Fictmcfa6 Here

Here

by Stanley McFarland

Nothing met my expectations, but I don’t imagine the powers-that-be cared about that. The place looked like a simple village – not even medieval or exotic. Hundreds of people milled about, many of them coupled in quiet, though perhaps intense conversation.

All my life I’d been presented with afterlife imagery from Hollywood, from church, and especially from my grandmother, who though she never went to church herself, insisted that my brother and I go every Sunday cause she never wanted us to go to hell.

Wasn’t somebody supposed to greet me? Shouldn’t there be a line I was supposed to stand in? If there’d been a gaudy set of pearly gates around, I would’ve headed that way, but all I saw was modest buildings and people spread about, sitting or standing in knots of two or three.

I reached for my phone. It wasn’t there. I guess there’s no ap for navigating the great beyond.

I knelt down and checked the street. It wasn’t gold, but it wasn’t blacktop either – some sort of blacktopish hard plastic maybe – not very interesting, but it held me up. At least I wouldn’t be falling through the clouds like the people in those heaven cartoons.

That’s if I was in heaven.

“Are you praying?” said a voice behind me.

I turned around and met the eyes of a stranger. He looked Asian – maybe Arab, I was never much good at identifying ethnicity. His English was perfect though, not even an accent. I told him so.

“And you speak perfect Thai,” said the man. “Are you alright?”

“No,” I said, “I mean I’m trying to figure out where I am.”

“Are you a new arrival?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Do you know that you are dead?”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that part out.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “welcome to here. Here doesn’t have a name – at least not one that I’ve heard. If it does, it is not advertised. We have no signage here.”

He was right. There was no street sign at the corner. There were places that looked like shops and restaurants, but no signs above their doors. There were no displays in the windows, or menus, or advertisements. There were benches on the street, and booths in the restaurants, but no music blasting from windows. I didn’t see a TV or a book, or even a car on the street.

“I’m confused,” I admitted.

“Confused is as good a place to start as any other,” said the stranger. “At least you’re not in a rage – trying to kill someone.”

“You get a lot of that here?”

“From the new arrivals, yes.”

“So is there a point to… here?” I asked.

“I think there is,” said the stranger. “I think this is where we sort out our differences.”

“You and me?”

The stranger laughed. “No, we just met. The man I was just talking to is my ex-boss, Li. He told my wife that I didn’t have any life insurance though Li had deducted money from each of my checks to pay for it. My family went through very difficult times after that.”

“After you died?”

“Of course.”

“But how do you know what your boss did? You’re dead. You didn’t get a text – I don’t even see newspapers around here.”

“I don’t know how I know – there are a number of such mysteries here.”

“So now you just slug it out?”

“I wished to when I first saw him. My daughter wanted to hit me when she first saw me here. Most people here have many relationships they need to work through.”

I looked around the village. I didn’t recognize a single face. So why was I here? Who did I need to… Chris! I scanned the crowd again. No, there was no sign of Chris. My relief must have been obvious because the stranger chuckled.

“He’s here,” he said, “or she is, or they are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Whoever it is you don’t wish to see,” said the stranger. “He’s here. They’re all here. Some of the people you encounter here will surprise you – people you thought you were at peace with who’ve harbored resentment for you, or hated you.”

“I don’t see anybody I know.”

The stranger nodded. “It was the same for me for the first hour or so. They give you time to become accustomed to the idea. Soon, you will encounter the last person you ever wished to see again.”

“Who are they – the ones who set this up?” I asked. “God? The devil?”

The stranger shrugged and smiled. “All I can tell you is that some people leave. My wife was only here a few days. The people I like never stay – only the worst remain. I suppose that means that I am among the worst.”

I thought about all the a-hoes I’d ever met and shuddered. The village didn’t look like hell, but what else could it be?

“Well maybe we can be friends,” I suggested. “We have no issues between us; we can give each other a break from the jerks.”

“That would be pleasant,” said the stranger, “but it probably won’t happen. The old woman I met when I first got here – I haven’t seen her since. I did not recognize anyone when I first came, but you’re just about the only person around us now that I didn’t know during my life. That’s why I came up to you. I thought you were probably newly arrived.”

“So all these people were jerks to you in your life?”

“Most of them – or I was unkind to them.”

