I feel slightly ungrateful, because while it's nice to have not been eliminated, I'm kind of bummed that I went through all that anxiety for nothing. Even when Gary doesn't intend to mess with our heads, the universe does it for him.

Poll #1842542 Act of God!
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 16

My response to this weeks sudden lack of elimination was...

Speculation on exactly what sort of evil we will encounter this week is also welcome.

ETA: No new topic until late Monday. This makes me feel slightly better because by then, hopefully I'll feel inspired to write again. Right now I'm still decompressing from all the up and down this week!

(Wonder if our deadline will be in the middle of the week. That'll be rough.)

Since it's a contestant-only vote this week, once you're done voting there is nothing to do except sit here and stew. So if you're like me and need a poll to watch, HERE IT IS!

( clicky )

Feel free to link to this - I'm also going to post it in the Green Room if a post ever goes up. :D

This entry is an unofficial intersection with the awesomely twisted alien_infinity, whose entry can be found here - it may be advisable to read hers first. It's also part of the same story as my entry from last week but is meant to stand on its own. For those who have read last week's piece, this one takes place a few months earlier.



I don't know where I am or how I got here. There are bright lights in my face and they're blinding me. Something whooshes by me, so hot and heavy that it almost knocks me down. Horns blare.

Car.

My brain is sluggish, weighted down.

"HEY, LADY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

Another enormous whoosh of air follows the shouting voice. I lurch away from the headlights and horns, tripping as my feet hit the curb. I fall onto the sidewalk, scraping my hands and tearing the knees of my jeans.

Oh god, not again.

My head is spinning and I'm sick to my stomach. Sitting on the pavement, I clutch my knees and take huge gulps of the night air. The memories are like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

* * * * *
I'm surrounded by a curtain of heavy gray mist. A great crash rips through the air - I think it's thunder until the fog parts to reveal an enormous black egg. As I watched, figures begin to emerge from it - dark, human-shaped creatures with wings the color of blood. Though I can't make out any features, even their shadows are so terrifying they steal my breath.

* * * * *
A siren is wailing not far away. Blue lights wash over me as a police car pulls up to the curb. The officer steps out; he is tall with white hair and a kind face. "Do you need some help, miss?" he asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My chest is tight; my heart jackhammers against my ribs. I'm breathing in ragged gasps. My hands are clenched into claws, fingers tingling. I start to wonder if I'm going to die right here on the sidewalk.

"Miss? Do you need medical assistance?"

I'm drowning. The cop's voice is tinny and distant. I nod.

"Try to stay calm. I'm calling an ambulance."

His radio crackles and I hear him speak into it. Then he's sitting beside me on the pavement, telling me to try and take deep breaths.

Riiiight, I think, if it were that simple, I'd have been doing it all along.

He's still speaking, and his voice is low and soothing. My breathing starts to slow and the crushing pressure in my chest begins to ease. All the strength drains out of me; my limbs feel impossibly heavy. I slump forward and rest my head on my knees.

More sirens. Strong hands grasp my shoulders and lift me to my feet. Everything is a blur. There are voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. My eyes are closing; I just want to sleep.

* * * * *
I'm crouched in the corner of an immense room with walls of alabaster. At one end of the cavernous space is a throne with a man perched atop it. The man is draped in a ridiculous furry purple cloak and gold robes and wears a crown dripping with gaudy jewels. On the other side of the chamber, a slender girl with a dark brown ponytail and blue eyes stands, straight as a board. The bejeweled man studies her with almost clinical detachment.

* * * * *
I open my eyes and blink against the glare of harsh fluorescent lights. The world swims into focus - bright white sheets and sterile machines. Everything feels hazy and unreal. A young woman with blue eyes and dark hair pulled into a ponytail smiles at me. Though she doesn't look much older than me, I recognize her as Dr. Weston. She hands me some water in a paper cup.

The questions begin.

Do you know your name?

Yes! An easy question. "Sam. Sam Jenkins."

Do you know why you're here?

This one is harder. I'm not sure what happened to me. The last sane thing I remember is being in my dorm room on a quiet Friday evening. My roommate Kat was out and I was sipping a cup of coffee that was mostly cream and sugar. I sat down at my desk to write. After that, nothing makes sense.

The doctor with the ponytail is watching me, waiting for an answer I don't have. I shake my head.

Is there someone we can call?

Oh! I know this one. Without hesitation, I give her Daisuke's number.

He arrives twenty minutes later, eyes sleepy and hair sticking out at odd angles. I wonder idly what time it is. He leans in and hugs me hard. I'm aching all over, but I don't complain.

"Nice hair," I tease him after he breaks the embrace. He doesn't look amused.

"Are you going to tell me what happened this time, Sam?"

Shit! I haven't given much thought to what exactly I'm going to tell him. He's my best friend, and I should be able to tell him the truth. The only problem is that the truth makes me look delusional.

"The doctor said I had a panic attack," I hedge.

"A panic attack? Was it related to - " He doesn't finish. His eyes are big and scared.

"I still haven't told anyone about that," I say.

"Are you going to?" he asks.

"I don't know what to tell them," I say, choking back tears. "Daisuke, I think I'm losing my mind."

He grabs my hand and squeezes it, and I want to tell him everything.

"They found me wandering in the street," I say. "I don't know how I got there."

My words catch in my throat. In my mind's eye, I see myself telling him about the demons in the mist. I was in another world, I say, and then all of a sudden I was in the middle of the street. I imagine his eyes going hard as he looks away.

"The last thing I remember is being in my room," I lie, and leave it at that.

* * * * *
The girl fixes the man on the throne with a defiant stare. Then her gaze shifts downward to a carpet of iridescent glass eggshells. Lifting her head high, she steps forward onto the shards of glass. Streams of crimson drench the ground beneath her bare feet, but she appears not to notice. In no time, she's reached the other side, crossing a river of her own blood to get there.

* * * * *
Knock knock knock. The rapping of knuckles against my door rouses me from a thick and dreamless sleep.

"Samantha, it's time for your meds!" says a disembodied voice.

"It's Sam," I grumble without even opening my eyes.

The light flicks on, and I lift my eyelids just enough to see a young male nurse who hands me a cup of pills. Without asking for water, I knock them back so he'll leave. When he's gone, I groan and bury my face in my flimsy institutional pillow. Since I've been here, it feels like I've done nothing but sleep - but I'm still exhausted.

Despite what Daisuke says, I know I can't come clean to Dr. Weston. Talk of acid trips and winged creatures that hatch from eggs will only earn me another admission to Rainey Institute. Even though it's probably where I belong, I don't want to go back there. My memories of my last stay at the psychiatric hospital are a blur of pills in paper cups and sleep filled with too-real dreams.

Kat came to see me on my first day at Rainey, armed with a bag of my clothes, a mylar balloon that said "Get Well Soon" and a batch of homemade brownies. Though I did my best to feign interest in her breezy chatter about things back at school, her easy smile soon grew strained. She bit back questions while I chewed my nails, knowing I'd never answer. She left after thirty minutes - there was nothing more to say.

She never visited me again. None of my friends did, except Daisuke.

He showed up for visiting hours every day, despite the fact that I wouldn't tell him the whole story. The first day, he bombarded me with questions, but I stared at my feet and didn't respond. After that, he stopped asking - I think he was afraid of the answers. So am I.

I remember sitting in group therapy while a girl named Mary monopolized the entire session. She told us she was at Rainey to hide from a group of scientists and politicians who were stalking her. "They're out to get me," she said, "because I know The Truth."

Though she couldn't tell us what The Truth was, They had taken control of everything in her life to prevent her from revealing it. Her friends, her family, and even her cat - all were working for Them. She heard Their voices on her radio, saw Their faces on her television, read Their words in her books.

Shuddering, I wonder if this will be my fate as well. I look around the room for something to distract me. My eyes fall on the pencil and paper one of the nurses brought me. Since my laptop is still back in my dorm room, it's the only way I can write.

Writing. That's it. The realization is a devastating blow.

These "episodes" I've been having - both of them happened when I sat down to write. I found myself somewhere I did not remember going, assaulted by vivid memories that couldn't be real. What if I'm traveling to worlds that I've written? It sounds impossible, but if it's true I can prove it. My fingers tremble as I reach for my cell phone.

* * * * *
With steel in her eyes, the girl faces the bejeweled man. He speaks to her, his countenance impassive, and she kneels upon the razor-sharp shards. Though her posture is one of supplication, her face shows no fear. The man appears to listen for a moment, and then his features contort with senseless rage. Armed men appear from the ether and drag the girl away.




Author's Note:
I love concrit of all flavors, so please feel free to share. I'm especially interested in knowing whether the ending works for you and if the piece as a whole works without knowing the story from last week's post. Thanks!

I wake to the feeling of cold rain against my face.

For a moment, my brain refuses to process what is going on. I roll over and try to clutch my pillow so I can go back to sleep. It's the tickle of slightly damp leaves on my skin that alerts me to the situation at hand. There is no pillow. There is no bed. I shouldn't be sleeping here.

No matter how many times this happens, it still comes as a surprise.

I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I'm in a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels like it's eating itself from the inside.

What the hell happened last night?

Something twists deep inside me and I lean forward, retching. I am rocked by wave after wave of dry heaves. When it's over, I collapse onto the wet ground, sweating despite the chill in the air. It's a gray morning, but even the small amount of light that filters through the clouds is too bright. I moan and throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.

Memories hit me like a slap in the face, images that don't make sense.

* * * * *
I'm sitting in a smoke-filled bar with walls paneled in dark wood. The marble-topped tables and leather chairs were probably elegant once, but now the tables are marred by cracks and the chairs are pocked with burn marks. There's a book of matches on the table in front of me. Its cover is green and the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" are printed upon it. I grab the matchbook and jam it into the pocket of my jeans.

Nearby, four men in jackets and ties argue vociferously over a game of pool. At the table next to me, a man in a tan coat and fedora stares off into the distance with a moody expression. He's chewing a cigar and nursing a glass of brown liquor.

* * * * *
There's a large bump on my head. I rub at it absently as I contemplate whether I should call someone to come and get me. My head is beginning to clear a bit, and I recognize the vacant lot and the street it abuts. In my current physical condition, I'm not sure if I can manage the 30-minute walk from here to my parents' house.

My parents would pick me up, but more likely than not, letting them see me like this would be a ticket straight back to the hospital. LSD-induced schizophrenia, the doctors said, she's not responding well to medication.

There aren't a lot of other people I can call. Most of my school friends have stopped talking to me. Even before I took the medical withdrawal, they avoided me. I may be crazy, but I'm not blind. I saw the furtive glances, heard the way their conversations stopped when I entered a room. It's been months since any of them called or came to visit.

Reluctantly, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Daisuke's number. He's the only one who bothers with me now, and even he will barely look at me half the time. I can't say that I blame him. Once upon a time, I had a scholarship, a talent, a future. Now I'm in and out of hospitals, disappearing for days only to return ranting about stories no one believes. He blames himself, but it feels like he's angry at me too.

When he showed me the tiny squares of white paper in the plastic bag, I was skeptical.

"Come on, Sam," he urged me, "You're a writer. This could open doors to whole new worlds inside your mind. Can you really resist that kind of opportunity?"

I couldn't.

The trip itself was wonderful. Colors breathed and the world pulsed in time to the electronic music playing on the stereo. We lay on lawn chairs in Daisuke's back yard and stared at the sky, talking about everything and nothing. I expected to feel fear, but mostly I was lost in wonder. There were so many tiny details I had never noticed about the world before.

Time bent and stretched like the blue globules in Daisuke's softly glowing lava lamp. After nearly twenty-four hours, I slipped into sleep on a bean bag in his room. When I woke, the world seemed brighter than usual and reality felt oddly fluid. The feeling faded over the next few days until I was my normal self again.

