A Selection of Short Stories by Sue Scott
Lloyd's World
"Murder and potato chips... a person can't stop after just one." The idea tickles Lloyd. He slumps on the couch, chews a fingernail and watches actors argue over a bag of 'Slices o' Grease' chips. "Oooh, and now they come in a new ripple cut!"
He pulls his wild mop of brown hair into a ponytail and idly wonders if a serrated blade would produce a zig-zag effect on skin. Giant pinking shears would be the ticket, they'd snip off an arm with a nice ripple cut. The news is back on, so he hits the mute button, finding it more entertaining to make up his own stories.
First comes the anchorwoman, with a serious face for the lead story. She's obviously scarred for life by the tragic murder- at least until the next one comes along. The loony weather guy flashes on screen, and Lloyd boos and throws a sneaker at the image.
"Oops, what's this? Puff piece girl has a serious face too? How unusual." Lloyd leans forward, furrows his brow and wrings his hands. When the 10-second video clip plays he sighs and falls back, "Ahh, the puppy in the sewer is rescued. Close call!"
Lloyd's stomach growls and he clicks off the TV. He stretches and grins wryly at the creaks and pops his body makes. "Just like squashing roaches. Okay bellybutton, lead the way! Vroom, vroom...next stop, kitchen!"
In order to hide a ratty T-shirt from his mother, Lloyd buttons his blue Oxford to the neck. The old bat has perfect vision. He resents her for that- having been a four-eyes since he was a kid. He leans on the refrigerator door, and hopes all the cold air will leak out. He's thirty-seven now, and can stand and stare into the fridge if he wants.
"Hmmm, what looks good in here? Hey Ma! You're wrinkling up like a raisin." Lloyd pats his mother's severed head, which sits on a fancy serving platter on the top shelf. Nothing but the best for good ole Ma. He frowns, cups a hand behind his ear and leans forward, "What's that? You're cold? Shall I move you to the oven then? How'd you like to spend forty minutes in the MICROWAVE? I didn't think so! Shut yer yap."
"Gripe, gripe, gripe. Can't ever make the old bag happy," Lloyd mutters as he pulls out the vegetable drawer. He looks at its contents and jumps backwards, clutches his chest and pretends to hyperventilate as the loony weather guy's face grimaces up at him.
"Yaah! The fright... My heart... I thought you were a cauliflower!" He giggles and makes a face back.
"What's this, what's this?" He narrows his eyes and examines the head, then scratches one of its ears. "Damn! Mold! Good thing I don't keep lettuce in here, huh?"
He shuts the drawer, grabs a loaf of bread and package of bologna.
"'Scuse Ma," he says politely, reaches for the mustard, and knocks her head onto the floor. It lands with a squelchy 'thunk.'
"Tipsy toodle!" He lifts the head up by the hair and plops it back on the platter, and pinches her cheek. "All better, cutie pie?"
Lloyd spins a chair around and straddles it. He tips it against the kitchen table, slaps a sandwich together and eats half of it in one bite. While he chews he wonders how to spend the day. No going out, the Internet repair person is scheduled to arrive any second during the next four hours. Waiting...Nothing is worse than waiting.
"NOBODY makes Lloyd wait!" He pounds his fists on the table, then snatches up one of the smarmy matching leprechaun salt and pepper shakers that mock him day after day, and hurls it across the room. It cracks, and salt pours out.
Lloyd shoves what is left of the sandwich in his mouth and crosses the room in two strides. He stomps the salt shaker into powder. "How dare you track filth all over my clean floor!"
He punches a hole in the wall, adding an eye to the smiley face pattern he's working on. One more for the nose, and it will be finished.
"Maybe I'll do a leetle flower, or a sweet butterfly next," he coos, resting his chin on clasped hands, "Or... A baby birdie!"
He paces the length of the living room to occupy his time. This is day number four without an Internet connection.
"I'm going whacko-whacko," he sings at the top of his lungs, "lickety-split sassafras."
Bored with pacing, he sits in front of the computer, stares at the blue screen and feels out of touch with the world. His fingers itch with the need to be on-line, attached to the vast menu of potential victims. It's not even ten o'clock yet and he's worn out. He decides to take a nap on the couch, so he can hear the repair person, who has to be coming any second now.
A pounding on the door startles him awake. He checks his watch, three o'clock, and shuffles across the living room. A blonde kid is standing there.
"What'cha wan," Lloyd slurs, still half-dreaming.
"Good afternoon sir!" Blondie abounds with energy, "I'm here to repair your Internet service!"
Lloyd reaches out, and angles the sewn-on nametag up so he can read it. "Is this a joke Ernie? They already came. Somewhere between nine and one o'clock."
Ernie checks his clipboard, "Hey man, sorry! They must have put you down twice."
He turns to go and Lloyd latches onto his collar, yanking him backward over the doorjamb.
"Of course they haven't already been here, idiot." He growls.
"Listen mister, I don't want no trouble!" Ernie stands wide-eyed, and massages his neck where the shirt chafed.
Lloyd stares at the boy's hands mesmerized, "Sorry, sorry. No trouble. Just a little grouchy when I first wake up, y'know?"
Ernie gives Lloyd a wary glance as he unhooks the computer cable and slides the end into a meter. Lights flash and bleeps blip.
He reattaches the cable and sits down at the keyboard, fingers flying. Two seconds later the Internet is up and running.
"It was just a matter of forestalling the schenectady
rotor's BCU," Ernie explains, scrawling away on a clipboard.
Lloyd strokes his scraggly goatee and nods, "Yeah, I thought it might be something like that."
"Thanks for being a valued customer of 'Cut-rate Cable,'" Ernie recites. He hands Lloyd a receipt and grabs his equipment bag.
"And thank you, Ernie!" Lloyd winks, "Take care now."
Ernie salutes and turns to go.
Two hours later Lloyd is out for a drive. He admires the neighborhoods he passes through. Such nice green lawns, such pretty little bushes and flowers. So suburbian. No outward signs of disorder, but he knows what goes on behind those walls. He lives in one of those pretty houses himself.
"Look! A tree!" He stares open-mouthed at an elm as he drives by, then snickers.
He parks along a quiet street, careful to keep the regulation distance between his vehicle and the corner fire hydrant. He pretends to read a clipboard as he scans the street for passers-by. Satisfied, he hops out of the 'Cut Rate' Cable truck, pulls a cap low over his eyes and saunters away. He tosses the 'Cut Rate' cap and equipment bag into a dumpster he passes on the way home, then peels off rubber gloves, wipes sweaty palms on his shirt and curses the makers of latex.
Ten minutes later Lloyd is home, he slams the door behind him, kicks off his sneakers and waltzes around the room. "I'm feeling euphoric! And she doesn't even mind. Yuk-yuk."
He grabs a handful of take-out menus and flips through them, "Let's have a celebratory pizza, I'll spring for extra cheese."
Twenty minutes later the doorbell rings, and Lloyd eyes the blonde pizza delivery guy up and down. He scratches his head and asks, "Have we met before? Your name isn't 'Ernie', is it?
The delivery guy is amiable, "No sir, it's Harry."
"Ooh, sorry to hear that. Here's two bucks, don't spend it all on crack." Lloyd slams the door and laughs maniacally.
He tosses the pizza box on the coffee table, then heads towards the kitchen to grab a couple of beers. In a buoyant mood, he gives Ma an affectionate nose tweak that tears it partially off. He settles down to watch the comedy channel and gorge. The comedians tell the same tired jokes, but he feels like laughing and does, spraying the coffee table with beer and bits of chewed pizza. He eats the whole thing in ten minutes and returns to the kitchen.
"Okay Ernie, time-out's over," Lloyd says as he pulls the head from the freezer. Ernie's eyes and mouth are opened wide, and his blonde hair sticks out in tufts. "Did I startle you, Ern? Sorry. You'll be wanting to meet your roommates."
He opens the refrigerator, "This is my Ma. Ma-Ernie, Ernie-Ma. Kissy kissy! Don't stare at her nose Ern, the graft didn't take and she's a little sensitive."
He belches loudly, tucks Ernie's head under one arm and unbuttons his jeans, "Excuse me! Acid reflux. Aren't you two lucky not to have stomachs!"