“So this is how I spend eternity – surrounded by people I can’t stand?”

The stranger shrugged. “Perhaps; perhaps not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people leave.”

ficthaus4 Fugleigh, the Zombie Teddy Bear

Fugleigh, the Zombie Teddy Bear

by Headley Hauser

with Nick Craver and Carrie Harman

Fugleigh was nestled for the night, tight within 8-year-old Carrie’s embrace. It was all very warm and cuddly.

“Bah,” said Fugleigh the Zombie teddy bear. He gnawed gently at Carrie’s ear – not so much as to wake her up and only the skin of the ear, not the cartilage. The missing ear flap on the other side of her head testified on how difficult it was to re-grow cartilage but Carrie was very clever at growing back ear skin.

Clever… The word made Fugleigh hungry. But Carrie had a math test in the morning. Well, maybe a little.

Fugleigh gently sucked at Carrie’s brain. Sluurrrpppp. Not too much now. Sluuuuuuurrrrrpppp!

Self-control was never a strong point among zombie teddy bears.

“Mmmmmmm,” said Fugleigh. “Good brains!” Fugleigh smacked his cloth and emaciated zombie teddy bear lips. “I think Carrie must be partially Chinese, because just seconds after I eat; I’m hungry again. I wonder where the cat is?”

Fugleigh found Muffinpie circling her food dish. There wasn’t any food in the dish and there wouldn’t be till morning, but Muffinpie just kept circling staring intently at the dish as if the food might appear any second and run away. Fugleigh approached and started walking behind the cat. Muffinpie glanced Fugleigh’s way and hissed, then quickly resumed the circling and study of her food dish.

Fugleigh stopped and waited. Muffinpie came around the dish and stopped, studying Fugleigh, then the dish. There was no room for Muffinpie to pass between Fugleigh and the dish, and if she went around Fugleigh, the zombie teddy bear would be between her and the food dish.

“Bah!” said Fugleigh.

The cat cowered. In spite of the fact that she had claws that could have ripped Fugleigh to shreds, the cat sat back on her haunches and howled.

“It could be,” said Fugleigh, “that this cat has no more brain matter to spare.”

For the next few hours, Fugleigh haunted the house looking for brains to eat. Carrie’s parents wisely kept their bedroom door locked, with not an ax or sledge hammer in sight. Fugleigh found an unusually intelligent cockroach, but in spite of the insect’s cerebral gifts, the total amount of brain matter wasn’t at all satisfying.

An hour before dawn, Fugleigh found himself back in Carrie’s room, staring benevolently, though ravenously at the little girl who loved and cared for him.

“I couldn’t really hurt her,” he told himself. “If only she didn’t have that math test today.”

Fugleigh heard the stuffing within him growl as the first hint of dawn came in the latticed window.

“Carrie doesn’t much like math anyway,” he said.

“Sluuuuuuurrrrrrrpppp!”

ficthaus5 Jock and Myrtle

Jock and Myrtle

                          by Headley Hauser

Jock the Scotch Pine was pretty clever considering he was a barely animate being with his legs stuck in 20 feet of mud. He wasn’t content to take the sun when it offered and water when it flowed. Jock, though planted by others for their own sap-shedding purpose, had learned to live his life as he chose. He hadn’t always been kind – well, he’d never been kind, but he was his own tree, with no one to tell him what to do.

Jock had lots of space to stretch out in what was once a Christmas tree grove. He had all that space because the rest of his class of seedlings got chopped off in early adolescence to spend a couple weeks sitting in water festooned with tinsel and electric lights.

“Feeble-rooted morons,” scoffed Jock in a highland accent. Jock was not a fan of Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day or any other holiday when human celebration required the holocaust of great swaths of herbivorous life. Why his grove mates gave their lives for such a tradition was beyond him.

Arbor Day wasn’t bad in concept, but the trees planted never made up for those lost in other holidays, and most humans didn’t even know what day in June it fell.

“What a crock o’ haggis,” said Jock. “This is the thanks we get for all our oxygen.”

Jock survived because he was clever, and one of the ways he was clever was that, untypical of Scotch pine, Jock could move his limbs up and down. When the barbarian in the green and red stocking cap came by with his ax, Jock dropped the branches on one side and raised them on the other.