Life in the real world resumed. Everything was fine... until the episodes started.

* * * * *
A curvy blonde girl in a skintight red dress approaches the man in the fedora. He looks her up and down and smiles appreciatively. The girl speaks to him, gesturing wildly with a look of panic on her face. Though I can't make out what she's saying, it's clear that she's asking the man for help.

Just then, shots ring out. For a moment, my feet are rooted to the floor. A few feet away from me, a waitress shrieks and throws her tray aside as she runs for cover. The tinkle of breaking glass and the matchbooks flying in all directions galvanize me into action and I dive under the table.

There is a flurry of motion in front of me. A pair of legs in charcoal gray pants and black and white wingtip shoes rushes past. I hear more gunshots, this time very close. A woman's voice screams out, "Johnny! NO! JOHNNY!"

"THAT'LL TEACH YA TO MESS WITH MY DAME, YA MEDDLING SONUVABITCH!"

* * * * *
The first episode happened about two weeks after the trip. I was sitting in my dorm room in a nightshirt and some fuzzy slippers. All of a sudden, inspiration struck - an updated version of Hansel and Gretel leaped into my mind, fully formed. I ran to my computer and began typing.

I barely got past "Once upon a time" before the world as I knew it disappeared. My yellow-painted cinder block walls and particle board desk were replaced by a great black forest with a humble woodsman's cottage by its edge. As I watched, two small children crept from the house; the younger, a girl, was crying.

It was over almost before it began, but each episode is longer than the last. Afterward, it takes a little while before all of my memories return. I have no control over where I reappear and at first, I'm a bit confused. That first time, they found me dazed and wandering half-naked near a busy street. Since then, I've learned my lesson and write fully clothed.

If I just stopped writing, I could stop the episodes entirely. I'd be normal again; I could go back to school. I could have a life. Maybe I could even have my best friend back. The problem is that I don't want to stop. Even though no one will believe me, what's happening is more than some drug-induced mental illness. The acid was the trigger, but it gave me a talent I'd be crazy not to use. The things I write become real now.

Of course, no one believes me, not even Daisuke. Unlike the others, he listens to my stories, but he just gives me that sad look and shakes his head.

* * * * *
The woman is crying hysterically and screaming Johnny's name. I think it's the blonde girl in the red dress. There is a pool of blood spreading on the floor in front of me, presumably Johnny's. I start to feel dizzy and realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.

The shiny black and white wingtip shoes appear in front of me. A moment later, a man's red and angry face comes into view. "What have we here?" he asks.

I jump up, meaning to make a run for it. In my haste, I've forgotten about the marble tabletop above me. My head slams into it hard and my vision begins to fade to gray. I crumple to the floor and the world goes dark.

* * * * *
Daisuke's shiny black Ford pulls up at the curb. By this time, I'm soaking wet and shivering so hard it hurts. I struggle to my feet, waiting for my legs to decide whether or not they're going to hold me. They conclude they'd rather not support me and I sit down hard on the sodden ground.

Daisuke is at my side in an instant, helping me up and gathering me into his arms like some sort of broken doll. I try to push him away, embarrassed.

"I'm fine. I can walk," I say, as if he's not going to notice that I'm swaying like a drunk.

"Really, Sam?" he says, his voice too gentle. "Come on."

He guides me to his car, and I collapse into the front seat. This car is his baby - tinted windows, custom rims, and leather seats. I bet he's going to be mad later when he sees all the mud and grass I'm getting everywhere. For now, he just sighs and cranks the heat up. He digs a blanket out of the backseat and drapes it over me. By the time he gets into the car, my eyelids are already starting to droop.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls the car into the street.

"You're in no shape to go home right now. I'll take you to my place," he says.

I mumble something that's probably unintelligible and drift into sleep.

When I wake again, I'm alone in Daisuke's bed, wearing a clean T-shirt that isn't mine. The door opens slowly, and Daisuke appears with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. My stomach growls and it's all I can do not to lunge at him and grab the food from his hands. Who knows how long it's been since I've eaten?

He sits on the edge of the bed as I attack the food.

"Feeling better?" he asks. His expression is strange, unreadable - not the usual pitying one I'm used to seeing lately when he meets my eyes at all.

"I will be once I finish eating," I say, pretending I don't notice. We're both silent for a few minutes as I continue to shovel food into my mouth.

"How long was I out?" I ask, once the plate and bowl are clean.

"About 8 hours," he replies.

"8 hours? I hope you didn't have plans," I say.

"I had a date," he says.

"Shit, Daisuke, I'm sorry - " I start, but he cuts me off.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "What are friends for?" He smiles, but his eyes look far away.

"Daisuke, I know you think I'm crazy," I say.

More silence.

"Sam, can I ask you a question?" he finally says.

"Sure," I reply.

"Where did you... go... this time?"

"Are you going to believe me if I tell you?" I ask.

"It's just..." His voice trails off. "It's just that I washed your clothes, and I found something in your pants pocket." He holds up a green matchbook. It's a little worse for wear, and on its cover are the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911"

I tell him my story. And for the first time in months, he really listens.





(very VERY loosely based on this myth)

No, Officer, I didn't kill my husband.

God knows I wanted to sometimes, but it wasn't me that did it. Was I mad at him on the day he died? Sure. Come to think of it, when wasn't I mad at him?

Our place was always a pigsty. I'd cook and clean all day, and every night he'd mess it all up again. No matter how I nagged, he'd never remember to take off his filthy boots before he tromped all over the house. After he'd tracked dirt and fish guts all over my clean kitchen floor, he'd pull off those stinky boots and leave them under the table. Then he'd toss his smelly coat over a chair and ask what was for dinner. And forget about asking for help with the dishes!

One night about a year ago, he came home with this crazy big fish story.

"You'll never guess what happened to me today," he said.

"No, I'm sure I never will," I sighed, mopping up a pool of water and scales.

"I caught this giant fish," he said, "but it told me it was really an enchanted prince, so I let it go."

All the while, of course, he was putting his feet up on the ottoman, nasty boots and all. So I said, "Yeah? A talking fish? Well, why didn't you ask that talking fish for a nice clean house?" Then I dumped his dinner down the sink.

He got mad and stormed out. Since I didn't have dinner dishes to clean, I sat down on the couch and watched American Idol. I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew, our house was sparkling clean like it hadn't been in years. Someone had repainted it and the vinyl kitchen floor was replaced with fancy tiles. In the back yard, there was a beautiful garden with fruits and vegetables and even a chicken coop.

By the time Harry got back, I wasn't mad anymore. I begged him to tell me how he'd fixed up our place so quickly, but he just kept talking about that ridiculous fish.

Life was great for a while after that, until Harry brought home this old junker to work on. Being Harry, he had to leave tools and grimy car parts lying all over the house. He took the car half apart and then lost interest, leaving that eyesore sitting out in front of our house and its engine out in our garage. There they sat for months, and one day I stubbed my toe on that engine so hard I saw stars. When Harry got home that night, I handed him some pizza delivery coupons.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's your dinner," I replied, "I'm going to Amy's house to watch Sex and the City."

"But what about me?" he whined.

"Maybe you should ask your magical fish for a castle so I have enough room to walk without tripping over car parts," I told him, and slammed the door behind me.

When I came home the next morning, Harry was gone and so was our house. In its place stood a gigantic castle with heavy wrought-iron gates, a drawbridge, and an enormous courtyard. At first I wondered what our homeowners' association was going to have to say about this, but then I noticed that the entire subdivision was gone anyway.

Excuse me, Officer? Well, yes, I did find it a little strange that all of my neighbors were just gone. No, I didn't report it - I didn't think anyone would believe me. What I did instead was wait impatiently for Harry to get home so I could ask him what happened.

"You wanted me to talk to the fish," he said, "so I talked to the fish."

"Uh huh," I told him, "And I'm the King of England."

"Sweetheart, I mean it. All I want is to make you happy!" he said.

"Don't be stupid, Harry," I said, and went to bed. It took me a while to find where my bed was, but once I found it, I went straight there.

Imagine my surprise the next morning when I woke up to find a big shiny crown on my bedside table. As soon as I left our bedroom, I was accosted by a contingent of attractive young men who said they were my staff.

"My staff? Why the hell would I need a staff?" I demanded.

"To help you manage the business of your kingdom, Your Highness," one of the boys told me, bowing.

"My... what?" I stammered. "Okay, I get it. You're pulling my leg."

"Certainly, not, Your Highness," he replied, "You're the King of England."

What's that, Officer? Yes, I know we live in Alabama. And yes, kings are usually male, but that's what he told me.

Anyway, that was when I lost it a little bit. "Why stop with King of England?" I hollered. "Why not just go ahead and make me an emperor instead?"

There was a loud pop and the world around me shimmered for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a massive throne of gold, with a crown so tall it scraped the ceiling. All around me were men that looked like guards or soldiers. The crown was making my head and neck ache, so I pulled it off and threw it at one of the guards.

"Is there a problem, Your Eminence?" the guard asked, jumping out of the way just in time.

"Harry, this stupid joke is getting really old!" I yelled.

"Who is Harry, Your Eminence?" asked guard.

"Stop calling me that!" I shouted.

"But Your Eminence - "

"Will. You. Please. Stop. Calling. Me. That." I hissed through gritted teeth.

"But you are the Emperor!" protested the guard.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I sighed, throwing up my hands, "and I suppose I'm the Pope, too?"

Again, I heard the pop, and suddenly I was in what looked like the biggest church I'd ever seen. All around me were burning candles and it smelled like incense. My throne was even taller than before, and instead of one ridiculous crown I was now wearing three.

"Harry, you idiot!" I shouted, "The Pope doesn't wear three crowns at once. It's one crown made up of three layers."

There was another pop and the crowns were replaced with a tall, pointed hat. Resolving to keep my mouth shut, I began the climb of what felt like miles to get down from my throne. But I'm afraid of heights, and when my foot slipped on the way down, I couldn't restrain myself.

"HARRY!" I screeched, "I WISH THAT FISH HAD EATEN YOUR SORRY ASS!"

With a final pop, I found myself out on the docks. It was a gray day and the ocean was dark and roiling. Taking huge gulps of the familiar salt air, I shook my head in an attempt to clear it. After a moment, I saw Harry not far away, climbing down from his fishing boat.

"HARRY!" I thundered, "WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR HOUSE?"

A wounded expression crossed his face. "But... but... Honey," he said, "I thought you'd be happy. You're getting everything you've ever asked for!"

That was when the gigantic fish jumped out of the water. It was the size of a whale, but with scales that glittered like gems. The stench of rotting seafood was all around me and I could barely breathe. The scaly beast sailed down through the air like a deadly throwing knife, hurtling toward my poor schlub of a husband.

"HARRY!" I screamed. "IT'S COMING RIGHT FOR YOU!"

He didn't even have the chance to look up before the massive fish swallowed him whole.

And that's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Officer. I know it sounds crazy, but -

HEY! What are you doing? Why are you putting those handcuffs on me? Who are those men in the white coats? HEY! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? PUT ME DOWN!





Author's Note:
This story is a retelling of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale "The Fisherman and His Wife". The original version can be found here.

Life here in Buffalo Creek was different before the flood. We were family, all of us.

Everyone looked out for everyone else, and no one was ever alone. All the families had the same little four-room houses, with one bedroom for the parents and another for the kids. Everyone got all they needed at the company store and no one was better than anyone else. Our doors were always wide open. You could pop by your neighbor's house any time you needed to borrow something or just wanted to chat. People were cheerful and always had time to talk.

We kids all played together, laughing and running through the grass. There were blue skies and sun and shade trees. If we got tired, there was always a pitcher of ice cold lemonade and a plate of cookies waiting for us in someone's kitchen. We came home dirty and sweaty and late for dinner more times than not. Our mommas might scold us, but no one ever stayed mad for long.

