with greenish haze.  He ran with all his strength toward where he thought the two-way glass must have been.  When he fell over, he crawled.  Jeff was not ready to die.  He refused to accept it.  The lights were dimming; he knew it had nothing to do with the electricity.

As he lay, finally immobilized, he saw the other bear, the dead bear, sitting where his friend had been mere moments before.

“Help me!  Please!  I can save you too!”  Bill thought more than talked.  He was barely capable of whispering.

“So naïve,” the bear said before vanishing and leaving Bill to his fate.

The Cola Wars

Some say Coke fired the first shot.  Others say Pepsi.  Regardless, it began the long and arduous struggle known to the victors as World War Zero, named respectively for Coke Zero.  Some interpreters will still cling to the usage World War One, named for Pepsi One and not that other thing in 1914.  They are few and far between.

It is hard to make sense of the carnage that ensued.  Casualties are still undetermined.  The last struggle on the peaks of Mountain Dew alone weighed in at over ten thousand ounces in blood.  The two companies insist on measuring blood spilled in ounces even as the world community at large pleads that they convert to milliliters.

Pepsi from the outset was faced with a severe shortage of resources.  They invaded Boeing and almost succeeded at stealing their aluminum.  Several valuable airplanes were left Swiss-cheesed in the process.  Coke, aligned with Lockheed managed to repel the invasion.

Allies looked as scarce as resources to the taste of the next generation.  Coke had already acquired Dow Chemicals, Intel and Wells Fargo on their side.

Pepsi was forced to catch up.  They therefore aligned themselves with Aunt Jemima in hopes their sugar would prove useful.  Quality production Pepsi assumed would help them beat the Coca Cola hegemony.  They were very wrong.

Dow dropped chemical dirty bombs from B-2s day and night on Pepsi headquarters resulting in horrific genetic deformities.  Intel viciously disabled computer systems, isolating Pepsi from the outside world.  Wells Fargo froze all assets available bringing them into financial ruin.

As the Coca-Cola trucks closed in a blockade began. Unconditional surrender was called for.  The employees of Pepsi had no reply.  They kept on producing as Coke hammered away at their defenses.  Live Wire was strung up but easily plowed through.  Sierra Mist came to nothing with the use of night vision goggles.

Faced with total annihilation the CEO of Pepsi decided to lay down his arms, which were both blown off in an explosion mere minutes before.  Thus ended the most costly struggle in beverage corporation history.

Dragonsbreath

Once upon a time, at the foot of a mountain, there stood a small town known as Dragonsbreath.  It was an unusual place to settle brought on by even more unusual circumstance.  A nomadic tribe, the Kulates, had founded Dragonsbreath after wandering lost in a blizzard for four days without water or food.  Most would have perished.  The Kulates, however, against all odds emerged from the frozen tundra to find green grass and trees.

They picked fruits and laughed together, marveling at how good fortune had finally, at long last, shined down on them.  But their joy was short lived.  The blue sky they had thought to herald triumph suddenly became a dark, dark red.  An immense flapping caused all to cover ears.  Loud, shrill cries took place of laughter as what little there was left of sun became eclipsed with massive wings.

In the spirit of their ancestors who had lived to face far worse, none fled.  They stood their ground as three enormous dragons descended down in front of them.  The men, bows strung up towards the mighty heads, guarded women and children behind.  They would block the path of the dragons in as great defense as they could make.

“People of Kulate,” one of the beasts said approaching.  Arrows released but were quickly incinerated midair.  “My sisters and I mean you no harm,” the voice continued, “our fires have long kept this valley warm and vibrant.  We offer its sanctuary to you who have bore so much in way of trial.”

The other two dragons did not speak.  They merely bowed as the speaker stepped back and flew away leaving the people stunned in wonderment.

Generations passed and the exchange became legend.  Debatable passages were added to the speech as it was continually retold.  The dragons, some said, came from a distant land, disgusted with the excesses of their kind.  They arrived to live above the Kulate whom they envied and admired.

A select few still claimed to feel the Sister’s warmth within the valley, or within them, even as outside the world remained a frozen wasteland.  But the more rational of the Kulates discounted such nonsense as religious hocus pocus.  The weather, they said, was clearly a force apart from any Gods.

Children through the ages did not take philosophy into account.  They often told stories, sang songs and drew pictures for the mighty dragons.  Bolder ones would climb onto the mountain itself and leave their offerings.  Occasionally the offerings were found to have disappeared the next day.  Parents were seen suspect by those most astute.