“That’s odd,” mumbled the barbarian. “I thought this tree was shaping up nicely last week.”

Jock shook snow from his upper branches, landing a glop of slush neatly down the neck of the barbarian’s sweater.

“Poop!” said the barbarian.

Jock rustled – as chuckling was beneath the dignity of intelligent tree-kind.

But all that was years ago. Jock was now too big to be a Christmas tree, and he was all alone on a cool spring day, wondering if there was more to life that sucking water through his roots, and exhaust fumes and cow flatulence through his needles. Jock didn’t want to admit that for all his independence, he was lonely

That’s when he met Myrtle, who despite her name was not a plant. Myrtle was a cardinal, and she was looking for a place to make her nest.

“This one looks nice,” said Myrtle, unaware that Jock understood bird speech. “It stands all alone. I wonder why the bird feeder people didn’t chop it down.”

This didn’t go over well with Jock, and so when Myrtle laid grass in one of Jock’s boughs, he shook it out as she flew away for more.

“This is odd,” said Myrtle. “There’s no wind, and I’m certain I put the grass in right. It’s not as if this if my first nest.” Myrtle studied Jock for other birds, or even squirrels the might have knocked the grass from the bough. There was nothing to see. Jock stood alone in a field of stumps.

“The cardinal rule of deduction,” said Myrtle, “is that when you eliminate the probable, you must consider the improbable. Tree, are you shaking off my nest?”

This impressed Jock who had never heard of the cardinal rule of deduction, or anything else intelligent from a bird beyond, “tweet,” and “got any worms?”

“Aye, it’s me,” said Jock in a heavily brogued bird-speak.

“A clever tree!” chirped Myrtle. “I do get so tired of trees that just groan when the wind takes them.”

“Ya seem a bit clever yerself, wee bird,” said Jock.

And so Jock let Myrtle stay in his bough, though he couldn’t help needling her from time to time.

ficthaus4 Mortimer the Drop of Goo

Mortimer, the Drop of Goo

by Headley Hauser

He was born at 10:15AM the Saturday that Fred the dad, watched the kids. He didn’t know his origins. Was he grease? Was he jam? Was he syrup?

It didn’t matter now. From the moment he dropped from Fred’s plate and hit the floor, he was goo. He was Mortimer, the Drop of Goo.

Mortimer surveyed the great plain of ceramic tile. He was in a vast world, full of sights and smells. One smell was particularly pungent.

Mortimer didn’t know it, but his life nearly came to an end only moments after it began, for that pungent smell was none other than Barkie, the Labradoodle whose fell tongue had consumed myriad goo drops before him.

“Barkie, come here,” said Fred. “I can’t have you messing up the kitchen or Loraine will never let me hear the end of it.”

And so, Mortimer was spared. Mortimer felt lucky – maybe even a bit crafty to have escaped death. “Beware, cold tile world,” said he, “for I am Mortimer, the lucky, Mortimer the Drop off Goo.”

Nothing much happened in Mortimer’s existence until 11:03AM. Ethan, six-years-old, and barefoot, entered Mortimer’s domain. Ethan entered it so completely that the boy stepped on little Mortimer, creating a tiny sound and transferring half of Mortimer’s goo to the bottom of Ethan’s foot. Surprisingly, Mortimer didn’t feel at all reduced. There was something magical about the bottom of a little boy’s foot that made a small drop of goo multiply into dozens of equal, even greater drops of goo.

“Grow, My People,” shouted Mortimer, the Drop of Goo. “Multiply and subdue the great plain of ceramic tile!”

When Ethan left the kitchen, Mortimer observed his world from a new perspective. “Beware world of Greater Kitchen,” said he, “for I am Mortimer the fruitful, Mortimer the Drop of Goo.

And so things remained until 1:22PM when Isabel, fourteen months and crawling, entered the kitchen. Isabel crawled right through Mortimer the Drop of Goo, distributing much of his substance unto her hands and knees. Perhaps Isabel had the same magic as her brother, or maybe it was a function of toddler drool (and other fluids best not mentioned,) but Mortimer was not reduced, but multiplied many times. He spread upon the kitchen chairs and cabinet fronts, he formed perfect fingerprints on the edge of the table. He even coated the bowl belonging to Barkie the Labradoodle – the very beast that might have ended his existence. By the time Isabel crawled out of the kitchen, Mortimer was everywhere!