The mommas all looked after each other's kids without a second thought. Whenever a new baby was born in Buffalo Creek, all the women and girls came around to rub the new momma's feet or make her a cup of tea. There were always more than enough pairs of arms to love on that little one while its momma got a bit of sleep. The daddies all worked in the coal mines. Mining was dangerous and everyone knew it, but no one thought of doing anything else. It was good money. When someone did get hurt, everyone else pitched in to make sure his family was taken care of.

That was the best part. No matter the burden, you never had to bear it alone. If you were sick, someone would appear like magic with a steaming pot of soup. If you were sad, people would come by to comfort you. You never even had to ask - people just knew what it was you needed and were always eager to provide it. Hardly anyone ever moved away. Why would they want to when they had everything they needed right here?

That all changed the day the black waters came crashing down, twenty feet high or more.

Momma and I barely made it to the hills in time; Daddy wasn't so lucky. We clutched each other tight as we watched the flood take out a church, carrying cars and houses right along with it. Some of the houses still had people in them - you could see them at the windows. All around us, people were running and screaming and weeping. Some were praying to the Lord Our Savior and others were just standing there in shock. Momma and I watched as everything we had ever loved washed away in a swoosh of dirty water.

I've had nightmares ever since - choking, strangling dreams of being mired in thick black gunk. No matter how hard I struggle, I can never get my head above the surface. When I wake, I'm shuddering and gasping for breath. It feels like I'm screaming but no sound comes out.

Maybe the others are plagued by these dreams, too. I'll never know, because people here in Buffalo Creek don't talk like they used to. They don't look out for each other, either. After the flood, it was like people just stopped caring for each other. Cheery smiles were traded for dazed, unfocused expressions and slack jaws.

A lot of people left, but Momma and I stayed because we'd never known any other home. I was hoping that things would get back to normal sooner or later, but they never did. Trailer parks were built for the people who'd lost their homes and after a while, new people moved into some of them. It was strange not knowing all my neighbors anymore; even the people I grew up with seemed like strangers now.

The doors of all the houses were closed and locked up tight. When you ran into people along your way, they never seemed to have time to talk anymore. Mommas didn't watch each other's little ones or stop by to chat. They never let their own kids out of their sight, and the kids didn't want to run and play anymore anyway. It was almost like the whole world had ended instead of a dam collapsing. People drank and screamed and fought as if it were the End of Days. Men took each other's wives and beat their own and no one looked out for his neighbor anymore at all.

Momma went to work in the mines. We could have gotten by on the settlement check she got from the coal company, but she couldn't stand to sit there and do nothing, all alone like she'd never been before. I knew how she felt and I started to think about getting out altogether. Before the flood, I never would have thought of leaving. Now it wasn't the place where I'd grown up at all. It was cold and empty and sad and I wanted no part of it.

Though I'd never had any schooling, Momma always told me I was smart as a whip. Some of the girls in Buffalo Creek couldn't read at all, but I taught myself to read the Good Book and the newspapers Daddy brought home from the company store. Here in Buffalo Creek, women only kept house or worked in the mines, but out in the world there was something called Women's Lib. Girls went to college and became teachers and nurses and maybe even lady doctors.

Jameson was one of the engineers who came to town to investigate the dam that broke and caused the flood. With his fancy degree and his sweet smile, he had me under his spell before I knew it. Tall and thin with dark hair and liquid brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he felt like home. When he held me in his arms, I felt loved and warm and whole like I used to feel all the time before the black water came.

Even though he had lots of schooling and I had none at all, he never treated me like I was stupid. He told me that there were people out in the world who thought that dam wasn't built right and the coal company was responsible. As the weeks went by, he got more and more angry. The dam, he said, would never have held. It was just coal sludge on top of dirt and water with no supports like it should have had.

Buffalo Creek was kind of like that. We thought our community was rock solid, but when the waters came, it all washed away. There was no structure underneath to hold it up.

After Momma went to bed at night, I'd sneak out to the trailer where Jameson stayed. He held me and stroked my hair and talked about taking me with him when he left. I could go to school to be whatever I wanted to be and we'd build a new life together. Out in the world, I wouldn't need my neighbors or the coal mines or the company store. We could have everything we needed, just the two of us.

Then I got real sick. For weeks, I couldn't keep anything down, not even soup or water. In the old days, all the women in town would have fussed over me with cold compresses and home remedies but now not even my own Momma was there to take care of me. Jameson was worried and never left my side. Since our old family doctor had left town for good, I finally went to see the new doctor who'd moved into the trailer camp nearby. When he told me I was pregnant, I nearly fainted from shock.

When I told Jameson, he got real pale and looked like he was going to throw up instead of me. Then he said it would be okay - we'd get married and raise the baby together and I would be a great momma. After I started to feel less sick, he took me into the city and let me try on any dresses I liked. He smiled as I twirled and swirled like a little girl in layers of lace and white.

I told him it was bad luck for him to see me in my dress before our wedding day, but he just laughed. An old wives' tale, he called it. With his soft voice and college words, anything he said felt like God's honest truth.

But as the weeks went on, I started to wonder if I hadn't been right after all. Jameson was pale and even thinner than before; I thought maybe he was sick. He didn't hold me like he used to, and his nose was always in his books and charts. I tried to talk to him about the baby, whether it would be a boy or a girl, whose nose it would have and whose eyes, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes were flat and hard like closed doors. When I asked him what was wrong, he said everything was fine. So I kissed him and pretended that he didn't feel cold and empty just like the town that used to be my home.

Now here I am all fussed up in my pretty dress and veil, and Jameson is nowhere to be found. The wedding time came and went, and the preacher man sent went over to the trailer where he stays. There was no answer at the door; it was unlocked and all his things were gone.

Momma held me while I sobbed. It's the first time she's touched me since the day of the flood. She stroked my hair the way she used to when I was a little girl, the way Jameson used to do. Then she said it would be okay - I don't need a man to go out into the world and make something of myself. I can still go off to school if it's what I want. She'll quit the mine and keep my little one and it'll be like old times; we'll help each other because that's what we do here in Buffalo Creek.

She painted a pretty picture of how we'd make it all right, but then it was time for her shift. So Momma got changed into her mining clothes, lit up a smoke, and went off to work. Now there's just me and my flowers and fancy dress, all alone except for a baby whose daddy is gone.





Author's Note:

The original inspiration for this story was the photograph below by James Stanfield.



The photo shows a female miner, dressed in her work clothes and lighting up a cigarette. In the room with her is her daughter, wearing a wedding dress and sitting on a bed with her head in her hands.

Additional inspiration for many of the details of this piece came from the real-life story of the Buffalo Creek Disaster, which occurred in 1972. A coal waste impoundment dam burst, sending over a million gallons of sludge-infested waters over the 16 thriving coal mining towns of Buffalo Creek. Many were killed and injured, and even more lost everything they owned. Despite overwhelming evidence that the accident was caused by poor construction and negligence on the part of the coal company that owned the dam, its owners declared the tragedy "an act of God". If you are as fascinated by this story as I have become, you might enjoy this essay that I found here about the survivors of the disaster (link downloads the essay as a .doc file).

This has been an intersection with the wonderfully creative everywordiwrite, whose alternate version of the story behind the photo can be found here.

Fred lifted the bottle of rum, tipped his head back and took an eager swallow. Liquid fire seared his parched throat, and a contented sigh escaped his lips. It wasn't his drink of choice, but it would do just fine. Under the circumstances, he was grateful to have it at all.

At their last stop in New Guinea, he'd fought tooth and nail to keep his own bottles aboard. Every last ounce of fuel could mean the difference between life and death, and they were leaving all but the most essential cargo. Fred argued that the navigator's sanity might become their saving grace, but somehow the pilot hadn't understood why that required whiskey.

Now here they were, stranded on this coral reef in the middle of nowhere, but at least he'd finally gotten his drink. The remains of the old ship proved they weren't the first to make an unexpected landing here; they might also be their salvation. A quick search of the wreck had yielded a few tins of sardines, some dried peas, and of course, the blessed liquor. These supplies would hold them over for a few days, by which time they might be rescued.

And if not, I might just get a sailor's burial after all, he thought wryly.

The irony was not lost on Fred. He'd given up two decades at the helm of a ship for a career as an aviator, but it seemed the ocean had laid claim to him nonetheless.

Learning to fly had never been his real goal; his first love and true skill was navigation. The sea and stars spoke to him, whispering the way to go. He was an expert with charts and sextants, but a healthy dose of guesswork and a sailor's intuition were two of the finest tools in his kit. In seven short years, he'd become one of the best aerial navigators around.

His skill hadn't been enough this time. They'd gotten off course and been unable to get their bearings again. With their fuel tanks almost empty, an emergency landing on the coral reef had been their only real option.

The sound of footsteps broke into his reverie.

"Anything?" he asked, knowing the answer the moment he saw her face.

Amelia's critics loved to question her talent as an aviator, but her spirit and determination were indisputable. Her gap-toothed grin shone from the pages of papers and glossy magazines, a beacon of hope to guide a nation in dire need of it. Fred had learned quickly from working with the her that the smile was not just for show; she had a love for life that few could match.

At the moment, however, that smile was nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were chips of ice and her face was set in grim determination. Today, she was nobody's lighthouse; all she wanted was to find her own way home.

* * * * *
Fred swirled the ice cubes in his drink and sighed. He hated parties like this - industry mixers where the only point was to see and be seen.

At least there was free booze. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, relishing the warm glow as it spread through his chest. Scanning the room, he wondered where the hell Larry was. He'd only come because his friend insisted there was someone he needed to meet.

"There you are!" Larry's overly enthusiastic voice came from behind him. Fred turned to greet his friend, and his heart sank. This was who Larry wanted him to meet?

"Fred, meet Amelia Earhart. Amelia, meet Fred Noonan."

A no-nonsense man, Fred had never been overly impressed with Ms. Earhart or the whirlwind of publicity surrounding her. Sure, she'd achieved feats no woman and few men had managed, but she'd also crashed several planes in the process. Besides, Fred found it hard to trust a pilot who spent as much time writing books, giving lectures, and even designing clothes as she did in the air. Was she an aviatrix for the sake of flying, or for the love of attention?

Still, it wouldn't do to be rude. Taking another slug of his drink, he offered his hand.

"Ms. Earhart," he said coolly.

"Please, call me Amelia," she replied, "They say you're one of the best." Media darling or not, he had to admit she had a firm handshake and a great smile.

"They say you wreck a lot of planes," Fred said. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. This was another reason he didn't like parties. Larry groaned beside him. Cursing his lack of self-control, Fred drained the rest of his whiskey in one swallow.

"You're a man who speaks his mind," Earhart replied, "I like that."

She was still smiling, and it didn't look forced. Fred had to hand it to her - if nothing else, she certainly had spunk.

"Well, enough small talk," Earhart continued. "I asked Larry to introduce us for a reason."

Fred's head was spinning. She'd asked Larry to... what?

"Are you still working for Pan Am?"

"Yes, for almost seven years now," he replied, not adding that he'd quit in a heartbeat given half a reason. He was drowning in the airline's bureaucratic nonsense.

"Ever thought of leaving?" she asked, seeming to read his mind.

"Well, I'd like to open a navigation school someday," he said.

"Before you do that, would you consider joining me on a flight around the world?" Earhart asked.

This was certainly unexpected.

Why the hell not? he thought. If nothing else, it should get me plenty of publicity for the school I want to open.

Fred shook Ms. Earhart's hand and gave her a genuine smile. "I'd be honored."

* * * * *
Fred watched apprehensively as the roiling sea pounded the shore.

"We need to move inland," he said.

"But we can't leave the plane behind," Amelia argued, "Without it - without the radio - how will anyone find us?"

He opened his mouth to tell her they'd probably abandoned the search by now anyway, but the words withered on his tongue.