"We have a celebrity in our midst," he says, pulling out the vegetable bin, "Don't be scared Ern, he always looks like that. Say 'hi' to the world's most annoying weatherman. If he'd ever made an accurate prediction, I might have overlooked his personality flaws and let him live."
Lloyd slides open the meat drawer and drops Ernie's head in, then kicks it closed. "Y'all can visit, but keep the racket down."
He grabs a beer and sits in front of the computer, cracking his knuckles as it whirs and connects to the Net. "YAHOO! Scroll, scroll your boat...hum de dum...life is a tangerine."
His eyelids begin to droop around eleven o'clock. He is pleased with the list of names he's compiled, there will be plenty of time tomorrow to whittle it down to one lucky person. One quick tour of his photo gallery, then off to beddy-bye.
"Oooh! How gwuesome," he whimpers in a mock falsetto at a picture of Ma's dismembered body, with arms, legs and head lined up in a row. "A widdle boy wike me will have baad dweams!"
Next, Ma again-with limbs and head reassembled in the wrong places. Lloyd shakes with laughter, "Ma, you always did have the best sense of humor."
He clicks onto his favorite photo, the one of the loony weather guy's body, still mostly intact, with the rear end propped up by the dismembered head. The caption reads, 'Need I say more?'
"Tomorrow I'm sending that to the station, see if they flash it behind serious anchorwoman's head." The more he thinks about it, the better the idea pleases him. What a hoot! He yawns and decides to call it a night.
Lloyd brushes his teeth wildly, until foam spills out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin. He points the toothbrush at his reflection and does a Boris Karloff imitation, "Are you mad? Maaad? Yes, I believe so."
He shakes his head back and forth, splattering toothpaste all over the bathroom, then streaks naked down the hall to his bedroom.
"Here I come!" he yells, and leaps from the doorway onto a twin bed. A stuffed Snoopy bounces at the landing and Lloyd giggles. "Liked that, didn't you?"
He drifts off to sleep, curled around the stuffed animal he's had since childhood. He snores softly, not bothered by the bits of wadding that protrude from the headless animal and gently tickle his cheek.
©2003, Susan Scott
Some Day My Prince Will Come
Princess Mirabella sat at the window of her ivy-covered tower at the edge of a primeval forest and felt sadder than sad. Desolate even. She could hear the clip clop of horses' hooves as knights of what she figured were every shape and size passed by, but none came near enough to see her or hear her feminine bellows.
She chewed on a strand of chestnut hair, then put it over her lip and pretended it was a moustache to pass the time away while she waited for her prince
"Some day he'll come," she sighed and turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror with mooney cow eyes, "Some day I'll find a cool dude to hang with."
Meanwhile handsome Prince Harvey Charming zipped across fields and in and out of trees in his new red convertible Ferrari that he'd traded his trusty white steed in for at the 'Ye Olde Car Shoppe' that morning.
"Gavin was a great horse," He fought a pang of guilt, "But this is a babe magnet."
The wind whistled through the slit in his helmet, then whirled around his head, sounding like hurricane force gales. If he hadn't had to break for a twelve point stag he might never have heard the delicate and faint plea for help.
"All right! A chick!" Harvey smiled and floored it.
"Yo! Over here!" Princess Mirabella yodelled and waved her veiled hat frantically, "Hey! I need some help, darn it!"
Prince Harvey cranked up the volume on his 'Bee Gees Live at Sherwood Forest' CD and did a cruise-by while he drummed out-of-sync time on the steering wheel. He checked the babe out and thought, "Not bad. Shame she isn't a blonde, but I dig that low-cut bodice."
He parked to one side of the isolated tower and hopped over the door, a cool move he'd seen on TV. He didn't account for the full suit of armour though, and it tripped him up. He crashed to the ground with a tremendous 'clang, whang, whomp.'
Princess Mirabella gasped with alarm and leaned precariously from her high-up window ledge. When the pile of scrap metal showed signs of life, she slumped back and rolled her eyes, "Oh boy, we've got a winner here."
Prince Harvey grabbed onto the car door and hauled himself upright, then pounded out a few dents in his suit. As he turned the bulky helmet right way 'round, he sent up a brief 'thanks' to the goddess of fashion for her creation of a device which, although not allowing him to breathe properly and cutting off all peripheral vision, sure hid the occasional red face.
He chose a perfectly formed crimson rose with droplets of morning dew still sprinkled on its petals from the fully-stocked vase in the car, clanked to the ivy-covered tower and stood beneath the window. With a flourish the prince brought the rose to his nose and inhaled deeply. An immediate sneezing fit sent him back to the Ferrari as fast as his cumbersome outfit would allow. A couple lung fulls of bronchial inhaler later he plucked up his courage and set off to try again.
He held the crushed, droopy, almost-petalless rose up to the princess, who had watched his antics with some great amusement, clapped the other hand over his heart and cleared his throat.
"Will minest lady accept a token of mine esteem? Alas, it is a mere flower whicheth her beauty puts to shame," Harvey emoted in his best stage voice, "Forsooth! Lay thoust burdens upon minest sturdy shoulders, mine fairest maiden. Fret no more, Charming is here to assist thee!"
Princess Mirabella took the last bite of a juicy red apple and tossed the core out of the window, bouncing it off Harvey's helmet. She chewed slowly as he waited, a hopeful look in his deep blue eyes. She checked out the Ferrari and mentally estimated the prince's total net worth, then said, "For one, knock off the idiot talk. For the other, my..."
The prince brightened and rubbed his kid leather driving gloved hands together, "Ah, I get it! You've been put under an evil spell, of which only your true love can rescue you. And I am he! And I must kiss you many times!"
The princess leaned over and displayed a generous amount of cleavage, "No, I..."
"I know! An evil dwarf stuck you up there until you figure out his name. Am I right?" Harvey watched the bodice slip lower with great hope.
The princess licked her lips and wound a strand of chestnut hair around her slender finger, "No, it's..."
"A wicked stepmother? A pixie trick? Dragons?" The prince asked impatiently, "Look, you have to help me out here. This armor ain't made of feathers and it's gotta be ninety degrees today."
The princess stamped her slippered foot and huffed, "If you'd SHUT UP, I might be able to tell you."
She crossed her arms and sulked, and the prince stomped around the tower's base, muttering.
Finally he gave in, "Okay, okay. I apologize for living- all right? Now tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing." She examined her manicure and picked a bit of lint off her emerald velvet skirt.
"Well you didn't flag me down for nothing, did you?"
She watched a cloud float across the sky and drummed her fingers on the stone window ledge, "No, but it doesn't matter now. I'll get someone else to help."
"Curse me for a dirty codpiece," Harvey yanked his helmet off and threw it on the ground, then kicked it. He clutched his broken toes, hopped up and down and snarled, "Just tell me, will you? It's my royal job to help damsels in distress, but nowhere in the description does it state that I have to take any crap from them. Know what I mean?"
"Go on then," Mirabella flicked her hands at him in 'shoo' motions as a lone tear rolled down her baby-smooth cheek.
"Oh, here it comes. The 'I'll cry and get my way while making you feel like a jerk' bit. It's not gonna work missy, I'm outta here." He combed golden curly locks away from his sweaty face as he turned and limped towards the Ferrari.
With that the princess began to bawl, "N-n-nobody ever w-w-wants to help me."
Prince Harvey watched her face get blotchy and her green eyes puff up, and sighed, "Calm down. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it. Simple, right?"
Mirabella snuffled a bit and looked down at him with a pathetic, tear-stained face.
"Come on," he urged, "Tell me."
She dabbed at her eyes with a wisp of lacey handkerchief and said, "I dropped my comb. It's in the grass near your feet."
"You dropped your comb? DROPPED YOUR COMB?" The prince stared up at her open-mouthed, then pressed his hands against his temples, "Yaaah, my head is going to EXPLODE!"
He scooped up his helmet and tossed it in the Ferrari's back seat, then slid behind the wheel and floored the gas, burning sod as he peeled away.
Two miles later Prince Harvey screeched to a stop beside a hitchhiking blonde maiden in a mini-tunic and fishnet stockings. His heart skipped a beat as he grabbed a rose from the vase and opened the car door. He didn't plan to try the jump maneuver again until he'd changed into summer-weight clothes.