“A HA!” shouted Mortimer. “I have conquered the kitchen! It is all mine. Let the world beware, for if I have conquered this vast kitchen, I can conquer every kitchen. I can conquer the whole world” said he, “for I am Mortimer the Mighty, Mortimer the Drop of Goo!”

And so for three hours, Mortimer gloated, he plotted, he sang to himself little ditties of world domination. Mortimer was happy in the way every evil tyrant has been happy from the days of Nimrod the Hunter, to Vlad the Impaler, to George the Yankee Owner.

Mortimer kept his evil gleeful revelry until 4:45PM when Loraine entered the kitchen from the door that led to the garage.

“It is through that door that I will spread to the outside world,” thought Mortimer. “Go ahead, Loraine – touch me, spread me, increase my domain,” said he, “for I am Mortimer the Dominator, Mortimer the Drop of Goo!”

“Fred!” shouted Loraine.

RIP, Mortimer the Drop of Goo.

fictmcfa5 The Beat

The Beat

                              by Stanley McFarland

“It’s crap, you know.”

“I know,” said Desmond.

“It’s derivative.  It’s all been done before.  You’ve done it before – several times!”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t seem to upset you much.”

“You don’t understand.”

Wayne threw his hands in the air.  “I don’t understand?  What, it’s too deep for me?  It’s so much more meaningful that the songs I’ve written?”

“It’ll be more popular.”

“Fuck!” said Wayne.  “Is that all you care about anymore?”

“No.”

“But I won’t understand?”

“No, you won’t understand.”

“Just what won’t I understand?”

“Why it doesn’t upset me.”

“Would you care to enlighten me?”

“I would try…”

“But I won’t understand?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So I should just be happy, tagging along on the gravy train while you spoon out crap that a million zombies download because it has your name on it and they don’t know better?”

Desmond sat down.  These sessions with Wayne were tiring, but Wayne was more than just a good manager.  He had a soul for music that no one else in the band had.  It was just a soul from another generation.  Still – as out of touch as Wayne was, Desmond fed off of him.  That might not be right.  Wayne was more like a compass.  He always pointed true north.  What Wayne didn’t understand was that they weren’t heading north anymore.  Music hadn’t been heading north since Chapman shot Lennon – maybe even before that.

“At least break it up,” Wayne pleaded.  “Give it a bridge – something unexpected.  Give it some rhythm changes.”

“No,” said Desmond.  “I might do a thing or two with the vocals, but the beat stays.  We don’t change it.”

“Why do we even bother with Jordan?  We could save a few bucks and set up a percussion machine for this – maybe even a damn metronome!”

“I know what that is,” said Desmond.

“What?”

“You were waiting for me to ask what a metronome was, but even though I don’t go back to your prehistory, I’ve seen a metronome.”

“Good for you!  It’s a damn boring little pendulum – but no more boring than the beat in your damn song!”

“Anything else, Wayne?”

“So that’s it?  End of discussion.”

Desmond nodded.  “End of discussion.”

“Alright,” said Wayne.  “Let’s see, I’ve got some stuff you need to decide about the tour.  You want to do that now?”

“How about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow – fine.”  Wayne did his signature non-slam of the door on his way out, pulling the door behind him violently, but catching it just before it made a sound.  Wayne was always a purist about sound.

Desmond picked up his acoustic, though he had no intention of playing it.  He drummed his fingers on the neck – then the body, making deep thrumming beats and off-beat resonations from the strings.

The beat.

Desmond idolized Wayne when he was little.  He wanted to be just like him.  He still played Wayne’s music when he was alone, even though nobody else did.  Wayne was barely known in his twenties.  He was pretty much forgotten now that he was seventy.

Too pure – too ideal.  A small circle of musicians loved Wayne Ledford – the world ignored him.

Desmond changed the thrumming beat of his fingers to something from one of Wayne’s songs – then he modified it, modulated it.  He played with different strike points on the guitar’s belly, sometimes muting the strings with one hand, sometimes not.

Desmond smiled to himself – this was something Wayne would like.  He could hear the old man pleading for Desmond to do something like that with his next song.  Like an Old Testament prophet calling from the wilderness, Wayne Ledford shouts, “repent!  Save your souls!”