A week had passed, and she'd never once given up hope. She made it her mission to raise someone, anyone, on the plane's radio. From dawn until dusk, every hour on the hour, she sat at the controls, shoulders squared, jaw set.

"I'm sure they'll find us sooner or later," he said weakly.

"Fred, don't coddle me like I'm some sort of child! If you don't believe they're going to find us, just say so." Her blue eyes drilled into him, freezing him in place.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Heaven help the man who underestimated this woman.

In the months since he'd signed on with her, his feelings had changed from grudging admiration to real respect. Amelia worked twice as hard as most men he knew and rarely complained. If she'd wrecked a few birds, it was only because she was forever impatient to fly farther and faster, her ambitions outstripping her level of learning.

She did have skill as a pilot, though, and a cool head in a crisis situation to boot. When they'd decided to land on this godforsaken reef, she'd pulled it off without a hitch.

"What makes you think they've given up?" she asked, her eyes and voice softer now.

With her cropped and tousled hair, freckled nose and trim figure, she could easily pass for a girl in her early twenties. Fred felt an almost irrepressible urge to protect her, even knowing it was the last thing she wanted. Instead, he gestured toward the surf as it pummeled the reef.

"If the water stays this rough it'll dash the plane to bits in no time, and us along with it," he said, "and if they are still looking for us, there's not much chance a rescue team will get close enough to see us here anytime soon."

Amelia nodded slowly.

"Let me try the radio one more time," she said, "and then we'll go."

* * * * *
Nighttime in the forest was peaceful, resting under a roof of leaves and lulled by the drone of the insects. Fred leaned back against a tree trunk, watching the moonlight filter through the tops of the trees.

Two weeks had passed since they'd found the campsite. The trek inland had been brutal, requiring them to hack their way through tightly interwoven bushes higher than their knees. Had they been equipped with machetes, this task would have been formidable; with nothing but his pocket knife, it was near impossible.

Fred couldn't have asked for a better travel companion. Though the sun beat upon them until he was on the verge of collapse, Amelia never flagged. She never complained aloud, though at times Fred caught her muttering what sounded suspiciously like swear words.

The campsite was in a clearing shaded by magnificent tall trees whose leaves formed a green canopy. Fred supposed the people from the wrecked ship might have camped here. Whoever had occupied the area had left behind a makeshift shelter and the remains of a fire circle.

It was as good a place as any to stay. The forest offered protection from the sun, and was home to many birds and small turtles that they could catch and eat. With a nearby shore unblocked by brush, they could easily hunt for fish and clams by the sea.

Their existence might have been almost idyllic had it not been for one major want. They'd found no fresh water anywhere on the island. When it rained, they used shells and empty bottles to collect the precious drops.

Fred had sacrificed his beloved rum for the greater good. His argument about the antiseptic properties of alcohol had failed to impress Amelia, who rightly shot back that he was only going to drink it anyway. Though he'd pointedly asked when she planned to donate her glass bottle of hand cream to the cause, his protests were little more than bluster. What good was alcohol anyway when you could be dead of dehydration at any moment?

Apart from that argument, they'd gotten along well. When they weren't foraging, they'd sit in camp and share stories of their loves back home. Fred told Amelia about his new wife Bea, and Amelia regaled him with stories of her husband George and her lover Gene.

Amelia was a study in contradictions. She worked like a man and wore men's underwear in the name of convenience, yet faithfully applied lotion every night. When a crab nearly three feet across came up to their campsite, she wasn't the least bit squeamish about smashing it with a rock and eating it for dinner. However, after a week of observing the enormous crabs, she became enamored of them and refused to kill them anymore.

Fred found this juxtaposition of toughness and vulnerability quite endearing. He was certain that it was best for him to keep this sentiment to himself. To do otherwise would surely earn him a fate worse than death.

At night when he couldn't sleep, he wondered what would become of them. If they never made it home, how would they be remembered? Would the world remember Amelia as a great pioneer, or a careless adventurer prone to crack-ups? Would it remember him at all?

"You couldn't sleep either?" Amelia asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

"No," Fred replied, "I'm worried about our water supplies."

"Good thing you got rid of the booze, then," Amelia teased, "It's dehydrating. Besides, it makes you snore."

"I don't snore!" Fred protested.

"Right, and your boots don't stink, either."

"You know, Amelia, I'm really glad I've gotten to know you," Fred said changing the subject, "If I could choose anyone in the world to keep me company while I died of thirst on a deserted coral reef, I'd choose you."

"Don't be silly," Amelia said, "I'm sure we'll be rescued soon."

"We'd better be," Fred retorted, "I'm all out of rum now, so who knows how long I'll be able to put up with you?"

Fred didn't know if they'd make it another week, or even another day. He was sure that no one out there was still looking for them. But he was comforted by the knowledge if there was any way for them to get by, Amelia would be the one to find it.

She was tricky like that, and she never gave up.




Author's Note:
This story is based on one hypothesis about what happened to Amelia Earheart and her navigator Fred Noonan. There's no definitive proof, but of the alternate theories out there, I think it's the most believable. It's unfortunate that Amelia and Fred probably died shortly after this, but I'd like to think that they really were friends.

This message is addressed to everyone who is reading this post. I know there are communities for this nowadays, but people are a heck of a lot less likely to come to my journal and mock you, right? :)

I want you to post anything that you want. Anything. Post a story, a secret, a confession, a fear, a love. Tell me something you've always wanted to tell me - whatever.

Be sure to post anonymously and honestly. Post twice if you'd like, and then put this in your LJ to see what your friends have to say.

(IP logging is turned off. Comments will be screened, but I may unscreen at my discretion. If you want something to remain screened, let me know and I will respect your wishes.)

It's the first rule you learn as a child, even before "no hitting" and "say please and thank you".

Don't go near the ravine.

The ravine has been there for as long as anyone can remember. Some people believe it's a result of the Great War, while others insist it's a natural formation. The only thing we know for sure is that no one from Cliffton has ever crossed it and returned to tell the tale.

Our knowledge of the days before the war is extremely limited, our understanding of the Before People sparser still. They kept their records with "machines" and on paper. Some of both survived for a time, but no one knew how to preserve either one. Long ago, the former ceased to function and the latter fell to dust.

Though their records are gone, we do have a few things the Before People left behind. Over the ages, we've found scads of gaudy beads in wild colors, cups, plates and jugs, all made of a material that was apparently known as "plastic". It seems to be everlasting; perhaps they should have used it instead of paper to keep their records.

We've found lightweight metal cylinders by the hundreds, painted in colors that must have once been bright and bearing writing none of us can read. Their purpose has been the subject of much speculation. Many of them are crushed, but a few have been found intact. Once the diggers even found one that was still sealed. The scientists were unsure what to make of the hardened brown paste they found inside, but theorized that it was some sort of medicine.

Then there are the machines, by far the most fascinating of all the artifacts we've discovered. The only ones we've laid eyes upon ourselves are the ones in the abandoned plastics factory just outside town. Though they haven't run in nearly two centuries, they are still a sight to behold.

All children of school age in Cliffton are taken to tour the factory. These are the production machines, we tell them. This is where the workers ate their lunch. And this room right here, we say, is a storage room. It is here that we found thousands upon thousands of drinking straws, perfectly preserved in their plastic wrappers. The children always become very excited at that last bit - the straws are a special treat, hoarded carefully in paper boxes and given out only on holidays.

We know of the other machines only through the oral tradition. There were helper machines that assisted with cooking and washing and all manner of other household chores. There were great devices made of metal that rolled across the earth - it is said that their rusted hulks still litter the paths they once traversed. And then there were the thinking machines, called "computers".

By far the most ubiquitous of the Before People's devices, computers were required for every aspect of life. Adults used them for work and children used them for their schooling. The healers used them, as did the teachers and the record-keepers. Even some of the other machines required tiny computers in order to perform their tasks.

All that we know of these machines, we have learned from the Old Songs. Written by the First Elders, the survivors of the Great War who built Cliffton, the songs are taught to every child old enough to speak. It is the Old Songs that tell us the tale of the "tanks" that thundered over the land, the "jets" that screamed through the sky, and the "bombs" that blackened it as they rained destruction.

It is the Old Songs, too, that tell us to stay away from the ravine.

No one is sure why. Some people say that its depths are haunted by evil spirits, perhaps the ghosts of all who died during the Great War. Others claim that it's simple common sense - the ravine extends deeper than the eye can see, and crossing it would undoubtedly be treacherous. Still others insist that the danger lies not in the ravine itself but in what's on the other side.

Exactly what, or who, is on the other side has been the subject of much debate. Some of us believe that there are more people like us living over there. Now and then, smoke rises from behind the trees on the opposite side of the chasm; even the naysayers will admit that much. We "Lifers", as the others call us, are sure that the smoke is a sign of intelligent life.

The smoke isn't the only argument for our cause. The Old Songs say that before the Great War, there were billions of people living on the Earth. A billion doesn't have much meaning here, where the population numbers only four hundred and thirty-two. We're no more capable of understanding the magnitude of such a number than we are of building our own computers or even making our own plastic straws.

Still, on a planet that once supported so many lives, could there really be fewer than five hundred left?

No one knows, but we Lifers are determined to find out. Unfortunately, we are in the minority; most everyone else seems to think that we're delusional. After all, they say, the Old Songs teach that the people of Cliffton are the only survivors of the Great War. The smoke, they say, is probably coming from some sort of tar pit created by the bombs. If there were people on the other side, they ask, wouldn't they have tried to contact us by now?

For some reason, the fact that we exist and have not tried to contact them never seems to make an impression.

The Lifers have been petitioning the Council for decades now, since long before I was old enough to be part of their number. They want to build a bridge from one side of the ravine to the other and answer the question once and for all. Every year, they ask again to build a bridge. Every year, their request is again denied.

The last Council meeting was three weeks ago. Since then, I've been trying to work up the courage to come here. This morning, I woke before dawn, my body trembling from a dream I couldn't remember. I knew it was time.

Shivering with both chill and anticipation, I ate a small breakfast and dressed in a loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers. I packed my satchel with some provisions and pulled on my work boots. Grabbing my gloves and heaviest leather raincoat, well-oiled to protect me from the elements, I left my cottage for what may be the last time.

Now I stand at the edge of the precipice, gazing down into the snarl of branches below. Apart from my satchel, I have only as much rope as I can carry. I pray that it's enough. I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid, but though the cliff is steep, it looks to have plenty of handholds. Others will call me a fool, but I think I might just make it to the bottom.

As the first light touches the sky, I tie my rope. The fear is still with me, drying my mouth and slicking my palms. My heart is pounding so hard that my chest aches and I can scarcely catch my breath. In an attempt to calm myself, I begin to sing one of the Old Songs. I focus on the words and the melody and the galloping of my heart begins to slow. Stealing one last look toward home, I begin to make my way into the ravine.

I may never make it back alive, but if I do, I will return a wiser man.



It's another intersection week! My partner this time was the wonderful and talented mstrobel. Her entry is here.

His life since the accident has been a series of staccato bursts. He's heard people talk about "living in the moment" as if that is hard to do. For him, it's like breathing.

The details of the crash are mostly lost to him now. It's not that he can't remember, exactly. It's just that he doesn't. It doesn't usually occur to him to think backward or forward. Most of the time, he just moves to the music.

What he does know is that the accident turned his hair a brilliant white and put him in the hospital. People call him the Straw Man, even though his hair is much paler than straw. He doesn't mind the nickname - the name he used before belongs to another man, another life.

He owns a little house outside a small town. Nearby are a small university, a park, and a river. Once he was a student at the university, but now he has no patience for long, snaking lines across a page. Now he goes there to sit on the quad, watching the people walk by or the squirrels scampering on the grass.