"I am your servant mistress," he bowed low and presented her with the flower.
She giggled and held it to her nose, and peeked coyly up at Harvey through her lashes. He opened the passenger door, settled her into the seat and managed to get fresh as well.
Then he got behind the wheel, kissed the damsel's cheek and the two zoomed off into the sunset.
HERE THE STORY ENDETH
©2003, Susan Scott
Reviewing Michael
"You're late."
"I'm never late, nor early. A Christ is always exactly on time!"
"You're late because you were watching 'The Fellowship of the Ring' again, weren't you? Why are you so mental for that movie? It's not like your perfect memory will forget any of it."
"Are we here to bicker about who was here first, or to take our jog?"
Judas stood. "O.k., let's jog."
They started jogging down the path side by side, and no matter how Judas tried to break his stride, Jesus was always in perfect sync, left foot falling with left foot, right with right. It bugged Judas, but only enough to not mention.
"I notice that Michael Powers isn't on the Born Again list anymore. Another slip over to the Dark Side?"
"Yes, he no longer believes in Us. As typical with his ilk, he even delves into blasphemy."
"Ah, christ!" said Judas, as he stopped his stride.
"What?"
"Oh, not 'Christ', I mean 'christ', little 'c'. I stepped in a dog turd."
"Oh, well, you can scrape it on the curb there."
"You won't magic it away for me?"
"C'mon, man, there are some things we have to deal with ourselves."
As Judas unhappily went about his task, he went on to say, "He was an altar boy, you know."
"Who?"
"Mike. Lord, pay attention."
"Oh, right."
"He was an altar boy, but you let him get raped a lot as a kid anyway."
"I'm not responsible for that."
"You gave him a voracious sex drive, but you made him believe that women hate him, so he'll never find an outlet."
"I'm not responsible for that."
"You made him smart enough to realize what a loser he is, underemployed and living with his mom, but you make suicide a capital sin."
"I'm not responsible for that."
"You gave him a heart full of love and honesty, but all he can see anywhere is hatred and duplicity."
"I'm not responsible for that."
"Like the light from a distant star, you let him see everything that could make him happy, or at least not unhappy, but put them all as out of reach as that star."
"I'm not responsible for that."
Satisfied that he had the crap scraped off, Judas resumed the jog, and Jesus was immediately at his side, in sync, of course.
"He's even been known to wear two different fabrics in the same outfit! And you hold that against him, don't you?"
"Hey, Leviticus lays down Our law, it's up to people to obey it or not."
"You're infinite mercy and love, right?"
Jesus casually jogged over a large puddle that Judas skirted, "Yes, We are."
"And if Mike doesn't believe that, he's destined for an eternity in a lake of fire?"
"Yes, that's Our law."
"That doesn't sound very loving or merciful."
"Look, you're just lucky I'm still friends with you, after what you did to Me."
"Mike sees through that. Without my betrayal, there would be no crucifixion. Without that, there would be no Perfect Sacrifice. Mike tells people that I am a holy part of the salvation of mankind, that the concept of Judas as evil doesn't jibe with history,
but he tends to get blank stares."
"Look, you know what you did was necessary, I know that, We know that, but the Church doesn't, and what the Church holds true on Earth, We'll hold true in Heaven."
"And the Church holds that Michael is damned, a reward for a life of unhappiness in the first place."
"Right. And, he's a bit self-indulgent, too, don't you find?"
Judas chuckled. "You can say that again."
(c) Sue Scott
Untitled, for now
"Don't come a cryin' to me, you low-down weevil..." Vernetta sang along with the country music station on the radio as she dipped her rattail comb into setting gel and forced it through a lock of Mildred's wiry gray hair, deftly looping it around a pink roller. She wiggled her skinny butt and did a quick two-step that made her purple hightops squeak on the linoleum, then attacked another strand of hair.
"Aghh, JC in a rowboat! You and George fight again last night or something?" Mildred gripped the salon chair's padded arms as her head got yanked one way and jerked another by Vernetta's rough treatment. She groaned dramatically and made pained faces at her reflection in the lighted mirror, "I swear, you're gonna scalp me!"
"No such thing," Vernetta muttered softly around the comb in her mouth, "This stuff's more mule headed than you are."
"WHAT?" Mildred held a beefy hand behind her ear, "You got to speak up Vernie- I done lost my hearing aid in the Piggley-Wiggly yesterday afternoon. Popped out and rolled away under the deli counter, and cain't nobody find it."
"I SAID, Vernetta cupped her hands around her mouth and raised her voice, "If you don't stop moving around I'll never get these durn things in."
Trisha looked up from her manicure station across the room and caught Vernetta's eye in the mirror, then bent her head over JoEllen's nails and snickered, "What a scam."
JoEllen perked up. She did a head toss to flip her big blond hair over her shoulder, leaned forward and whispered, "What scam? What do you mean?"
"Every so often our Mil there gets an urge to do some real gambling- instead of penny-ante church pot luck stuff," Trisha bit her lip to stifle a laugh, "So she spreads it around that her hearing aid's gone missing again. Sooner or later Dewey, her oldest son, you know- the one what moved away from Lima because of his...ah, gay thing? Well, he hears tell about it and forks over the money for a new one and off she goes to a steamboat casino or one of them Indian reservations."
"Ain't that just the funniest..." JoEllen whooped, "I wish I wore a hearing aid. I'd start losing it right and left whenever there's a good sale on at the Wal-Mart. Problem is Frank would tell me it was just too bad, and I'd better get used to being deaf."
Trisha slapped her arm lightly, "Shush you and pick a polish color."
"Hey y'all, listen to this," Caroline waved the magazine she'd been reading to get the other women's attention, "It says here that sixty-five percent of married women fantasize about having sex with a celebrity while doing it with their husbands. That cain't be right, can it?"
"Shoot," JoEllen brushed the notion away with one hand, "I was doing that when me and Frank was engaged."
Caroline eyed her friend, and thought she looked very nice in a sleeveless pantsuit that showed off her slim figure. She sighed, "I swear, I ought to hate you Jo, ain't nobody around makes me feel more like a blob of mashed potatoes."
"You hush," JoEllen preened, "Your diet's coming along just fine."
"My diet of fried this and chocolate that," Caroline snorted and went back to her article.
Ten minutes later the door of Vernetta's Beauty Grotto burst open and Wanda charged inside, dressed in a shortie nightie and snoopy bedroom slippers.
"Y'all won't believe it! It's a... Miracle! There just ain't no other word for it," Wanda managed to get out between gasps. She clutched a Tupperware container to her oversized chest and fanned herself with a spatula, "Of course the first thing I did was come straight here."
Caroline jerked violently and stuffed the magazine under her ample behind when Wanda plopped down beside her in the only other chair in the tiny reception alcove. She blushed bright red and fluffed her mousey hair.
"Lordy Wanda, you like to give me a heart attack!" Caroline exhaled with a whoosh, "I thought you were Harvey- checking up on me again. He don't want me reading them kinky sex stories in 'Cosmo'- says there's no way his old fat self can bend in all them positions. I try to tell him..."
"I swear, it was just your everyday pancake, all plain and brown," Wanda interrupted. Her eyes traveled over the faces of the five women in the salon, "I was just thinking about maybe getting one of them breast reductions-not to be flat chested, mind, but I sure get tired of dragging these big ole boobs around. Well, I was just thinking about that very thing, when i flipped the pancake, and... There she was, smiling up at me. Ms. Dolly Parton, as i live and breathe!"
"Girl, have you lost your mind?" Trisha raised a thinly tweezed eyebrow and exchanged glances with JoEllen. She gave Wanda the once-over, "I can't believe you ran four blocks in those slippers!"
"Well, I had other things on my mind 'sides what I'm wearing on my feet, didn't I?" Wanda half-heartedly shooed Trisha away with the spatula as she slumped down and tried to catch her breath.
"Did she say she brought us pancakes?" Mildred asked Vernetta, whose attention had strayed to her own reflection, as she examined her latest dye job in the mirror.
"Do y'all think I overdid the highlights this time? Maybe a little too much blonde..." She turned her head from side to side and frowned, "But my Momma always said 'Vernie, you cain't be too blonde, too thin or too rich.' And since I ain't never gonna be rich..."