Little changed in this way for many centuries.  One day, however in the 635^th year was very different.  The climate, always so temperate took on the opposite extreme from outside its boundaries.  Grass dried.  Sun burned.  Children played outside less and less and always early in the day.  Something in the air was different.  Had the dragons grown upset?  The town, despite those faithless, still delivered its yearly offering of livestock.  Did they want more?

The elders approved an emergency sacrifice.  A quarter of all livestock were burned high up in the mountain.  Still… nothing.  The temperatures continued to climb.

Was it a freak heat wave?  The logical said yes.  Too much manure was being burned in fires.  The townspeople had to cut back.  The solution, however, did not resonate with those in panic, seeking blame.

These early alchemists were strung up and left to wilt.  Disbelievers were to blame!  The elders did nothing to stop the onslaught of mob violence.  If sacrifice had not worked, they surmised, the dragons must have been irate at those doubting their grandeur and those suffering their sacrilegious thoughts as well.

It only got worse.  Soldiers were sent up into the mountains in attempt to reason with the dragons.   Children themselves were given in tribute.  Every family surrendered their youngest for the greater good.

No soldiers returned.  Those scaling the brutal rocks, however, were forced to endure the smell of burning flesh – sometimes, most assuredly from children of their own.  Bodies of a great many were seen mangled at the base, as if they had leaped in anguish to their death.  They were ignored and left to rot in the ever hotter sun with disbelievers.

Hope dwindled and the sweet winds took hold.  Outside air was no longer safe for human habitation.  The breeze seared flesh, leaving corpses that no longer reeked.  They smelled appetizing and were seen as much worse.  The Kulate had long been without food and some gave into the unforgivable temptation that presented itself.

The conditions of myth and legend appeared to be returning.  The sky was dark red fire once again.  If ever it appeared the dragons were returning it was then.  Every noise began to sound as flapping to those delirious with thirst.  The remaining hardly trusted their own eyes when the three dragons finally returned.

“People of Kulate,” the now ancient voice spoke “we have returned.  I gather few of you remain.  This is for the best.  Over the past six centuries my sisters and I have watched you murder in our name.  This was never our intent.  We are not Gods but you have made us into them.  It seems today that role is fulfilled.”

The heat lifted as those left emerged.  A young man, thin and filthy spoke “What have you done to us?”

“My sisters and I are cooking you.  You have offered us your faithless and children and now we want more!”

“We only sought to appease you!” An older woman yelled.

“That is a strange way of doing so.  Your faithless were right, it was a heat wave, and your children were pure.  They alone showed us true faith and love.  And your gift to us is killing them?”

“It wasn’t an easy choice – at all!” Another said.

“Yet you still made it.  We will leave you now.  May the winds marinate your flesh, so that we may have a worthy meal, lest we return, which we sincerely doubt.”

The heat began to rise again.  One or two people raced back inside but the rest remained.  There was no fighting the reality.  Their ancestors, who had risked everything and more defending the Kulate people, had been brought to shame.  Why hadn’t they lived up the great legacy passed down?  None had answers.

In the distance the three dragons could be seen.  They were carrying something – somethings!  Those left of the children and faithless were finding a new home.  Those remaining in the heat felt marred bliss watching from afar as their last breaths withered and their eyes closed.

Nature reclaimed the town in years after.  White snow fell year round making the plateau no different from the rest of the icy tundra surrounding it.  No green grass returned, no blue skies could be deciphered.  Yet, if you were lost and weary you might spot stones.  They would be severely cracked as writing stood out perfectly; each inscription dedicated to the most noble of Kulates.

The Almost Deleted Story

I started writing a story earlier this week.  I was really excited as I thought it up in the car and got home to write it.  But, it didn't quite turn out as I would have liked.  I finished the second part the next day and just felt nothing was working as I imagined.  So, I tinkered and thought over the plot and writing over the course of the week.  Considered just deleting it, coming back to the idea later.  The thought of throwing five pages of writing away though didn't seem right.  So, I figured for good or ill, for smiley or frowny face, I would just post it on here and see what suggestions you might all have.

*****

Dev

Life changing experiences are few and far between in the span of a lifetime.  I’ve heard it and I’m sure you’ve heard it too.  We go to school, we graduate, we work, we maybe get married, have kids and then we die.  That’s the macro view of things.  But, occasionally something comes along and throws us so far off course, that such notions, as true as they are for the majority, appear ridiculous.