Inside his house sits an overstuffed chair with fading brown cushions. There is no television; he finds the plots tortuous and the lights and sounds jarring. Instead, he has a tea kettle, a porch with a swing, a bedroom with a soft quilt and a desk. On the desk sits a geode, half a gray rock cracked open to reveal a spill of gleaming jagged amethyst. It's a present from a girl he once knew, though he's all but forgotten her face.

He doesn't have a job. There is a bank account with money in it, money that somehow relates to the accident. The details of that aren't terribly important to him; he only knows it's enough to last him a long time if he doesn't spend a lot. He never spends a lot because he doesn't need much: a roof over his head, food to eat, jeans and sweatshirts and new sneakers when the old ones fall apart.

Since the crash, he is isolated but he never feels lonely. His family and friends don't come around often, but he takes a walk every morning and every evening. Sometimes he meets people along the way. Other times, he has no company but nature. Nature is company enough.

Besides, he's never been truly alone since the accident. He can touch people's minds.

* * * * *
He's watching a snail creeping across the university's quad when he notices the studious girl.

She's bent over a notebook at a wooden picnic table, angular and ambitious. A curtain of coppery hair obscures her face, but he doesn't need to see her features to know that she's upset. He can feel the frustration baking off of her.

A dam bursts and his head is filled with fragments of thoughts that do not belong to him.

All but dissertation.

                       Years of research, and still no results.

                                                                        Might as well give up.

Before he realizes what he's doing, he is standing beside her.

"A garden snail moves at a speed of only 0.03 miles per hour. Yet it is still capable of traveling over 1800 miles over the course of its lifetime."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. She'll probably scream for help, telling anyone who will listen about the crazy man who has approached her, spouting nonsense.

Click.

Her amber eyes meet his, and that's when he feels it. He's never picked a lock, but he imagines this is the sensation of the last pin falling into place.

"Oh!" the girl cries out as she jumps to her feet, "I have to get back to the lab!" She's gone a moment later, leaving him to ponder what has just happened.

* * * * *
He's feeding ducks in the park when he spies the awkward boy.

The boy is maybe sixteen, pale and gangly and trying to fold himself into invisibility on a nearby bench. His face is thin almost to the point of gauntness, marred by pimples and misery. He's tossing crumbs halfheartedly in the birds' general direction and looks like he could burst into tears at any moment.

The Straw Man moves to approach him, and the boy's thoughts invade his mind, unbidden as always.

I thought she liked me.

                          Everyone was laughing at me.

                                                      I can never show my face at school again.

Suddenly, the words begin to tumble from his lips.

"A duck looks clumsy when it waddles, but in the water it can glide like a swan," he says.

Click.

The boy looks at him, confused but hopeful.

"Two more years is a really long time," he says doubtfully.

The Straw Man motions toward the duck pond.

His forehead scrunching up in thought, the boy muses, "Are you saying that I have to find my own pond?"

The Straw Man just smiles. His own words aren't important anymore.

"Maybe I could do one of those magnet schools - you know, the ones for smart kids," the boy says, "Even if it's just for a year."

He smiles at the Straw Man, and it transforms his whole face. With the lines of anguish wiped away, it is a pleasing face. It's the face of the man he's going to be. Then he gathers his things, gives a little wave, and leaves without another word.

That's how it usually goes.

* * * * *
He's crossing the bridge when he sees the broken man.

The river is swollen well beyond its usual size and laps hungrily at its banks. A storm has been pummeling the town for the past two days, but all is calm now except for the water. Dawn is breaking, painting the sky and river with brilliant streaks of orange, pink and gold.

He watches the sun rise every morning, but it's especially lovely today. With a sharp intake of breath, he pauses at the edge of the bridge. When he resumes his walk, he's aware of nothing more than those scrawls of blazing color. He's almost at the other end of the bridge before he notices that he is not alone.

The man is standing about three feet away. He looks to be in his thirties and is dressed in a flannel shirt, blue jeans and scuffed work boots. He has the rumpled look of a man who's slept in his clothes. Staring raptly at the horizon, he appears to be admiring the scenery.

Without warning, the Straw Man's thoughts are no longer his. This time, there are no tangled fragments - only a single repeating refrain:

No one would really miss me if I just disappeared.

He waits for the rush of words that will set things right, but it doesn't come. This has never happened before, but he knows he has to do something.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asks.

The other man turns slowly toward him. His eyes are hollow and hopeless, his mouth set with grim determination. He does not speak.

"The sunrise is always so lovely after a storm," the Straw Man says awkwardly. He's not used to having to come up with the words on his own.

The other man isn't helping. He's turned his back and is staring down into the swirling depths of the river.

The Straw Man feels his palms beginning to sweat. He doesn't know why the right words aren't coming. Maybe it's because the broken man doesn't want to be helped. If he can just find the right words, though, everything will change.

He doesn't usually think of the past, but now he remembers a 3D poster that once hung on his wall. Some people can't see the hidden picture in them, but he has always been able to. The trick is to focus your eyes on something in the distance, as if you're looking through the picture.

In his mind's eye, he stares through the broken man. He has just enough time to think this is stupid - it isn't working, and then his consciousness dims. From far away, he hears a voice - he thinks it might be his, still babbling at the broken man.

Then he feels something give way and a river of thoughts that are not his rushes over him. Each one slams into him with punishing force and for a moment, he thinks he's going to black out.

Everything I had is gone.

                                I'm a failure.

                                           They'd all be better off without me.

The words rush from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying.

"...After a storm, you can see so much further, so much more clearly than you could otherwise. Very few people can appreciate that fact. Personally, I think they just don't want to acknowledge it because they don't like change. But change can be beautiful. Don't you agree?"

He knows he's found the right words, but they don't seem to have registered yet. The broken man turns toward him, looking like he's going to punch him in the mouth. He spits out an indignant, "Listen, fella--" and

Click.

It's as if a switch has been flipped. The broken man falls silent and turns to look at the river again. "You might be right," he murmurs, "You just might be right."

Knowing his work is done, the Straw Man turns to go home. He normally walks another mile or two after the bridge, but he's suddenly feeling very tired. No longer concerned with the river, the sunrise, or the world around him, all he wants now is his comfy chair and maybe a nice cup of hot tea.

The other man asks him if any diners nearby are open this early. He directs him to Frank's place in town and starts walking toward home. Though tired, he hits his stride quickly and feels better the more distance he puts between himself and the once-broken man.

All of a sudden, he is once again awash in the stream of the man's thoughts. This time, it comes in images, clear and unbroken.

Steaming eggs and bacon on a clean white plate.

                                A man in a mechanic's coverall shaking his hand.

                                           The open arms of a smiling red-haired girl.

And then, there is a single, reverberating word:

FUTURE.

For a moment, it is more than he can take. He reels as if he's been slapped, and his knees feel as though they are going to give way. The riotous hues of the dawn recede to gray.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he exhales slowly. The color seeps back into the world. His limbs are heavy, as if he's narrowly escaped drowning in the river below. He leans against a tree and lets the cool breeze ruffle his hair. By the time his strength begins to return, the sun has climbed in the sky and it's almost fully light.

He doesn't usually think of the future, but now he remembers the geode that sits on his desk at home. A geode is just another rock until water hollows it out, leaving a space where glittering crystals can grow.

After considering this for a moment, he shrugs and begins walking home again. Watered by the storm, the world around him is green and blooming. The music rises within him once more and he marches to its beat.




This post has been an intersection with the talented ellakite, whose entry for this week can be found here.

237 BCE - Carthage

The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.

May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.

It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.

Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.

As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?

"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.

"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.

It was time he learned to fight like one.

"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"

The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.

"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.

"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"

The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."

Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."

"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.

Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."

The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.

"I swear it on my life!"

The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
216 BCE - Capua

The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.

As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.

His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.

Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.

Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.

Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.

One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.

In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.

He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.

However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.

Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.

Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.

He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.

Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.

The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.

There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.

Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.

It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
206 BCE - Croton

Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.

The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.

Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.

His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.

The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.

Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.

It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.

Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.

In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.

Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.

Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.

So many lives lost, and for what?

He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
183 BCE - Bithynia

The Romans were coming for him.

Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.

Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.

It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.

Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.

All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.

It was only a matter of time.




( author's note )

If I hadn't been so lost in my thoughts, I would have realized the moment I got to school that something was wrong. As it was, I was preoccupied with other things.

I had been home sick with one of those stomach bugs that knocks you on your butt and then laughs at you. I still wasn't feeling one hundred percent, but there's only so much school you can miss when you're taking advanced-placement classes. Besides, daytime TV gets boring really fast.

My best friend Tina hadn't called to see why I'd been out of school. She hadn't responded to my text telling her her I'd be back in class today, either. We had been best friends since the second grade, and were both ecstatic to be assigned to the same first and fourth period classes for our senior year. Every day, we met at her locker and then walked to class together. When she wasn't in the usual place, I really started to worry.

As I walked to my locker alone, I finally noticed that something was amiss. It was twenty minutes before the first bell. On any normal school day, students would be clustered in front of lockers, whispering and laughing. Metal doors would be clattering open and slamming shut.

Today, the hallway was dead silent.

* * * * *
When I got to my first period class, Tina was already there. Now that I was no longer worried that something horrible had happened to her, I was hurt. Why had she been avoiding me?

"Hey!" I greeted her as I slid into my desk, "Did you miss me?"

Tina didn't seem to hear me, and gave no answer. Leaning toward her, I whispered, "Hey, are you mad at me or something?"

Nothing.

"Hey, Tina!" I called out, practically shouting, "Don't you hear me?"

Tina said nothing, and didn't spare me so much as a glance. My heart sank. How could my best friend of ten years not only refuse to speak to me, but completely fail to acknowledge my presence?

She wasn't the only one acting strangely, though. I'd walked into class fifteen minutes early to find an almost-full classroom. Not only were my fellow students unusually punctual today, they were also surprisingly quiet. Rather than talking, giggling, or rustling papers, they were seated in silence and patiently waiting for the bell to ring.

I had just made a complete spectacle of myself by hollering in a quiet room, and not a single head had turned. Not a single person had looked my way at all. My classmates remained in their seats, staring placidly forward.

After ten exceedingly awkward minutes, our English teacher walked into the room. Ms. Wells was one of my favorite teachers. Young and enthusiastic about her subject, she treated us as if we were friends who also just happened to be students. Today, however, she offered only a toneless, "Good morning, class."

"Good morning, Ms. Wells," my classmates responded in eerie unison.

Without another word, Ms. Wells took a seat at her desk and stared calmly toward the front of the room, presumably waiting for first period to begin.

What the hell is going on here? I wondered.

Just before the bell rang, Ellen Anderson walked into class and sat down at the remaining empty desk. I watched as she tapped her close friend Ashley Evans on the arm, only to be completely ignored. A quick glance around the room confirmed that I was the only one paying any attention to her at all.

Something was definitely going on here. It was odd enough that I had suddenly become invisible. Ellen was one of those rare kids who was both popular and nice. She always had a kind word for everyone, and she had the kind of smile that made you want to smile back. The idea that everyone in school would just stop talking to her - that was inconceivable.

After class, I cornered Ellen in the hall. "Jamie!" she cried, "Thank goodness someone here is still speaking to me. Did I steal Ashley's boyfriend without knowing it or what?"

"Sadly, I have no idea what's going on here either," I shrugged, "I stayed home sick yesterday and Monday. When I came back, it was all Twilight Zone. No one's acting right - it's like they're all hypnotized."

"I was home those days too. I know this sounds weird, but," Ellen lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Do you think something happened at school while we were gone?"

"It's starting to look that way," I agreed, adopting her hushed tone, "But what?"

"You're probably going to think I'm crazy, but it reminds me of this old movie I saw once," replied Ellen, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers. This town was taken over by aliens who came from pods. They transformed the people who lived there into pod people too, but they still looked just like they always did. The only way you could tell the pod people from the regular ones was that they acted all weird and emotionless."