"Look! Y'all look for yourselves!" Wanda held out the container in a hand that trembled so violently she almost dropped it.
"Honey, you got to calm down!" Vernetta said and dug a tissue from the pocket of her smock and handed it to Wanda, "Wipe that flour off your nose. It just ain't attractive."
"Thanks Vernie," Wanda squinted and asked, "That a new top?"
Vernetta struck a pose with one hand behind her head and the other on her hip and modeled the canary yellow smock with huge crimson cabbage roses run amok all over it, "I picked it up over to Bonneville when me and Trisha went to the beauty fair last week. Do you like it?"
With a sly look at Vernetta's turned back, Mildred loosened a couple of curlers and asked, "Did you bring syrup and butter? It ain't a pancake without syrup and butter."
"It's a Dolly pancake, Mil," Wanda shouted, "I didn't bring y'all breakfast!"
"Okay, let's see what's what," Vernetta slipped on a pair of rhinestone-studded bifocals. Wanda solemnly handed her the container and the others grouped around as Vernetta examined the pancake. She tilted her head then tilted the container. She held it at arm's length then so close her nose almost touched it.
Isn't this exciting?" Caroline hissed into Wanda's ear and squeezed her arm, "Almost like waiting for the last number of a black-out card at BINGO!"
Finally Vernetta slowly took off the glasses and returned them to her pocket. The women all drew in a collective breath, their eyes glued to her face.
"Girls, I do believe this here's a sign." Her voice shook as she pulled a wadded tissue from one sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, "The Lord has sent a personal message down to Lima! Imagine, him knowing where Louisiana is."
"It's a sign," Mildred pronounced and folded her arms over her matronly bosom. She stood, a figure of authority with orthopedic shoes planted apart, and a plastic cape decorated with pirouetting pigs in tutus draped around her stocky body.
"THANKS MILDRED," Trisha yelled, "We've figured that much out already."
JoEllen blew on her wet nails and asked, "What do we do now? I've read about this kind of thing in the 'National Enquirer,' but never thought..."
"Well, I for one don't believe in all that hoo-hah," Trisha said disdainfully and minced to the lighted mirror on stiletto heels, where she patted her fire-engine red beehive and gave her miniskirt a tug.
Wanda watched Trisha walk away and whispered to Caroline, "Too bad she has such thick legs."
"Tree trunks, "Caroline giggled conspiratorially, "Ab-so-lutely no ankles. And a huge behind."
"Elma Mayhood works over to the TV station, figure we should give her a call?" JoEllen asked doubtfully, as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, grimacing when it stuck to the tacky polish.
"What can she do? She's just a secretary," Trisha said scornfully, then shook her finger at JoEllen, "Durn it Jo, you do that every single time you come in here. I warned you I ain't fixing it no more."
"So?" JoEllen glared at Trisha, "And Elma'll tell whoever needs telling."
"Weelll," Vernetta said thoughtfully, "I think something this big should go straight to the top."
"You mean Floyd?" Wanda asked doubtfully and chewed on the edge of the spatula, "He runs the station- when he ain't out fishing."
Vernetta shook her head and took a deep breath before slowly announcing, "No... I mean to Ms. Dolly Parton herself."
The other women stared at Vernetta; jaws open and shocked into silence at her suggestion.
JoEllen finally said in a small voice, "I don't think she's exactly listed in the phone book, Vernie."
"I know that, don't I?" Vernetta sniffed, "We're packing the pancake up and driving on over to Nashville."
"Is that where Ms. Parton lives?" JoEllen asked as she carefully unstuck her nails, pulling off one hair at a time.
"That's where all the big country stars live," Caroline reassured, "I just read this article on how some left for the lights of L. A., right? But the REAL people stayed put at Nashville."
"We'll take my Oldsmobile, since it's the biggest," Vernetta said as she hung the 'CLOSED' sign in the window, "I just took it to Qwik Lube the other day, so it's road ready."
Vernetta left to fetch the car and the other women bustled about, gathering their purses and making plans. Mildred tied a scarf over the curlers and pronounced herself ready to go.
"You going to wear that cape when you meet Ms. Parton?" Trisha laughed, "I swear, if y'all ain't gonna look like five gooses."
"We'll give Dolly your regards," JoEllen said and climbed into the backseat next to Caroline.
Wanda sat next to JoEllen and slammed the car door in Trisha's face. She muttered, "That girl pisses me off no end."
Caroline and JoEllen mumbled in agreement.
"Okay girls, first stop is the 'Gas-n-Go' for ice," Vernetta said as she pulled away from the curb, "I got a cooler in the trunk that we can put the pancake in."
The women trooped into the convenience store and roamed the aisles, grabbing snacks and drinks for the four-hour drive to Nashville. Vernetta filled the little cooler with ice and tucked cans of soda around the Tupperware container.
"Hey y'all I just realized, what with all the excitement I never did get to eat any pancakes," Wanda rubbed her growling stomach, "I'll grab a lil something and eat it in the car."
"Nothing that's gonna mess up my interior," Vernetta warned as Wanda went inside. She shook her head and turned to the others, "Law, I think that girl is wearing one of them thong underdrawers!"
Wanda strolled out with a chilidog and Dr. Pepper, and Vernetta threw a fit, "Didn't I say nothing messy? You are the limit! Ain't no way you're getting in my car holding that thing- so you best start eating real fast or I'm gonna leave you right here and take the pancake to Ms. Parton myself."
"Alright, Mrs. Hissy," Wanda sulked, but scarfed the hot dog down as quickly as she could. She shoved the last two bites in her mouth and said, "I'b gready."
"I gotta visit the ladies room before we get going," Mildred announced and marched back inside the Gas n Go.
"She's got a bladder the size of a kidney bean," JoEllen explained to Vernetta, who sat behind the wheel cussing out everyone she'd ever known, "In fact... I'd better pay a visit too."
Caroline and Wanda followed. Half an hour later the crew were finally settled in the Olds and ready to go.
When they reached the interstate Vernetta said, "Mildred, check the map and tell me which way to go."
Mildred rummaged through her suitcase of a purse, "Durn it all Vernie- if I didn't leave my glasses at the salon, what with all the excitement."
"Give it here," Wanda reached over Mildred's right shoulder, "I'm a good backseat driver."
Mildred held up the map, but before Wanda could take ahold it got sucked out the window. Wanda turned and watched it somersault down the road, "Oh well... There'll be plenty of signs, won't there?"
She started to feel queasy from looking backwards, turned around and hung her head out the window and took gulps of air. Wanda began to sweat all over when her stomach lurched and she tasted the chilidog in the back of her throat.
"Vern... Vernie..." She clapped a hand over her mouth, "I'm gonna be sick!"
"Not in the car! Not in the car!" Vernetta hollered and screeched to a stop on the shoulder. Wanda tumbled out, retching, and threw up her breakfast in the grass.
"Didn't I tell you? Vernetta stood beside Wanda, who lay sprawled on her back, and handed her baby wipes, "Who listens to me? Ain't none of y'all, that's for sure."
"Bless your heart," JoEllen patted Wanda's knee and gave her a couple of Tums to suck on once the dry heaves had ended and she was able to crawl back to the car.
Vernetta burned rubber getting back onto the highway.
They traveled along, chatting and laughing for forty-five minutes. Mildred checked her watch and said, "isn't it about lunchtime?"
"I am kinda hungry," Caroline admitted.
JoEllen and Wanda chorused, "Yeah, hungry!"
"We're never going to make it to Nashville this year," Vernetta snapped as she exited the interstate and pulled into a McDonald's drive-through, "What do y'all want?"
Mildred looked into the cooler as they waited for their food, "The ice looks awful melty. Maybe we'd better get some fresh."
"There's a 7-11 right across the street," Caroline pointed out, "I could stand to go to the bathroom again."
They ate their food in the 7-11 parking lot then went in to buy a bag of ice and make use of the facilities.
"Okay, we're back on the interstate now," Vernetta said sternly to the others, as she drove up the ramp "And this is where we stay for the next two hours. Got it?"
Before anyone could answer the car began to shake and a 'thwoop, thwoop' noise came from the back tire.
"This is the absolute limit!" Vernie swore as she pulled over and got out. She walked back to the tire which hissed as air leaked out. She threw back her head and called, "Lord, you might as well take me now 'cause I'm gonna have a stroke and die right here on the highway anyhow!"