Desmond went back to the beat – the simple beat – the one in his music and just about every other pop musician’s music for the last five years.

Wayne Ledford didn’t understand.  He was of a different time, a different herd.

fictmcfa8 Sammy and May

Sammy and May

by Stanley McFarland

“She was cheery,” I said. “That’s what people liked ’bout her. She was pretty as a picture and quick as a whip. She could dance and sing, and she had astounding comic timing for a four-year-old.

“But she was cheery – a chirpy, amiable soul that lit the hearts of television audiences from coast ta coast.”

“And she kept your show on the air,” said the reporter.

I nodded. I had hoped for a softer interview – especially now that I was just an old fart in a nursing home. “She did,” I agreed.

“Weren’t they about to cancel your show when you brought her on?”

“I’d heard something like that.”

“Then you never let her move on.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I grumbled. “It was totally her decision – May and her parents. I never tried ta stop her.”

“But you never let her go, either.”

“It was never my decision,” I repeated the same words I’d said to scores of reporters over the years – most of them in the weeks after The Sammy King Variety Hour went off the air. May was six then, and a television veteran with years of cuteness ahead before puberty would force her to make the transition so few child stars ever managed.

May never had to deal with that problem. She had only one response to network execs who offered her work – “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” We did a guest appearance on The Muppet Show a couple years later. She hadn’t lost a thing - perfect timing, perfect inflection, perfect cheeriness.

I wasn’t my best. I wasn’t sober for one thing. May carried me through our old routine, but people could tell. We didn’t get any offers.

That’s not true – May got plenty of offers. She even got an offer for a show of her own. Her response never changed. “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” A week later I got a letter from Eddie at the old network. He offered me twenty thousand dollars to convince May to move on without me.

I burned the letter – almost set the couch on fire, I was so drunk when I did it.

Over the years I kept getting cards from May – on my birthday and at Christmas. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she didn’t get any back from me once my agent dropped me. His secretary always sent out my cards.

“Mister King?”

I didn’t hear the reporter’s question – maybe not the last two or three. Forty years ago, they would have blamed the bottle. Now it was just age. Maybe that’s better.

“Maybe you better come back another time,” said the large black nurse. I never could pronounce her name. It was something African.

“I don’t think I have enough for my story,” the reporter said.

“Another time,” the large black nurse repeated. She was good at that – making people do what they didn’t want to do. At least this time she wasn’t drawing enough blood from my arm to sink a… I tried to think what would be funny – a row boat? the Queen Mary?

Nah, I thought, a lot of people didn’t know the Queen Mary anymore. May would’ve come up with something. The kid was quick.

I must have dozed because when I woke the reporter was gone. I used to do that on purpose sometimes – pretend to doze off when I didn’t want to deal with somebody. Then it started happening for real. Seemed a lot funnier before.

I saw a letter on my bed and for a moment I thought it was from May. But May never sent cards with address windows on them. I guessed it wasn’t my birthday.

I used my walker to get up from the chair. It took a little longer than it had a month before. I shuffled over to the bed and opened the drawer in the bedside table.

Someone had rearranged it again, but I found an old card from May. Her youngest was going off to college. She wrote that she was proud, but that she was going to miss her.

The words got blurry. My eyesight was fine, but I was tearing up. I never used to tear up – not even when I drank. Suddenly I only wanted one thing in the world. I wanted May sitting in the chair the reporter had vacated. I want to tell her how sorry I was.

“Lotta good that’s going to do her now,” I muttered. “What is she – forty-five? fifty? That America’s Sweetheart boat sailed a long time ago.”

I reached up and pulled the help cord. I’d never done that before. I always figured a big gong would sound, or at least a bell. Nothin’. I was angry but I started laughing. They gave me a damn defective help cord! The world just couldn’t wait to get rid of Sammy King.

“Mister King?” said the big black nurse as she pushed open my door. I was still laughing and seeing her looking worried made me laugh more.

“Can you talk, Mister King?” she asked. “Raise your hand if you can’t.”

“I can talk,” I sputtered.

“Are you in pain?”

I held out May’s card. “I need to call this woman.”

“Mister King,” said the nurse, “if you’re not in trouble, you shouldn’t be pulling the cord.”