That was one of the great things about Ellen. She was on the Homecoming Court this year, but she had a penchant for old-school horror flicks and could probably beat most of the geeks in our class at chess. I couldn't be certain, but I thought she seemed almost excited about the idea of an alien invasion.

"No offense, but that does sound completely insane," I told Ellen, and her face fell. "But I don't have a more rational explanation, and whatever is going on here doesn't exactly seem normal."

"So what are we going to do?" she asked.

"Well, we could find out who else was absent this week and see if they're still normal," I suggested, "It just so happens that I work in the attendance office next period. We can meet up at lunch and figure out where to go from there."

"Sounds good to me," Ellen agreed, "See you at lunch!"

* * * * *
I sat in the silent cafeteria, anxiously twirling my hair as I waited for Ellen. The news from the attendance office hadn't been good. Of the 500 or so students in our school, only 4 kids besides me and Ellen had been out both Monday and Tuesday. If we were looking for allies, we'd be finding precious few.

Looking around the lunchroom, I didn't find this particularly surprising. Under normal circumstances, the buzz of hundreds of chattering, eating teens would be almost deafening. Today, no one was talking or eating. The students just sat in neat and silent rows at the tables, uneaten food before them on plastic trays. It was creepy as hell.

The good news was that if there were any other kids left who hadn't been "changed", they ought to be easy to spot. The bad news was that Ellen and I probably weren't the only ones seeking them out. Whatever was going on, it had affected almost the entire school within 48 hours. If there really were aliens snatching our bodies, they were obviously pretty damned efficient.

Just when I had started to think that Ellen wasn't coming, she quietly sat down beside me. She hadn't bothered to get a tray. I couldn't say that I blamed her; this place was killing my appetite too.

"Are you going to finish that, or can we go somewhere else to talk?" she asked.

I dumped my tray and we headed for the girls' bathroom. It was empty, as I'd been hoping. If body-snatching aliens didn't eat cafeteria food, maybe they didn't need to use the toilet either.

"It's bad, Ellen," I blurted as soon as the door had creaked shut behind us.

"I kinda figured," she replied, "Things weren't looking too good back in the lunchroom."

"I wonder if the aliens are anywhere else besides the school. My parents seemed perfectly normal when I left this morning," I told her.

"So did mine," Ellen agreed.

"Why would aliens want to take over a high school?" I wondered.

"Maybe they're going to use us for breeding stock," Ellen ventured.

I shuddered and didn't respond. Losing my virginity to body-snatching aliens before graduation was not on my bucket list, and it wasn't really something I wanted to contemplate.

"Say they developed a deadly genetic disease. Most of them were carriers. They'd need to find some fresh genetic material, and fast," she continued.

Somehow, Ellen's love of creepy movies didn't seem as endearing all of a sudden. "But why did they have to make everyone so quiet?"

"If they have a few queens that handle all of the breeding, the others would just exist to attend to them. They wouldn't need to talk," she explained.

I'd had enough of her scary theories. It was time for action.

"We have to get out of here," I decided, "Maybe we can warn everyone else before it's too late." I started toward the door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Ellen cautioned me.

"Why not?" I turned to face her. Her green eyes were huge and deadly serious.

"Maybe my theory wasn't just a theory. Meet your new queen."

Ellen looked at me and smiled. Something wasn't right about her eyes, but as I contemplated that I noticed that her mouth kept growing wider and wider. Her lips peeled back and so did her teeth, which no longer seemed to be solid.

The skin of her forehead stretched as her head expanded. Her face split open down the middle and she tore it away to reveal an elongated, insectile head with a bulging cranium. Her eyes glowed yellow and lamplike in a leathery crimson face. The eyes had no pupils, but I could tell she was staring at me all the same.

Ellen grinned again, showing a mouthful of long and pointed fangs. There was no friendliness in her gaze now. A long, reptilian tongue flicked out, and I was certain that if she had lips, she'd be licking them in anticipation.

This time, I didn't want to smile back at all. All I wanted to do was run.

I woke in the wee hours, feeling something tickling the back of my neck. Assuming it was a stray lock of hair, I brushed at it absently... and felt something skittering under the palm of my hand. Panicked, I grabbed at it, my skin crawling as I felt a furry body and legs and legs and legs wiggling and squiggling between my fingers.

Completely awake now, I screamed and threw the disgusting thing as hard as I could. In general, I'm not the squeamish type, but I am terrified of spiders.

Beside me, John opened his eyes and drawled out, "Huh? What's going on?"

"A spider!" I shouted. "There was a huge, hairy spider crawling on me!"

There was no more sleeping for me that night. Nauseated and shaking with the aftermath of an adrenaline overdose, I went downstairs to watch TV while John looked for the spider. Huddled bolt fearfully on the couch, I waited for him to give the all-clear.

"Uh, Laynie, can you come up here for a second? You might want to see this."

See it? We'd done this dance a million times before. Usually, the offending creature turned out to be tiny and (allegedly) harmless. John knew better than to poke fun at me, and he also knew that regardless of its size or stature, I most assuredly did not want to see it.

"Thanks, but I'd really rather not!" I called back up the stairs.

"It's just... this looks like a tarantula," came the return shout.

"That's great, honey. Why don't you take it to the pet store in the morning and have someone there take a look at it?" I suggested, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt.

Curiosity was all well and good, but there was no way I was looking at that horrible thing. Touching it had been bad enough.

* * * * *
Things went from bad to worse in the weeks following my rude spider awakening. It turned out that John's supposition had been correct. Our unwanted houseguest was a Chilean Rose Hair Tarantula - which begged the question, what was it doing in our North Georgia home? According to the guy at the pet store, this breed was a popular pet. I shuddered at the very thought.

Over the next two days, three more of the hairy, eight-legged monstrosities crossed my path. I told John to call an exterminator and I went to stay with my best friend Tessa. The bug guy was at a loss; he had no idea why tarantulas native to South America would be infesting our home. He sprayed something around the perimeter of the house, and we didn't see any more spiders after that.

I moved back into my house. Other than my recurring nightmares of arachnids, I assumed things were back to normal. How wrong I was.

After the spiders came the car. It was a shiny yellow sports car with flames adorning its sides and windows tinted so dark it had to be illegal. I first noticed it in the office parking lot when I left for the day. The next day, I saw it at the grocery store when I went to pick up a gift card for a co-worker on my lunch break. The day after that, it was parked down the street when I pulled out of my garage in the morning.

That was when I started to get scared. I called the police station and reported that I thought someone might be following me. An officer came out to meet me at my office, asked me a bunch of questions and told me he'd be in touch.

The next day was Saturday, and Tessa wanted to take me out to lunch. "You deserve it after all you've been going through," she said. We both liked Little Milo's Pizza and Subs, a cheery family-owned place down the street from my house. The weather was nice, so we walked. After all the stress I'd been under, the exercise and cool breeze felt like medicine for my soul.

We took our time over lunch, splitting a pizza and a pitcher of beer. It was a beautiful autumn day, and as I sipped my cold brew, a sense of well-being stole over me. Things got even better when our steaming pie arrived. The crust was perfectly crispy on the outside with just a touch of char, doughy in the middle. It was topped with loads of gooey mozzarella and filled me with a golden warmth when I ate it. By the time lunch was over, I felt relaxed for the first time in ages.

On our walk home, however, that uneasy peace was shattered. The calm of the afternoon was rent by the screeching of tires behind us. I turned toward the sound just in time to see the yellow car, its flame-painted side panels resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.

"TESSA, GET OUT OF THE WAY!" I screamed. We had just enough time to dive into the bushes before the car screamed by in the space we'd occupied only moments before.

I couldn't deny it anymore. Someone was out to get me.

* * * * *
I'm trapped in a burning building. Flames crowd around me, undulating like fellow dancers in a club. My skin is hot and sweat is rolling down my cheeks. My nose and eyes tingle and I can't take in enough air. There's no way out; the flames are too close--

"LAYNIE, WAKE UP!"

Tessa's voice broke into my sleep. I'd been staying at her place again since the incident with the yellow car. John and the police had both thought that might be best.

I opened my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that I was not inside the burning building from my dream. The room was hot and stuffy, and the lights were flickering oddly. That must have been what triggered the dream.

Wait a minute, I thought, Why are the lights flickering like that?

That was when I noticed that the wastebasket that usually stood in the corner was now a flaming torch.

Tessa charged past me, armed with a fire extinguisher. She pointed the nozzle into the depths of the burning wastebasket and squeezed its lever slowly. I couldn't believe how calm she was. Soon, the blaze had been doused in white foam and no longer posed a threat.

She dropped the heavy canister to the ground and seized me in a fierce embrace. "Thank God I woke up in time!"

* * * * *
After the fire, I went back to stay at my house. I didn't feel safe anywhere - too many disturbing things had happened to me, and none of it made sense. I no longer believed that someone was trying to kill me; instead, I became certain I was cursed.

A week later, I was sitting at home with John. We were watching TV and trying very hard not to think about anything. The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it clad in a robe, pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. Glancing through the peephole, I saw the same police officer who'd taken my report about the yellow car.

Hope filled me for the first time in a week, and I opened the door with a welcoming smile. I assumed he'd come with news about my tormentor, but no. The next thing I knew he was leading John away in handcuffs.

What does any girl do when it feels like her world is ending and she's got no one else to turn to? She calls her best friend.

"Hello?" Tessa answered, sounding oddly expectant.

"Tessa, I don't even know what's happening. The cops just came and took John away," I sobbed.

"They took... who away?" she repeated.

"John! You know, my husband?" I could hear my voice rising to an unappealing screech.

Silence.

"Tessa?"

"Oh, honey, you don't have a husband," she said, so gently it broke my heart.

"What? Of course I have a husband," I insisted.

"No, sweetie," Tessa continued, "You did have a husband, but he left you years ago. You had some kind of nervous breakdown, thinking people were out to get you, and he couldn't handle it. Don't you remember?"

My face was burning. Could it really be true?

"Sit tight, Laynie. I'll be right over."

Tessa's place was only a ten-minute drive from my own. That was the longest ten minutes of my life. When the doorbell rang again, I threw open the front door frantically.

"SURPRISE!"

I was bathed in blinding light, surrounded by a crowd shouting that single word.

"What the hell is going on here?" I whimpered, bursting into tears.

A man dressed in a glittery purple suit and tie stepped forward. The bright, hot lights sent laser beams bouncing from his unlikely getup. The man's features looked strangely blurred and bleached to my still-adjusting eyes. What I could make out was perfectly coiffed, tall hair and a face was so tan it was nearly orange.

It could have been just my vision playing tricks, but his lashline looked suspiciously thick. Was he wearing eyeliner? The absurdity of my thought process almost overcame me, and I clapped my hands over my mouth to restrain myself from inappropriate laughter.

"Congratulations! You're the latest contestant on Scare Me Senseless! I'm your host, Shane Swilley!"

He gestured at Tessa, who had appeared to his right and was peering at me anxiously, "Your friend here nominated you because you're a tough person to scare. Had we failed to scare you, she would have won $500,000 and a lifetime supply of frozen cookie dough."

"Wha?" I managed weakly. The urge to giggle was almost too much.

"Since we succeeded in scaring you," the overly-shiny host continued, "you win a trip to the Bahamas aaaaaand... A NEW CAR!"

A spotlight appeared out of nowhere and shined down upon the yellow vehicle that had threatened to kill both me and Tessa. Everything was too bright, too absurd... too everything. My vision began to swim before me, and I bit down hard on my lip in an attempt to remain conscious. Gulping in huge breaths of the night air, I waited for the world to come back into focus.

"It... It was... All a game?" I asked, still in shock.

"Eeeeexactly!" crowed the man in the suit. I couldn't stop staring at his eyes. He was definitely wearing guyliner.