My comfort zone and easy going path in life were interrupted one July night, now five years ago.  I couldn’t tell you the exact date – too much had happened much too quickly.  But what I can say is sufficient that you’ll get the point.

It was after work and I had gone out to a nightclub with some friends.  It was just one of those workdays where we needed a good deal of drinking and dancing to get by.  The club provided both to excess. 

In the chaos of hitting on women, showing them my grandpa's old switchblade, dancing and consuming ever more alcohol I managed to meet someone.  This, someone happened to be famous.  It was an odd feeling when you could barely remember your own name to talk with someone you admired.  Her name was Dev.  You know, the girl who sang in the song Like a G6?  It had been one of my favorite tunes when it came out.  Unfortunately in my advanced inebriation I began singing it to her.  She laughed a strange laugh that seemed almost techno.  I knew my mind was going south and I had to seal the deal quick.

“You want to go back to my place?” I asked her, just barely audible over the noise of the club’s music.  Strangely she consented.  I must have asked almost over twenty other women the same thing that night with no success.

We went back to my apartment.  I can’t recall for sure if we took a cab or if she had had a driver of some sort.  The next thing that I know for sure, however, was that we were making out, my hands moving swiftly up her back.

She took off her shirt and we headed for the bedroom.  Her body seemed cold but I ignored it in the anticipation of getting laid.  It’s what any guy would do in the same situation, I surmise.  There’s a million girls with frigid skin, right?  Maybe not as cold as Dev’s but close.  It was like she had rested on top of steel girders or something.

These thoughts stayed in the back of my mind as much as I wanted to dismiss them.  Even as I continued to feel her up, go down on her, she seemed to lack a certain warmth.  Something was very different inside Dev, however.  There was warmth, at long last, in abundance.  I was consumed, feeling like I might have never stopped.  I went for ten minutes, twenty minutes, past an hour.  The ten alone was a record.

After the hour passed however, my amazing drunken luck began to change.  Dev’s breathing slowed.  She stopped moving.  I didn’t feel a heartbeat.  In a frenzied panic I ran over to the nightstand where I had hastily placed my cell phone.  I never got the chance to dial 911.

Men in white coats broke through the door, restraining me.  I was pinned to the ground as they hit my stomach and tied a rag over my eyes.  I caught one last glimpse of Dev in the apartment.  It appeared as if she were open; an assortment of wires sticking out her chest cavity.  But that couldn’t be the case…

I was pushed down along a flight of stairs and into a car.  The driver made several jerking turns as if he thought I was memorizing the way.  I was too consumed with questions however, to plan a daring escape.  Who were these men?  What did they want with Dev?  Why did they need me?

We drove and drove; much longer than the required route I’m sure.  None of the kidnappers talked with each other and I had no interest in talking myself.  The legal part of my mind told me I should wait for a lawyer.  But, it was obvious from the way Dev and me were abducted that, if this was indeed any part of the government, it would not be held accountable.  Such was the way of the military…

The next voice I heard was after I had been led out of the vehicle and inside some sort of facility.  I didn’t need to see to realize it as some sort of laboratory.  The grass and air outside smelled over manicured and highly treated in the way an industrial firm will try and compensate for the debasements of nature occurring inside.

“Hello,” I heard.  The blindfold had still not been removed.

“I bet you wonder why we’ve brought you here,” the cold, officious voice continued.  I didn’t reply.  “I suppose it’s best to uncover your eyes now.”

He must have motioned to assistants as I could finally see once more.  My eyes struggled adjusting to a bright, white light and continued to sting for several minutes after.  I imagine I had brought it on from trying to focus too quickly.

“As your eyes adjust, let me tell you a little about ourselves.  We are an industry known as Fabrilite.  The name is not meant to be creative.  If anything, it is what you might call inconspicuous.”

I could finally see something.  There were people in the same white suits from before, some of them I recognized and the man who had been speaking.  He wore a business suit as if he were a bureaucrat or politician of some kind.

“From your squinting, I can guess you see more clearly.  So, take a good look; indulge!”

He smiled as I turned my head from side to side.  He had clearly got the reaction he was looking for.  All around me, with the exception of the straight aisle we were standing in were celebrities; gorgeous celebrities!  Beyonce was no more than two feet away; I could reach out and touch Rihanna!

I did just that.  But she didn’t acknowledge me.  I wondered if it was the callousness of fame or something else.