“I’m in trouble,” I said, though I knew it wasn’t true.

“How are you in trouble, Mister King?”

I looked into the nurse’s eyes. They were big and brown like the rest of her. She was tired and annoyed, and a little bit worried – maybe she was worried I was losing it.

“I needa… to say I’m sorry.”

The annoyance disappeared. She was still tired, and worried, but the nurse’s eyes changed – they went soft. She took the card out of my hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

I didn’t remember going to sleep. I was on the bed and the big black nurse was back.

“Mister King?” she said. “I’ve got Ms. Dunbarton on the line.”

Dunbarton? Who the hell was… May – that’s right; I remembered – that was her married name. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t seem to get my elbows under me. “Help me… please?” I asked.

I don’t think I’d said please twice since they moved me in this place. The big black nurse leaned over to help me sit up. I stared at her name tag – S.H.A.N.I.Q… What kind of name starts like that?

“Here he is Ms. Dunbarton,” said the big black nurse. She handed the phone to me. I couldn’t say a word.

“Mister King?” said a voice at the other end. It wasn’t a child’s voice, but I woulda known it was May even if she had called me. “Is it really you? I’m so happy you called!”

“Got yer nose,” I said like I did when we first met. She was too old for that gag even then. May laughed back then and did again on the phone.

“I have a granddaughter now,” she said. “We were watching The Sammy King Variety Hour yesterday.”

“It’s on reruns?”

“DVD,” she said. “There’s a site online you can get it – well, a lot of the shows anyway. I still can’t find some of them.”

“I guess they have everything on their computers these days.”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Megan, that’s my granddaughter, loved it. She couldn’t believe that Grandie was that little.”

“You were a tyke,” I said. Whatever May said after that washed over me. She sounded great.

“…of course I had to explain to her who Shirley Temple was.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Our stuff is kinda dated, I guess.”

“They’re great memories.”

“Look, Kid…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a reason I called.”

“I’m so glad you did.”

“It’s just…” I was hoping for her to interrupt. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but I couldn’t get it out. May didn’t interrupt. She knew better than to step on a line. “You had a career back then,” I finally said.

May laughed. “Part of three seasons – a career?”

“You coulda gone on.”

Silence.

“Kid – I shoulda told you to move on. You had the world at your feet. You were being loyal, and instead of telling you… Well, I shoulda pushed you outta the nest.” Junk clogged up my throat. I started coughing. My damn body couldn’t even talk on the phone anymore. I reached for a Kleenex and I was surprised to be handed one. The nurse was still in the room. I grabbed the tissue and spit out the crap. May was still silent on the other end.

“It’s like this, Kid,” I said. “I was a selfish bastard, and I used you. I used your popularity to help me get back on top again. I sunk my career in a bottle, and then I became an albatross around your neck. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Mister King?” I could tell that May was crying.

“Yeah, Kid?”

“I’m so sorry that you feel bad. It’s all my fault. I should have told you years ago.”

“What’re ya talking about?”

“I never wanted to be the new Shirley Temple.”

“Huh?”

“I loved doing the show with you. I loved rehearsal. I loved the taping. I loved every minute of it, but I never wanted to do another show.”

“What?”

“You were my best friend, Mister King. You were probably the best friend I’ve ever had. We’d play and laugh and make things up. It was the world’s best make-believe, but one thing wasn’t make believe at all.”

I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head.

“You, Mister King,” says May. “You were my prince, and my jester. You were there with me through all the adventures. I never wanted to do that stuff without you.”

“Damn, Kid,” I managed to choke out. “You were a lot of fun yourself.”

I heard her half laugh, half cry on the other end. “I love you, Mister King,” she says.

“Right back at ya, Kid.”

We talked more. Small stuff – memories, laughs. The nurse stayed close. She handed me a Kleenex now and again. Finally we said good bye and I hung up the phone.

I looked up at the nurse. Through the tears I could barely make out her name tag.

“Thank you, Shaniquay,” I said.

Her big brown eyes shone. “Right back at ya,” she said.

*****

fictwrig8 Rama and the Camel

Rama and the Camel

by Will Wright

Rama’s father’s birthing day was in two days, and she had nothing to give him. She’d heard stories of genies that granted wishes when you rubbed an oil lamp. If she could find a genie, she could get her father a mountain of gold or a great palace. Rama loved her father very much and wanted to give him something he would like.