"Tessa was in on this? But what about the fire at her house?" Fear and shock were quickly being replaced by rage. What kind of a best friend would do this? How could she have kept going, seeing what it was doing to me?

"Staged, my dear!" announced Mr. Guyliner, "It's amazing what we can do with special effects these days."

"What about John?"

"Oh, he's fine," the host continued, "The 'officer' that 'detained' him is a member of our staff." Inside, I was boiling now, and the air quotes he made along with the words "officer" and "detained" filled me with an almost insurmountable urge to wring his rust-colored neck.

"Did he... did he know about this?"

"Nope! That was all Tessa!"

"Thank God," I said, slamming the door in his face.

* * * * *
It's been five years since that night. I haven't spoken to Tessa since I slammed the door shut on Shane Swilley's smiling face, and I doubt I ever will again. So much for best friends.

John came home a few hours later, confused and angry but relieved that the ordeal was over. He talked me into accepting the prize package. I was furious about what we'd been put through, but I certainly couldn't deny that I needed the vacation.

I couldn't stand to look at that godawful yellow car. John asked his brother to hold onto it for us until we were able to sell it to a collector. Even after taxes, we ended up making a decent amount of money on the sale.

I'll put it in my therapy fund. It may have been a joke to Tessa, but for me it was the stuff of nightmares. Even now, I revisit it in my dreams most every night.


This post was inspired by a discussion with alleyalligator. We were both intrigued by the idea of having a "personal scarer" - someone who used our deepest fears to terrify us. Additionally, I took inspiration from the movie The Game and this article that kebechet (who is not part of LJ Idol) fortuitously posted.

This is shit, Yossi thought.

He rocked the stiff military-issue chair backward onto its rear legs and heaved a mighty sigh. The sound echoed in the stillness of the desert. The sun hung languidly in the bleached sky, glinting across the rippling waters of the canal and unconcerned with Yossi's plight.

After spending Pesach on duty, he'd looked forward to a quiet Rosh Hashanah at home with Yael and their two little ones. When he had been called to serve at the Milano strongpoint instead, he'd written a letter of complaint to the Minister of Defense. Surprisingly, the man with the eye patch had responded, releasing all of the 68th Battalion from service except for a skeleton crew. Perhaps Yossi had not been the only one to protest the deployment.

In exchange for a leave during Sukkot, he had volunteered to remain at his post. At 2 and 4 years old, Meir and Avital weren't really old enough to appreciate the High Holy Days anyway. A chance to go on a weeklong holiday with his family later was well worth missing them now.

Milano was a ghost town, as neglected as the rest of the Bar-Lev Line. The Line had been built to guard against an Egyptian invasion, but it had been years since anyone truly believed such an attack would come. Half of the strongpoints that comprised the line had been shut down, and the remaining forts had fallen into disrepair. Duty here was as an exercise in futility. Reserve units, mostly students and men well past their prime, manned the stations, bringing books and games and anticipating no action.

Today was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yossi had expected the solitude of the nearly-abandoned base to be meditative, an opportunity for reflection. Instead, he felt oddly disconcerted. Worshiping with a congregation of sand and rocks and accompanied by the only the whistling wind, it was easy to imagine that God had already passed judgment and found him lacking.

And the real hell of it all is that I can't even have a damn cigarette.

Sighing again, he pulled his father's old olivewood snuff box from his left breast pocket and tapped its lid firmly with two thin fingers. He opened the box and took a pinch, rolling the finely ground tobacco briefly between his thumb and forefinger before inhaling lightly. The sweet aroma filled his nose, and he dissolved into a violent fit of sneezing. He wasn't a fan of snuff, but it was all he was allowed during the fast.

He'd barely recovered his composure when he saw the commander approaching. There would be a briefing in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Stretching his long legs, he stood up and went inside to wash up. He welcomed the distraction.

* * * * *
Crouched in a scrubby juniper bush, Yossi ate for the first time in over 48 hours. It was an unimpressive spread: canned beef and tuna, crackers, pickles and olives. After the unintentional extension of his Yom Kippur fast and a long trek through the desert, however, it tasted like heaven.

Only minutes into the briefing, the commander's talk had been interrupted by loud explosions. Artillery shells had torn through the air, part of a military action they'd all thought impossible. The inexperienced reservists had panicked, diving for cover. The commander had sent him to the observation tower to see what was happening while he took the rest of the troops to the bunker.

Up in the tower, Yossi had rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The detonating projectiles weren't the worst of it; hundreds of Egyptian troops were advancing across the canal. A flotilla of rubber boats sailed over waters that had been calm less than an hour before, loaded down with men dead set on breaching the Bar-Levi Line.

By the time he'd made it back to the bunker, two members of his company had already been killed by shrapnel. Still, everyone had been certain that the air force would quash the Egyptian war efforts in no time. They'd rejoiced at the ear-splitting roar of the first planes flying overhead, only to reel in horror moments later as they watched the aircraft being gunned down. No reinforcements had come; no one had expected any to be needed and none were available on such short notice.

The impossible had happened. The Egyptians were staging an all-out attack. And from the looks of things, they were winning.

Only a third of the soldiers from his base were here with him in the desert now. Terrified and bedraggled, they prayed, some for the first time in years. One of the men had managed to escape with his tallit, and they took turns using the prayer shawl, each offering his own words to the heavens. When the tallit was passed to him, Yossi entreated God to allow him to see his wife and babies again.

As if in answer to his supplication, the sand beneath him began to vibrate with the thundering approach of a tank. The prayer shawl clutched around his slender shoulders, Yossi almost ran toward the sound, then hesitated. A member of the armored corps would be able to tell an Israeli tank from an Egyptian one simply by listening to the sound of its treads. He himself was only a reservist, far more learned in Torah than in the ways of war.

We barely made it out of Milano alive, and we've got no more food, he thought. We're ill-prepared and won't last much longer out here. And if the enemy's tanks have already advanced this far, there's a good chance we won't be rescued in time anyway.

His feet made the decision for him, and Yossi tore up the hill in the direction of the tank. He crested the ridge, waving the borrowed tallit like a white flag. Squinting toward the horizon, he began his prayers anew.

Please God, let it be one of ours.




( Author's Note )

Announcing Baby™ 2.0!

We are pleased to announce the newest version of our popular Baby™ product. The much-anticipated Baby™ 2.0 provides a winning combination of time-tested stability and exciting new features.

The original version of Baby™ will remain on the market as Baby™ Classic. However, for users who want to take their parenting experience to the next level, Baby™ 2.0 is the way to go!

Just look at all the new functionality you’ll receive with Baby™ 2.0...

LED Error Codes:
Our handy error code system makes troubleshooting your Baby™ 2.0 a breeze. Instead of frantically attempting to determine the cause of crying, just check the LED panel conveniently placed on Baby™ 2.0’s backside. Then look up the error code in our easy-to-read manual. You’ll be an expert parent in no time!

Fullness Gauge:
Take the guesswork out of nursing. Never again will you have to wonder if your baby’s getting enough!

Self-cleaning Function:
You’ll be the envy of your mothers’ group with our patented self-cleaning system. Not only will it eliminate messy diaper changes and stinky pails, but it can also be used after meals to remove caked-on food and keep outfits like new.

Enhanced Sleep Mode:
Instead of waiting for your Baby™ to enter sleep mode automatically, just hit the new Sleep button to initiate a sleep cycle. Just think how much more you’ll enjoy every precious moment with the luxury of a full night's sleep and a well-timed nap!

Pause Button:
Just hit Pause any time you need to run to the restroom, make a quick phone call, or grab a bite to eat. Also handy when your Baby™ is doing something cute and the camera is in another room.

Volume Control:
Even the best-maintained Baby™ is going to cry sometimes, but with our new volume control system, you’ll be able to hear clearly while consulting your partner or the expert of your choice.

Internally Controlled Analgesia System:
Sleepless nights due to teething are a thing of the past! Baby™ 2.0’s amazing pain-relief system works fast to soothe teething pain with no guesswork and no pesky night-wakings.

Which version of Baby™ is best for you?

Feature	Baby™ Classic	Baby™ 2.0
Crying (alerts user to potential error conditions)	Yes	Yes
Sucking Reflex (allows easier feeding)	Yes	Yes
Waste Disposal System (requires manual cleaning)	Yes	Yes
Automatic Sleep Mode	Yes	Yes
LED Error Codes		Yes
Fullness Gauge		Yes
Self-cleaning Function		Yes
Enhanced Sleep Mode		Yes
Pause Button		Yes
Volume Control		Yes
Internally Controlled Analgesia System		Yes

Sleep like a baby with Baby™ 2.0!

[trigger warning: eating disorders]

She's consumed by portions and routines.  Unaware of what's going on in the world, she knows her weight to the tenth of a pound, her measurements to the quarter inch. Her fingers have memorized the feel of her hips' protruding points. Meticulous, she calculates each calorie in a plate of raw vegetables.

Stretching every bite to hold off hunger, she rations her supplies.  Careful planning provides the illusion of feast during self-imposed famine. She's adept at making a meager meal filling. The satisfaction is short-lived; a full belly feels weak and unworthy.

She's been drowning in her clothes for over a year. Shopping trips prove fruitless; the harsh fluorescents call her failures into focus. Ribs in sharp relief but still somehow lacking, she lets the fabric swallow her whole.

Socializing all too often equals eating, and her calendar is bereft of dates. Empty plates are accusations and she's lost the will to fill hers. Too tired for breezy chatter and tiny bites to stave off suspicion, she chooses solitude instead.

Shivering in suits two sizes too big and struggling to focus, she is still capable, competent. The layoffs decimated her department, but she's survived another round. This last wave laid waste to a favorite colleague, a father who will struggle to feed his family.

Her free time is spent in hospitals. Seconds, minutes, hours stretch into eternity, the last of her mother's life, yet seemingly endless. The morphine only dulls the pain; it never takes it away.  That body in the bed is no longer her, barely human at all anymore.

Once she went home and sought refuge in his arms.  Now she's greeted at the door by nothing but memories. Accompanied by echoes, she huddles on the couch where he used to hold her, wishing for sleep.

In the lonely hours between midnight and dawn, she vows, Tomorrow, I'll stop. Tomorrow, I'll be whole.

At morning's light, she begins anew. Falling numbers, though cold, are the only comfort she knows. The scale's steady decline holds her together even as it tears her apart.

(Thanks to muchtooarrogant and roina_arwen for last-minute beta reading.)

For months, Mike and I were in love with the idea of having a second child.

It started with a condom "oops" when our son Max was only 5 months old. We were pretty sure I wasn't pregnant, that I wasn't even fertile yet. Still, knowing that anything was possible, we had a long talk about what we'd do if I was.

If I was pregnant, our second child would be only 14 months younger than Max. While that was certainly not our plan, neither of us was particularly upset about the idea. We were planning to have at least two kids anyway, and having the second one a little sooner than expected wouldn't be the end of the world.

As it turned out, I wasn't pregnant and life went on. It was for the best, really, as two babies that close together in age would have required us to find alternate childcare arrangements. My mom watches Max when I'm at work and she's not comfortable watching two kids under two. Still, the incident and resulting discussion left us both feeling wistful.

Months bled into each other and our son grew bigger. He learned to sit on his own, then crawl, then finally pull himself up. He was still a baby but every day he seemed a little more grown up. The more active he got, the more of his baby fat he lost, though he still had the squishy cheeks I've always delighted in kissing. As his first birthday approached, we grew more and more impatient to start planning for our next addition to the family.

Then about a month ago, Max started sleeping through the night. We thought for sure that it was just a fluke, but it kept happening, not every night but more often than not. He has three molars that are partially broken through the gums but even on bad teething nights, he'll only wake up once or twice before we've gone to bed. If we give him a dose of ibuprofen and sometimes some cuddles, he'll usually go back to sleep and stay down for the remainder of the night.