"What's up? Caroline poked her head out of the window, took one look at Vernetta's face and quickly popped it back inside.
Wanda got out and surveyed the situation, then turned and flagged down a pickup headed their way. It came to a stop behind them and a hunky guy in tight T-shirt and jeans hopped out. He ambled over, and tripped over his own feet when he got a close-up of Wanda's skimpy nightie with nothing to speak of underneath.
He lifted his Stetson and drawled, "What can I do for you purdy ladies?"
Wanda fluffed her hair, "How good are you at changing a flat tire?"
The hunk winked, "I reckon I changed a couple in my time. Y'all got a flat?"
"Of course we got a flat," Vernetta snapped, "Wanda, sit your naked ass in the car."
"Well, now, I'd actually appreciate it if all you ladies stayed out of the car while I jack her up. Lighten the load, so to speak."
"I'll lighten your load," Vernetta muttered then stuck her head in Caroline's window, "Girls you gotta get out while this um, gentleman fixes the tire."
The five women stood on the side of the road and admired the guy's biceps and washboard stomach and rear as he worked.
"Ooh child, ain't he got the snuggest fitting jeans?" Caroline fanned herself, "Harvey ain't never looked so good in his Wranglers."
"Button fly too," Wanda said, "Mighty fine."
JoEllen looked at her curiously, "How do you know they're button fly?"
"I know my men's jeans!" Wanda did a shimmy, "I ain't been married a hundred years like y'all."
"Slut," JoEllen poked Wanda in the ribs.
The cowboy finished and stowed the flat and the jack in the Oldsmobile's trunk. He came around the car wiping his hands with a dirty bandana, "There you go, all right and tight."
"Thanks," Vernetta said grudgingly, "Can you give us directions to Nashville?"
"Y'all are headed the wrong way for Nashville! You want to be going northeast, not southwest."
"Well, ain't this a fine thing! If you hadn't thrown the map out the window, we'd probably be there by now," Vernetta gritted her teeth and hissed at Mildred, "I gotta get back in time to fix George some supper."
"Don't blame the map on me missy," Mildred glowered at Vernetta, "This whole thing was your durn idea."
Vernetta marched over to Wanda and pulled her away from the cowboy.
"Call me!" Wanda barely had time for a quick wave before she found herself stuffed into the back seat once again.
Vernetta peeled out and drove towards the next exit as fast as the old car would go. She muttered under her breath the whole way and the four women exchanged glances, but remained silent.
It wasn't until they neared the outskirts of Lima that JoEllen ventured, "So, what should we do with the pancake?"
"Maybe we can Federal Express it to her," Wanda suggested.
"I'll put it in the freezer, and take it to her tomorrow," Vernetta said and gave a sideways glare at Mildred, "After I get a new map and co-pilot."
Mildred tightened her lips into a grim line and stared straight ahead.
"Oh lordy, Mildred, you've had the curlers in all this time!" JoEllen reached forward and pulled one out and made a wry face at the tight sausage roll of hair, "Guess you won't be needing a wash and set for a couple of weeks now."
Vernetta dropped the four off outside the Beauty Grotto and drove home. She set the pancake container on a kitchen counter then went to root through the pantry, trying to throw together a quick meal for her husband.
She came back to the kitchen with a box of freezer bags and found George examining the contents of the Tupperware. "Mighty scanty pickings tonight. "
"That's for Ms. Dolly Parton, thank you very much."
"What would Dolly Parton want with one of your ole flapjacks?" George patted his wife's rear and laughed, "She can make her own anytime. Shoot, she's probably got a gourmet cook to make 'em for her!"
Vernetta took hold of the Tupperware, "See? It's her face, clear as a picture."
George squinted, "Well, I'll be damned if it isn't!"
"Ain't that amazing?" she asked. "Me and some of the girls are taking it directly to Ms. Parton tomorrow."
Vernetta carefully sealed the container, then zipped it into a storage bag. She rearranged the overcrowded freezer and hid the box under a rump roast and piled bags of tater tots in front of it.
That done, she bustled around, taking leftover meatloaf and green bean casserole from the fridge and heating them up in her microwave. The phone rang continually.
"That was old Mrs. Wilkens," Vernetta told George as she hung up, "How'd she hear about the pancake? She never leaves her house, and she's deaf as a doorknob to boot."
George shrugged and said around a mouthful of food, "You know how these small towns are. Sneeze and in the morning everyone asks how your cold is."
The phone rang again, and Vernetta picked it up. "Hey Darlene! How're you? Yes, it's true! Hope you're sitting down, 'cause it's the weirdest thing..."
*****
Floyd mopped his forehead with a soaked handkerchief and stealthily glanced around the VIP airport lounge before sniffing his armpits. He watched his secretary totter her way towards him on ridiculously high heels and wondered for the hundredth time why she wore tight skirts that didn't let her walk proper.
"I had to wrestle a phone away from some commuter," Elma stuck a pencil into her tightly permed silver hair and shook her head, "Still busy."
"The most exciting thing to happen in Lima since the great flood of ninety-six, and I can't get through to my camera guy!" Floyd moaned and wiped a shirtsleeve across his upper lip, "I done told George to get Vernie her own line time and time again."
"I remember that flood! Wasn't that the one where Maybelle the goat floated down the river on ole Coot Johnson's shed roof?"
"You'll have to do the taping Elma," Floyd sighed and handed her the portable camera, Ain't much to it. Just hold it steady and for God's sake, don't drop it!"
"I told you, there was this whomping big spider crawling across the floor and coming right at me. It near scared me to death," Elma narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips, "I don't know where he run to when I threw the camera, but I saw it and that ain't no lie."
"Okay, okay- this ain't the time to be worrying about that," Floyd interrupted before Elma could work up one of her famous heads of steam, "Let's just do a practice run before Ms. Parton gets here."
He arranged two chairs and a coffee table then sat in one and pretended to have a conversation while Elma filmed.
"Oh," she giggled, "This is the funniest thing. People seeing this would think you'd gone clear round the bend."
Floyd glared at her, "All the big studios do it Elma, so they can check lighting and get cameras into focus and that kind of thing."
Elma saw him look over her shoulder and turn a weird shade of green. She turned and there stood Dolly Parton surrounded by people who fussed over every inch of her.
Her blonder than blond hair was piled so high, it added another six inches to her height, and the calf-length boots she wore over tight jeans had high heels, making her even taller.
"Is that one of them alpaca coats?" Elma whispered to Floyd, "I heard those things cost as much as a new car!"
Frank didn't answer, but clutched Elma's arm with excitement, as they watched all the primping in awe.
"Alright, enough," Dolly giggled girlishly and pushed everyone away. She walked over to the pair and held her hand out, Hey! You must be Floyd? I'm sure pleased to meet you."
Floyd had to unclench his grip from the sweaty hand then quickly swipe it on his pants before grasping Dolly's proffered hand. He cleared his throat several times, but still croaked, "This here's Elma, my secretary and cameraman."
"Hey," Elma shook Dolly's hand, "I love your boots! What are they, snakeskin?"
"Naw, ostrich," Dolly held one out and turned it from side to side, "They're tough old birds."
"Ms. Parton, you can sit in this chair," Floyd pointed to an overstuffed armchair, "And I'll take the other... If that's okay with you, that is."
When they were seated Elma clipped a remote microphone to each of their shirts and started taping when Floyd gave the 'go' signal.
He cleared his throat and loosened his tie, "I'm glad we caught you during the lay-over, you're a busy lady! Where are you off to now?"
"I'm headed to California to tape a TV special and take a little vacation. I don't mind chatting with you at all, it makes the lay-over wait go by faster," Dolly laughed delightedly, "And I sure do love to talk!"
Fifteen minutes later, Elma widened the frame in time to catch Floyd wipe his clammy palms on his pants and give her the 'wrap it up' sign. He shook Dolly's hand vigorously, "I'm real glad to meet you Ms. Parton. We'll air this on the 'Wakin' Up With Floyd' show in the morning. Folks ain't gonna believe their eyes!"
"It's been lots of fun," Dolly smiled broadly and winked, "Y'all take care now!"