“Do you notice anything peculiar?” the suit-clad man began once more.

“They aren’t blinking.  They aren’t… breathing.”

“And why do you think that is?”

Once more, my instinctive response of silence took hold.  The scientists in lab coats were carrying a heap of something and laying it on the floor in front of us.  But it wasn’t a heap it was Dev…

She was in worse shape than before.  I ran over to her and stopped halfway in my tracks.  I hadn’t imagined the wires… they were mangled, tied and sticking out in droves from her pried open chest cavity.

“What have you done to her!?” I accused to no one in particular.

“We brought her… home.  Dev had strayed significantly off course tonight.”

“You’ve kidnapped her, you’ve kidnapped all these people!  They need medical attention!”

“Oh, how very thick you are.  These celebrities are far from kidnapped.  They were born here and this is where they come at night to charge.”

“You’re insane!”

“No, it would appear that you are simply ignorant.”

“Is Dev dead?” I asked, suddenly caring solely for her.

“Of course not.  Dev was never alive in the first place.”

“Don’t say that!  We shared something together!”

“I’m afraid your intimacy with this creation was no more than would be gained from an internet porn site.  Most, if not all, pop stars, if you have not figured it out, are robotics manufactured for the entertainment industry.”

“What?” I replied stunned, putting years of evidence together in my mind.

“Pop stars are the perfect advertisers; more noticeable than billboards, more enduring than commercials.  They sell albums, movies, magazines, cosmetics, concert tickets… a nearly endless range of products.”

“B-but why robots?”

“There needs to be some element of control.  Humans as a species have trouble processing the sheer amount of attention required in being celebrities.  They kept burning up.  We needed more staying power.  Fabrilite has allowed the industry to streamline the process.  All that’s required is the occasional rogue entity to make the farce appear more real.”

“Rogue entity?”

“Oh, yes.  Occasionally a celebrity will commit suicide or overdose.  This has all been planned far in advance.  We also make movies stars.”

“So, is Cher, you know?”

“Real?  Yes, Cher is indeed the real deal.  We can’t create all, only most.”

“Why did you bring me here and tell me all this?”

“You had seen too much; became a risk.  Contrary to popular belief secret organizations cannot merely wipe memories.”

“So, do I swear an oath of secrecy?”

“No, we would kill you over doing that.  We have grander plans.”

Dev stirred.  A mechanic of some sort was on the floor looking her over.  “Boss,” he said getting up “she’s totaled.” 

“Murray, call Entertainment Tonight,” the boss replied, “tell them she had a drug overdose.”

“She’s still moving!” I yelled seeing her fingers reach out.

“It’s much easier and cheaper to move on.  Besides, she was merely a robotic.  Did you get this attached to your Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots as a kid?”

“She’s more than that!”

“Yes, so we’ve heard.”

“No, I felt skin, I felt life.”

“Well, not all of Dev was faked.  We did use some real flesh from a struggling singer.  But you can’t expect us to create everything.”

“Then she is alive!”

“No, she just has parts of someone who was living.  Believe me, there’s a difference.  A picked scab does not qualify as a living being.”

“Let us go!” I said as a team of people restrained me.

“You can’t possibly expect us to concede to that demand, given all you now know, so why say such a thing?”

I had no response again.

“Now, as for you.  What do we have in store?  I have a feeling you already know.  Despite that last statement you aren’t completely stupid.”

“You’re going to… use my flesh?”

“Yes, quite a bit, actually.”

“How much?”

“Let’s just say you won’t even miss it.”

I reached inside my pocket.  Through some stroke of luck they hadn’t taken the old switchblade.

“Are you ready to join Dev?” he said approaching me.  I never gave him the chance.  With a swift movement I stabbed his stomach.  He backed away with blood on his hands and stumbled to the ground.

The others began advancing.  I knew I had to grab Dev and take her with me.  The metal composing her body was lightweight.  I easily picked her up as I had when we made love mere hours, seeming days, before.

Her hand grasped mine as we ran toward the exit.  Her eyes flickered open but only just and momentarily.  She was far from recovery.

Against all odds we managed to steal the large van parked outside and escape.  I can’t say to where, but it’s not so bad.  People don’t ask questions and I can work rebuilding Dev.  She’s beginning to remember again.  Small things.  Her old name, Jessica.  The real town she grew up in.  Little by little she’s becoming more than living.  She’s becoming human.