This means that we've suddenly started getting a lot more sleep. No longer are we so pathetically sleep-deprived that we're practically tripping. Suddenly, we don't have to go to bed at 9:30 pm and we've managed to watch a movie all the way through for the first time in almost a year. We've had time to cuddle and talk and get to know each other again as people, not just as harried first-time parents.

We're finding our own personalities again, a little more each day.

At the same time, Max's personality is coming out more and more. He's gone from a squishy, compliant baby to a young toddler with his own ideas. He plays hide and seek - we crawl away and hide around a corner or behind a door, and he finds us and laughs. If he wants a story, sometimes he'll grab a book and crawl onto my lap. He invents his own games, such as rolling a ball back and forth along the window sill without letting it drop to the floor. He doesn't talk yet but he does understand basic commands ("turn the page" or "put the ball in the pipe").

Our time with our son is more enjoyable each day.

We've settled into a routine as a family. We're learning how to get things done while working around a baby. We're learning the best ways to have fun, both with and without Max. He is still nursing, but mostly only when he wakes up in the morning and before bed. He knows and likes both my parents and Mike's, who live fairly nearby. They are able to get him down for naps and bedtime without a problem, so we can sometimes go out for lunch or dinner on our own and it's no big hassle.

That's where things stood when we came home from our last Date Night this past Saturday. We'd gone to dinner at a nice restaurant with some friends we hadn't seen in over a year. We had a couple drinks and come home fairly early. Since we've been fairly well-rested lately, we didn't feel like passing out the minute we got home. We sat on our bed and cuddled and talked.

And that's when it hit me. What if we didn't have another baby at all? I mentioned this idea to Mike, fully expecting him to veto it.

Instead, he said, "I'd be okay with that."

I have a friend (a mother of two toddlers) who says she doesn't really like babies. She loves her kids, of course, but she doesn't enjoy the baby stage and was relieved when they were past it. When Max was a few months old, I remember telling her that I'd decided I did like babies. She said, "I thought I liked babies too until I didn't have them anymore."

I think I understand what she means now. I think Mike and I both do.

It's not just the sleeping and the new-found free time, although it's made a huge difference in our lives. It's the fact that we both know we could be happy if we only have the one child, because we love him so much. It's the fact that some people with more than one kid say they like one better, even if they'd rather not admit it. It's the fact that we are not getting any younger.

It's the fact that maybe we already have everything we need here.

Maybe we'll both feel different tomorrow. Mike always wanted a little girl and I always thought I'd want my child to have a sibling. I loved pregnancy and the feeling of holding my sleeping, milk-drunk newborn, and I always thought I'd get to experience those things again. But if my one pregnancy and my one newborn end up being my last, I won't have any regrets. I wouldn't have done anything differently if I'd known they would be.

Maybe we'll both feel different tomorrow, but for now I think we've fallen out of love with the idea of having a second child.

"Slow down, Beulah. We're almost there," Johnette ordered. The enormous sky blue Cadillac sailed merrily down the street, showing no signs of losing momentum.

"Beulah, slow down! We're going to turn left at this -- BEULAH, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

The cerulean monstrosity rocketed through a red light, swerving sharply to the right in a last-minute attempt to avoid hitting a young woman crossing the street with an armload of shopping bags. The pedestrian broke into a run, scattering groceries around her. The green pickup truck that had formerly occupied the lane to the right honked loudly as it drove past, straddling the sidewalk.

"BEULAH! PAY ATTENTION!" bellowed Johnette.

In the backseat, Sally gasped and clutched at the seat in front of her. Even her hair, sticking out of her head in woolly corkscrews, appeared surprised. Of the car's passengers, only Doris remained unperturbed, snoring peacefully through the excitement.

"Now where did that lady come from? She wasn't there a minute ago," the steel-haired woman in the driver's seat mused as she veered the car back into its original lane.

We have got to find another driver, Johnette resolved, The only things keeping us from becoming roadkill are the grace of God and the sheer size of this rustbucket.

"Beulah, you're going to have to find a place to turn around. That was our intersection," Johnette sighed.

"Okie dokie, Boss," Beulah replied cheerfully. The boat of a car careened into a U-turn with no warning, accompanied by a symphony of screeching rubber. Johnette and Sally screamed as they were whipped sideways in their seats.

"BEULAH!" Johnette shrieked in frustration, "Just stop here, okay? We'll walk."

The car lurched into a nearby alley, barely slowing as it turned. A hubcap whizzed off of the side of the Cadillac and rolled away. Beulah slammed on the brakes and brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop, jerking its passengers forward in their seats. Doris awoke from her slumber with a startled snort.

"I think I left my oven on!" Doris shouted.

Johnette turned toward the backseat to face Doris. "No you didn't, Doris. Remember? We checked when we picked you up."

"What?"

"We checked the oven."

"You need some lovin'?"

Sally tapped Doris on the shoulder. "DORIS! TURN YOUR HEARING AID ON!"

"Oh!" The sweet-faced elderly woman fumbled under her halo of brilliant white hair. Her left ear began to emit a high-pitched whine. Johnette covered her own ears and sighed heavily.

"DORIS! TURN YOUR HEARING AID DOWN!" Sally offered loudly but helpfully.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," Doris replied, adjusting the offending piece of technology. The screeching from the vicinity of her head ceased.

Why did I get myself into this again? Johnette wondered. At 58 years old, she was by far the youngest member of the team she'd cobbled together. Her partners, while they were smart ladies (except for Beulah, who was just batshit insane), had all seen better days. For that matter, so had she.

Theirs was a bond formed by a common need. In this economy, it was tough for an older girl on her own to get by. Their stories were different but shared similar themes. Beulah had lost a fortune due to medical expenses. Sally's husband had frittered away their nest egg with a gambling problem he'd hidden from her until after his death. And Doris, the poor innocent soul, had been bilked out of her life's savings by an Internet scammer.

As for me, Johnette thought dolefully, Mine is just the same old story. Downsized at my job of fifteen years, and it's pretty damn hard to find a new one when you're less than a decade away from Social Security age. Not that there'll be anything left in the pot by the time it's my turn for a helping.

Sighing again, Johnette opened her door and climbed out of the blue behemoth. "Come on, ladies, let's go! Beulah, wait for us here. Be ready to go as soon as we get back."

"Aye aye, Captain!" Beulah shot back perkily, with a salute that was jaunty if a little off-kilter.

Slamming in her door, she barely waited for her two partners to disembark before whispering, "Does everyone remember the plan?"

Always alert and at the ready, Sally was the first to speak up. Brandishing a cell phone so ancient it probably didn't even have a camera, she offered, "I'll sit on the couch by the customer service area and pretend that I'm waiting to be helped. If there are any problems, I'll call Doris to come in."

Now fully awake and aurally enabled, Doris was quick to show she knew her role as well. "If Sally calls me, I'll rush into the bank shouting, 'Help! A man stole my purse!' to create a distraction."

"You got it, girls," Johnette affirmed, "If all goes well, I won't need either of you. Sally, you'll leave through the side door after I walk away with the cash. Then you'll call Doris to let her know we're ready to go.

"Now if everyone's ready, let's get to it."

Johnette plucked a green baseball cap from the deep pocket of her black trench coat. Emblazoned with the logo of the Buford Wolves, her fifteen-year-old grandson's high school football team, the cap was her good luck charm and she wore it on every job. So far, it had stood her in good stead. She prayed that it would continue to do so, because they had quite a few more banks to hit before their futures would be secure.

Jamming the cap onto her head and pulling it down over her eyes, Johnette entered the bank. There was no line, so she strode up to an open kiosk. Smiling at the teller, a bottle blonde who looked to be in her late twenties, she slid a slip of paper through the window of her station.

"I'd like to make a withdrawal," she said smoothly.

On a small piece of paper the size of a withdrawal slip, she'd written the following note:

Please give me all your money. Don't call for help and no one will get hurt. I am desperate and will shoot you if I have to.

She kept her eyes on the teller, whose heavily-mascaraed green eyes widened as her lower lip began to tremble.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I'm a grandma, you know."

Minutes later, she was leaving with a bag full of bills. Life was good.

Consciously keeping her pace neither too slow nor too fast, Johnette returned to the alley to find Beulah still parked with the engine running. Climbing into the front passenger seat, she shared the good news. "There must be at least a couple thousand here!"

Sally and Doris arrived together shortly thereafter. Doris had not even closed her door before Beulah gunned the engine and peeled out into the street.

The ladies made their getaway over the sound of Doris's startled screams and Johnette shouting, "GODDAMNIT, BEULAH! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

* * * * *

The next afternoon, Beulah sat in her La-Z-Boy recliner, watching TV and doing the crossword from the morning paper.

"Hmmmm, a six-letter word for 'bit of corn'..." she mumbled to herself. Licking her lips in concentration, she filled in V-E-G-G-I-E. Smiling, she moved on to the next clue.

"Like overcooked pasta? Oh, I know!" Her pencil scratched across the paper as she wrote D-E-A-D.

The voice of a television newscaster broke into her thoughts. "Police are still looking for the woman suspected of robbing the SunTrust Bank branch at 2171 Pleasant Hill Road earlier this week. She was last seen wearing a dark coat and a green baseball cap, and left the scene in a light-colored passenger car."

Startled, Beulah looked up at the screen just in time to see a black and white image of Johnette appear, with the caption "Security Camera Footage".

"If you have any information about the identity or whereabouts of this woman," the newscaster continued, "please call the following number..."

Smiling vaguely, Beulah scrawled the ten digits across the top of her crossword.

"You've yelled at me for the last time, Johnette," she said to the empty air as she reached for the phone.



Author's Notes:

This work of fiction is based extremely loosely on this local news story.

A million thanks to my friend Josh (his very neglected LJ is renlay) for letting me bounce ideas off and ask inane questions. Thanks as well to my betas, everywordiwrite and pixie117.

[Image is of a smiling baby in a high chair, with cake and frosting smeared on his face. He is wearing a blue crown with the number "1" on it and holding a glob of frosting in his hand.]


Recipe for Baby's First Birthday

INGREDIENTS
* 1 baby, aged 1 year
* 1 Fisher Price Laugh 'N Learn Learning Home
* 4 grandparents
* 1 aunt
* 1 uncle
* 1 cousin, aged 11 months
* 5 friends of the parents, known since their late teens or early twenties
* 1 stack assorted presents, wrapped
* 24 cupcakes (see recipe here on my baking blog)

INSTRUCTIONS

Purchase Laugh 'N Learn Learning Home several weeks before baby's birthday. Spend one hour with husband assembling toy and one hour laughing at people who complained in Amazon reviews that it was too complicated to assemble.

Become overly excited about birthday gift and give to baby 2 weeks early.

Combine grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousin and presents in home on weekend afternoon following baby's birthday. Since baby is taking an abnormally long nap, ask all guests to walk and speak quietly upon arrival. After 20 minutes, give up on not waking baby.

Wait for baby to awaken from two-hour-and-twenty-minute nap. Add baby to guest mixture.

Add Fisher-Price Laugh 'N Learn Learning Home to guest mixture so that baby and cousin do not become bored with large adult gathering. Babies will mostly ignore guests for the duration of the party in favor of playing with fancy toy.

Serve cupcakes to adult guests. Decide that baby will not be happy being confined to high chair during gathering and save baby's cupcake for later.

Open presents for baby. Attach blue bow from gift wrap to baby's head. Watch baby play with ribbons and wrapping paper while mostly ignoring gifts.

Hug guests goodbye while simultaneously attempting to clean up house and feed baby dinner. Clean dinner off baby and put baby to bed.

The day after the party, serve cupcake to baby. Watch as baby pokes at cupcake suspiciously and even cries before actually trying cupcake. Wait patiently until baby finally tries cupcake, then take many photos as baby smears frosting on self.

Clean cupcake off baby and call it a success.