Floyd stared as Dolly's entourage swarmed about, and hustled her towards the plane.
After the piled-high blonde bouffant rounded a corner and disappeared, he turned to Elma with a huge grin on his face, and they did a high-five.
It's a Living
It's twelve o'clock in the A. M., and I'm parked on an overstuffed armchair, waiting... The chair is one of a clutter of other equally uncomfortable designer pieces shoved, along with an assortment of tables, in one corner of the exclusive Excalibur Arms' lobby. I sit here immobile, very calm, patient to the extreme. One thing I've learned over the ages is that there's no rushing Time-he's got a lousy attitude and only slows down when pushed, the ornery so-and-so. We bump heads on a daily basis, since my job is all about time, or the lack of it.
The Excalibur is surprisingly busy during this witching hour, people arrive and depart in fairly regular intervals. Often enough so that I don't have longer than thirty seconds to contemplate the hideous painted tiles on the floor before a distraction comes along. Only interior decorators could think crimson, pink and gray swirls are chic, the tasteless posers. It reminds me of a brain hemorrhage. My lip curls in disgust. Just because I'm not er, well, among the living doesn't mean I can't be offended by bad taste.
Directly across from my chair is the elevator, the object of my attention-or at least the reason I've been cooling my heels here when there's lots else I could be doing. Okay... I admit it, I need the rest. Who wouldn't after an endless 24/7 work week? This schedule is killing me! Heh-heh. Sorry, a little professional humor there.
A fusty night clerk prowls around behind the reception desk to my right, and the revolving doors that lead to the great outside are to my left.
Beyond the doors is the "Arms Hall," a faux medieval-style restaurant. A four-star fancy-schmancy place with fake shields and suits of armor all over. Nothing like the real stuff from the good ole days. It closed an hour ago, but Poindexter's is doing a booming business. The small pub is located directly across the hallway from the restaurant.
The gentleman I'm interested in meeting, more or less, isn't due to put in an appearance until one o'clock, so I have an hour to kill. Pardon the pun.
I stare at a fat fly buzzing lazily about, and with my finger draw an imaginary path for it to follow-right into a spider's web stretched between the legs of an end table. I grin like a fool when the fly hits the web dead center; this is a game I never grow tired of. The hungry spider appears from nowhere to make haste and wrap his dinner in strands of silk, imprisoning it in a cocoon.
Good riddance! Flies are a mistake, a glitch in evolution, so to speak. Ever since they filled my corpse with maggots before my family could find it and give it a proper burial, I've had it out for the nasty little buggers.
An uproar from the pub catches my attention and I watch idly as a security guard hustles a drunk towards the revolving doors. Ahhh, Mr. Joseph Walters is in his cups again.
Joe the lush drags his heels and protests loudly, "NO! Yoush can't make me go if I don wanna!"
The guard yanks him into the door by the upper arm and simultaneously pushes on the glass segment to make it turn. I suppose he hopes the momentum will get Joe on the street quicker, but he doesn't count on my presence tonight. Unless I miss my guess, that's not exactly the way the scene will play out.
Now, I really have no idea how this happens-wink, wink-but old J. W.'s head gets caught between the wall and the revolving panel, as his body keeps moving forward with the guard. There's a delightful ripping sound as his flesh separates, seconds before the heavy glass door cuts through his spinal cord like a hot knife through butter. "Viola!" Joe's head has decided to stay behind and hang out in the lobby with me.
A fusty night clerk prowls around behind the reception desk to my right, and the revolving doors that lead to the great outside are to my left.
Beyond the doors is the "Arms Hall," a faux medieval-style restaurant. A four-star fancy-schmancy place with fake shields and suits of armor all over. Nothing like the real stuff from the good ole days. It closed an hour ago, but Poindexter's is doing a booming business. The small pub is located directly across the hallway from the restaurant.
The gentleman I'm interested in meeting, more or less, isn't due to put in an appearance until one o'clock, so I have an hour to kill. Pardon the pun.
I stare at a fat fly buzzing lazily about, and with my finger draw an imaginary path for it to follow-right into a spider's web stretched between the legs of an end table. I grin like a fool when the fly hits the web dead center; this is a game I never grow tired of. The hungry spider appears from nowhere to make haste and wrap his dinner in strands of silk, imprisoning it in a cocoon.
Good riddance! Flies are a mistake, a glitch in evolution, so to speak. Ever since they filled my corpse with maggots before my family could find it and give it a proper burial, I've had it out for the nasty little buggers.
An uproar from the pub catches my attention and I watch idly as a security guard hustles a drunk towards the revolving doors. Ahhh, Mr. Joseph Walters is in his cups again.
Joe the lush drags his heels and protests loudly, "NO! Yoush can't make me go if I don wanna!"
The guard yanks him into the door by the upper arm and simultaneously pushes on the glass segment to make it turn. I suppose he hopes the momentum will get Joe on the street quicker, but he doesn't count on my presence tonight. Unless I miss my guess, that's not exactly the way the scene will play out.
Now, I really have no idea how this happens-wink, wink-but old J. W.'s head gets caught between the wall and the revolving panel, as his body keeps moving forward with the guard. There's a delightful ripping sound as his flesh separates, seconds before the heavy glass door cuts through his spinal cord like a hot knife through butter. "Viola!" Joe's head has decided to stay behind and hang out in the lobby with me.
scare little kids! Hope you enjoy being a dried-up ancient hag, with a humped back and warty nose. Yes... you'll greet me with open arms one day."
She must feel my stare because she stops in mid fluff and glances over her shoulder, right through me. Of course she doesn't see me, she won't for many years yet, but now she's confused and shivers and hurries into the ladies room. Good.
The paramedics arrive and scoop up Joe's head, stuffing it in a plastic bag. Some cleaning people quickly take care of the bloodstains and the extraneous cops leave.
I watch the spider scuttle across the fake oriental carpet, maybe on the way to invite the black widow near the reception desk to dinner? As my eyes follow it, the spider moves quickly on to the grotesque tiles, and a janitor crunches the little thing flat under his shoe without even noticing. Life is so fragile. But when it's time to go there ain't nothing none of us can do about it.
I feel smug, thinking of all the dying prayers and bribes that have been offered to me since I took over from my predecessor about nine centuries ago. What a useless waste of diminishing breath. I want to yell, "Face death bravely people! No sniveling, no whining! Yeesh, cut me a break now and then, will ya?"
The shaken night clerk resumes his post and the security guard toddles off to find a new uniform, and everything is back to normal in a mere hour.
Poindexter's is much quieter now, it empties out pretty quickly after the cops leave. There are still those die-hard drinkers that hang about to tell the tale over and over, although they'd seen none of the actual event.
I suppose decapitations are real business killers. Har-har. Okay, so I missed my calling as a comedian. I knock 'em dead at the yearly Reapers' Association talent show!
When a gluttonous man starts to pound on the bar to make some point and annoys me, I whip out my appointment diary. Luckily I have a free slot for the day after tomorrow and pencil Brad Bagley's name in for a visit. The bartender looks bored to tears, and I doubt he'll miss this inebriated bozo.
The sands in the hourglass finally shift to one o'clock, and the light on the forty-eighth floor blinks on, and the elevator slowly ascends. Time to rock and roll!
I groan a little as I reach for the scythe laying on the floor beside my chair, my old bones ache like crazy in this damp weather. I pull the hood of my black cloak further over my head and adjust its folds. It's important to be wrinkle-free when giving someone the big zap.
I point my scythe at the floor indicator, and suddenly the numbers are flashing on and off in rapid succession as the elevator plummets downward.
There is a great "WHOOSH, CRASH" and the night clerk and guard go running in time to see the elevator doors fly open to reveal a crushed car and a gory arm sticking out of the ruin. Blood begins to seep in a slow puddle that blends in nicely with the tile floor.
In a panic, the night clerk phones hotel management while the security guard wastes time attempting to find a pulse on the hairy arm. I can't resist taking a peek to see if the Timex on it is still ticking. Yup! What an advertising slant, "Timex: Even a falling elevator can't stop us!"
Once again the cops barge through the revolving door. I smile as one shudders and rubs the gooseflesh on his arms as I brush by, and another crosses himself. People are so cute sometimes.
I drift through the plate glass window, my job at the Excalibur Arms completed. I doubt I'll get a bonus for the fly, but I'll write it up anyway. One never knows with the head honcho.
I'm two blocks away from the hotel when a traffic light goes on the fritz, and a car and taxi collide head on. I join the crowd of lookie-loos and am pleased to see the taxi driver has smashed through the windshield, leaving his face behind. His passenger is slumped over the front seat. Too bad, broke her neck.
The occupants of the SUV haven't fared any better, luckily the driver's airbag didn't engage, she seems to have eaten a big chunk of her steering wheel. I hate SUV drivers, they have delusions of grandeur. Granny in the passenger seat has croaked, she had a heart attack before the crash even happened. Spoilsport. Four more for the tally books!
"C'est la vie," I give my best Gaelic shrug. "Them's the breaks."
As I jot the latest info down, I realize that I've fallen behind and won't meet my quota for the month. Oops! I scan the crowd around me and do a quick 'eeny, meeny, miney, mo.' Not the most professional, but effective anyway. My finger points at a woman in a business suit and sneakers. Sheila C. Coleman, Esq. Probably on her way home from another sixty-hour work week with a briefcase full of notes for an upcoming trial. A defense lawyer... her client would have gotten off anyway. Toodles, Sheila old gal! People gasp in surprise as she collapses into a heap at their feet.
A bus speeds towards me from a couple blocks away, and wouldn't it pick the next intersection over to blow a tire? The heroic driver manages to steer the bus away from the gawkers at the accident site, and I cheer as he jumps the curb and rams into a building.
I do a head count and come away with five immediates and three more that I'll let linger for a few days before collecting them.
Satisfied, I wander back to the sidewalk and pass over a derelict propped up against a fire hydrant, snoring loudly. As I write his name and credits in my book-James David Arnett: jailbird, drug addict, wife abuser; he suddenly and mysteriously begins to choke, turns blue and falls over.
Society owes me a favor for that one, I think as I check my appointment diary and head towards my next assignation.
©2003, Susan Scott
A Ghostly Third Party
Margie leaned against the hood of her car and scanned her surroundings. With a sigh she punched a number into her cell phone and waited. The wind picked up and swirled around her, blowing locks of her wild curly hair into her eyes. She brushed them back impatiently and hunched deeper into her denim jacket.
She jumped when a voice on the other end of the line broke the eerie silence around her, then slumped against the car with relief and began to babble, "Hi Dad, it's me. I think I'm lost! I must have taken a wrong turn after the river, the pavement stopped awhile back and there's nothing here but a big field and a bunch of trees. I don't even see a house or any other signs that people might be around somewhere."
"Calm down honey, take a deep breath," her father's soothed, "Let me find it on the map. It looks like…over a…far."
"What? I didn't catch the last-you're starting to break up some." Margie circled the Civic, hoping to find a spot with clear reception. She didn't want to go beyond arm's length of the car though, in case she needed to dive in and lock the doors. A crow cawed, mocking her from a nearby oak, and the sound echoed across the open meadow, bouncing off the ring of trees encircling it.
"I don't see any dirt roads marked off in that area, Marge. Let me check the ordinance map." She could hear the rustling of paper and her father humming, "Honey? You still there? The interference is bad, isn't it? I'm hearing another voice on the line. Kind of a far-away whisper… Can you hear it?"
Margie smiled at her dad's imagination, "No Pop, I'm just hearing you and static."
"It was a woman, very old and croaky," Mr. Wallace insisted, "She said, 'Hang... now... mine...' What do you think of that?"
"Weird, Dad. I really didn't hear anything. Speaking of women… How's mom's leg?"
"The doctors have her in a cast from hip to ankle, she broke it in two places when she fell."
She cringed and gripped her left leg, "Poor Mom! How's Spanky? Did he get hurt too?"
"Not a bit. Your mom hooked her foot under him, but he managed to scoot out of the way when she fell down the porch steps. I found him hiding under the rhododendron bushes. Liz is furious with him, needless to say." Mr. Wallace added sheepishly, "I don't think my 'black cat crossing the path' joke cheered her up any."
"Mom will forgive both of you in a couple of days," Margie laughed, picturing her Dad with his salt and pepper hair and English professor beard and hang-dog expression.
"Of course she will. Now, let's see if I can find you and get you going on the right road…"
A ghostly voice drifted in between bursts of static, "Hang…help me…"
"Oh my god dad I heard it!" Margie's flesh crawled and she jumped in the car, clicking the locks before the door closed all the way, "What're we going to do? I could try 911 or the phone company-tell them an old lady is going to commit suicide."
"Weeell, I don't know honey. I doubt it's traceable when coming through a cell phone, the use of a satellite makes that prohibitive."
The spectral voice crackled through the bad connection, "Hurry… go… time… used up…"
"Dad I'm getting freaked out here!" Margie's heart pounded as she glanced from rear to side view mirrors. She let out a small scream when the crow took flight, its huge black form passing right in front of the car.
Calm down hon, let's get you back to civilization, and I'll worry about the old lady. Okay?" She couldn't help noticing the quaver in her father's voice as he continued, "I found you on the map, you're on the access road that leads to the back of Fred Barryman's property. What you want to do is…"
Margie felt her hair stand on end when the voice pleaded, "Will someone help me?"
"I'm getting out of here dad, it's almost dark and that woman is giving me the heebies."
"Relax Margie, it's just a voice. Get yourself turned around and when you get back to the main road go right for about ten miles…"
Margie heard a buzzing, then, "Harold…hang…kill you…"
"Dad, that's your name!" She turned on the ignition and performed a bumpy U-turn in the grass, drove back onto the path and pressed hard on the gas, "I'm really scared now! Are all the doors locked? I'll be there in about fifteen minutes, hopefully. Do you have the baseball bat I gave you? You have to protect Mom and Spanky too."
"I think so, the last time I saw it was when Liz cleaned out the hall closet and…"
She gasped at a loud crashing noise in the background, "DAD! Dad, what was that? Dad, answer me!"
"Oooh no," Mr. Wallace moaned, "I'm done for now!"
"What do you mean?" Margie burned rubber turning on to the main road as she listened to the sound of running footsteps and her father's labored breathing. She gripped the cell phone tightly, "Dad! What's going on? Should I call the cops for you?"
No, no he panted, "I'm just going up the stairs. Whew! Gotta cut back on the junk food!"
She pressed the phone to her ear, trying to make out what her father was muttering, then jerked it away when her mother's voice came through loud and clear, "Damn it Harold, I've been calling you for ages. There's no more hot water, and I'm freezing! Hang up and help me get out of the tub this minute or I might have to kill you after I skin the cat!"
©2003, Susan Scott
Liesle's Dragon
"This is my stepmother's doing, isn't it?" Liesle demanded. The pair of silent, burly elves wiped sweat from their brows and jumped at every sound as they tied her to a stake at the bottom of Bleaker Mountain. When she was securely bound they ran off at top speed.
They had scarcely disappeared back into the shadows of the forest before a nightmarish monster landed its enormous bulk in front of her. She yelped in horror as its snake-like tongue flickered out and brushed against her cheekbones and pointed chin.
"So my fate is to be eaten alive," she sighed, giving into the darkness welling up inside her. She felt the beast's hot, rancid breath on her face and fainted.
When she came to, she found herself on the dank floor of a cave. The moon provided enough light for her to see her captor sprawled along the opposite wall, asleep. Its leathery wings were tucked against a blueish scaly body that she figured must be twenty feet in length, plus another five for the tail.
"How can a five-foot, six elf fight that?" Liesle repined as she pawed through the carry-all bag slung around her hips. "Especially since I forgot my dagger," she grumbled. "I could feed it lip resin and hope it's allergic…"
She rested her chin on her knees and eyed the sleeping dragon.
So that was how Grusilla had managed to marry her father! Everyone knew that dragons were magical; obviously she had exchanged Liesle for a wish. "Blast the evil witch! I'll get out of here and make sure she pays!"
She stood up quietly and started to sneak away, barely reaching the entrance before being jerked backwards and landing hard on her bottom. The dragon had latched onto the train of her dress with one birdlike claw and the long talons ripped through the heavy velvet as though it were gauze.
"Going somewhere, my sweet?" The dragon tilted its head, blinking lazily. It opened its mouth and yawned, pulling back lips to reveal razor-sharp teeth. "I love elves; they're tasty and not too fattening."
Liesle caught the unnatural grimace as she stood, rubbing her bruised parts, and strove to keep her expression bored and unimpressed. "I'm not scared of you, you overgrown salamander!"
"Hmpf!" The dragon snorted, narrowing its red eyes to slits.
Liesle jumped aside, but the flames singed the trailing skirts of her gown. She stamped them out with a slippered foot, cursing, "Useless thing…"
She gathered up the ragged train and draped it over her arm, waving it in the dragon's face. "Look what your stupid nails did to my brand new dress!"
"Don't worry about the dress," the dragon sneered, "You won't need it much longer."
Liesle heard its stomach grumble and her knees grew weak. She backed away, glancing around surreptitiously.
"It's no use," the dragon chuckled, surrounding her with puffs of acrid smoke, "There's no way out, except down. You'll have to grow wings to make it to the ground alive."
Coughing and choking, she said, "What do you want? My father is King of elves, he can give you whatever riches you desire, no questions asked."
The dragon chuckled and used its tail to smash a heavy wooden chest that stood taller than her. The studded panels splintered and a landslide of gold coins and jewels cascaded out, piling around her ankles and glittering in the moonlight.
"Oh…" Her heart sank, "Then what is it?"
"I need a, ah, companion for a bit, and you're this month's selection."
Liesle wrinkled her nose, "No way! Isn't that like bestiality or something? Oh gross!"
"Not that kind of companion, little idiot," the dragon snarled. "You scaleless grubs don't interest me in any way but one."
"Are you going to eat me now?" She whispered.
It winked, "Got it on one!"
"But..." she thought desperately, trying to ignore the bones scattered across the floor of the cave and the bits of blood-soaked material. She recognized the embroidered edges from gowns belonging to long-lost friends. "Don't you want to fatten me up first? I'm pretty scrawny, even as elves go."
"It's not the meat; it's the blood running through your bones that keeps me alive."
Liesle made a disgusted face, "Why can't you eat my stepmother then?"
The dragon rolled its eyes, "Don't you ever read fairy tales? The sacrifice has to be a virgin, one who is ignorant of carnal knowledge and thereby pure of blood."
Liesle stumbled back and heard a "crunch". Bile rose in her throat when she discovered she'd stepped on a disembodied hand. Its little finger was missing, and it wore a ring made of tiny diamonds in the shape of the constellation Virgo. How appropriate, she thought wryly, then bent over to vomit.
The dragon's lip curled, "Oh please! I do have some standards, you know. Yeesh, what'd you have for your last meal anyhow, eggs?"
She ignored the creature and used the hem of her gown to dab at her lips and watering eyes. She recognized the ring and the slim hand of her cousin, Misa. Last month Grusilla had reported seeing Misa elope with her beau late in the night.
"What wish did you grant in exchange for my cousin's life?" Tears welled up in Liesle's green eyes at the thought of Misa's fate.
"Don't keep track," the dragon yawned until its jaws cracked.
Liesle sidled to the entrance and stepped out onto a ledge. The moon shone like a spotlight on heaps of chewed bones. They looked like the chicken bones at the end of her father's feasts, after the guests had bitten into them and sucked out the marrow.
Liesle put her hand on the cave's outer wall to steady herself as her vision grew cloudy and a swarm of bees buzzed in her ears. With a slithery, scrabbling noise the dragon came up behind her, filling the entire entrance to its lair.
Keeping one eye on the dragon, she snuck a peak over the ledge then stepped back quickly. It was a sheer drop, the height of two castles piled on top of each other, down to the boulders where she'd been tied up. She looked up, but the mountain's surface was smooth as glass, no crevices for footholds.
Sighing dramatically, she put the back of one hand to her forehead and the other over her heart, "If you must eat me, do it now. Let this torture end!"
"Oh, torture is what it's all about my princess!" The dragon leered, "I eat you bit by bit; to keep things fresher, you understand. I start with something small for a snack, an appetizer if you will, a tease... usually I prefer the pinky finger. Then I move up to something more substantial like a leg bone, the drumsticks are my favorites actually. Then I'll eat the arm bones and munch my way up the vertebrae. The skull is saved for last, I love the way it bursts in my mouth when I bite down on it! The brains ooze out and I rip out the tongue for a chewy treat..."
"Stop! This is all more than I want to know. Just do it and get it over with, will you?" Liesle examined her hands then held out the right one, pinky extended. "Here! Since I'm left-handed, I guess I wouldn't really miss this one much. Plus, if I live through this and get married, my wedding hand will be intact so I can show off the ring."
She saw the gleam of interest in the dragon's reptilian eyes and her resolve faltered. "I hope I don't bleed to death before you get to the rest of me," she said in a quavery voice. "Can't we make a bargain of some sort? I really don't want to lose a finger. I'm only eighteen you know, that's… OUCH! Holy goddess of..."
Liesle stared wide eyed as the dragon, who had nipped her little finger off with lightning speed, sucked on it with the same relish as a baby at his mother's breast. She tried to ignore the pain as she ripped the ruffle off one of her underskirts and wound it around her hand. Blood immediately seeped through the white linen, so she stepped out of the slip and began to tear it into long strips. She was so intent on her job and determination not to faint, that she barely took notice of the dragon until it started coughing.
"Hey, watch it!" Liesle ducked as flames shot over her head. She sniffed and felt her floor-length auburn tresses, "Do you smell burnt hair?"
The dragon hacked harder, its eyes watering as it clawed at the ground. Its body shook and twisted, writhing in agony. Finally the tremors passed and it gasped, "You're...not...virgin."
Liesle blushed, "Well, no. This handsome knight came through last year, and he looked so fine in his armor and..."
The dragon turned slime green then moldy gray, its body shriveling up. It screeched, "A pox on the woman who dared to offer me tainted meat!"
"That would be Grusilla. I think she's fifty-three, although she claims to be thirty-five. I know she dyes her hair black with squid juice, and..."
The dragon hissed, "Will you shut up and listen? He who kills a dragon inherits all its wealth, and mine is vast. Here's what you have to do..." as Liesle memorized the secret of unlocking the storage cavern deep underground, she kind of felt sorry for the dragon. It looked pretty pathetic now, all dried up and flattened out like lizard jerky.
"You get one wish," the dragon wheezed, "Quick…not much time left."
Liesle blurted, "I want off this mountain!"
Suddenly she found herself standing by the stake and remnants of rope at the base of the mountain. She scanned the glass-smooth expanse until she spotted the ledge so high up it was barely visible, and shuddered. As she made her unsteady way towards the forest she heard sharp cracks, then a great rumbling and booming. She turned to see Bleaker Mountain break apart and collapse into rubble.
A dust cloud enveloped her and she choked and ran for cover in the trees, wondering if she'd make it back to the castle.
Before she'd gotten far, the woods lit up. Hundreds of elves in various states of undress with torches were running her way. All had heard the noise and rushed to see what had happened. They grouped around her, talking excitedly, exclaiming at the miracle of her safe return.
"Step aside! Move it, King coming through!" Liesle recognized the gruff voice and smiled at her father as he pushed his way through the crowd. Her eyes drank in every detail of the beloved portly figure, wearing a nightshirt and slippers under his ermine-edged cape. He'd forgotten to take off his nightcap and it sat at a jaunty angle on his head, covering thinning gray hair. The king stopped short when he saw her, his green eyes filling with tears that spilled down his round cheeks. "Liesle," he gasped pulling her close, "My daughter… When I found out what Grusilla… the treachery! I banished her to the tower. She caught a pox. Frightening, like lizard skin."
Guards carried Liesle back to the castle. As the Royal Chemist tended to her hand, she told the story of her escape and inherited riches to her father.
"My dearest daughter, you'll be overrun with suitors," the King predicted, "Despite your soiled innocence and missing finger. Choose wisely!"
And so Liesle did. She chose to live out her days as a single princess, enjoying parties and fancy-dress balls and flirting outrageously until her father died and she became queen at the ripe old age of twenty-three. When her handsome knight rode back through the kingdom on some mission or other, Liesle made an honest man of him and together they lived happily ever after.
Thus the story ends!
©2003, Susan Scott