But she was too small to reach the lamp.

Being only six, she could only reach the candleholders, the water jar, the oil cruse, and the incense box. She considered each, but decided that, with her small hands, the incense box was best.

So, she took the incense box from the shelf and began to rub it.

She was glad there was no fire in the box, because as she rubbed, the box started getting warm. She was sure she had rubbed the box longer than the hero in the story had.

Shouldn’t a genie have come out by now?

She kept rubbing the box.

She started rubbing after the morning meal, and was still rubbing at noon. She stirred the soup with one hand while she rubbed the incense box with the other. At table, she ate with one hand and kept the other beneath the table rubbing the little incense box. As she gathered the goats, she had to put down the goad in order to close the gate – she needed one hand to rub the incense box.

Lying in her blankets, she worried that she might fall asleep before the genie came.

Her left eye blinked, but she rubbed the incense box.

Her right eye drooped, but she rubbed the incense box

Just when she couldn’t stay awake another moment, the little box jumped in her hand, let off a puff of incense, and there on her blanket stood a man no bigger than Rama’s little finger.

“I am the genie of the incense box,” said the tiny man in a squeaky voice. “I grant you one wish.”

Rama would have clapped her hands in glee, but her hands were too sore from rubbing the incense box all day. She set her face to her most adult expression and said, “I wish, for my dear father, a mountain of gold for his birthing day.”

The genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned red… but nothing happened.

“I’m sorry mistress,” he said. “I am not able to bring a mountain of gold.”

Rama was a little disappointed. She remembered hearing her father say, “Our lives will be wonderful when I find us a mountain of gold.”

It was, perhaps, too much to wish from such a small genie. Still, there was one other thing her father desired.

She set her face to her most adult expression and said, “I wish, for my dear father, a great palace for his birthing day.”

The genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned purple… but nothing happened.

“I’m sorry mistress,” he said. “I am unable to bring a great palace.”

Rama was even more disappointed. She remembered hearing her father say, “Our lives will be wonderful when we live in a great palace.”

It was perhaps, too much to wish from such a small genie.

Once again, she set her face to her most adult expression and asked, “What wishes can you grant for my dear father on his birthing day?”

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he answered, “I can turn his nose into a clove of garlic.”

Rama thought, but not hard. She didn’t think her father would like his nose changed into a clove of garlic for his birthing day.

“I do not wish that,” she told the genie.

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he said, “I can turn his nose into a wad of wet wool.”

Rama thought, but not hard. She didn’t think her father would like his nose changed into a wad of wet wool for his birthing day.

“I do not wish that,” she told the genie.

The tiny genie bowed. “Great Mistress,” he said, “there is only one other magic I can do. I can make his camel smell any way you wish.”

Rama thought, and this time, much harder than the other times. A camel can smell very bad indeed. Perhaps her father would like a sweet smelling camel for his birthing day.

“I do wish that,” she told the genie.

The little genie crossed his arms, shut his eyes, and held his breath till he turned blue.

“It is done, Mistress,” he said, and disappeared in a little puff of incense.

Rama woke early the next morning. Though her father’s birthing day was still a day away, she decided to surprise him with a good smelling camel a day early.

“Jasmine,” she said aloud. She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath as she had seen the genie do. “I wish the camel to smell like jasmine.”

She hurried to wash and dress herself. She couldn’t wait to see how her father would like his surprise.

When she got to the table, she greeted her mother. Her father was outside tending the animals.

What if the genie lied to her or couldn’t do what he promised? He was such a tiny genie. Perhaps even the wish of changing the camel’s smell was too great for him.

Father entered the house. He looked angry.

“Papa!” called Rama.

“One moment, dear Rama,” he answered. He turned to Mother. “Did you hear anyone moving around the animals last night?”

“No,” Mother answered. “I would have wakened you.”

“Someone,” Papa said, “has played a trick on me. He has spilled perfume all over the camel. How can I do my business at the bazaar with a camel that smells like flowers?”

It had not occurred to Rama that her father would prefer a camel that smells like a camel. If only she could take back her wish.

What had the genie said?

“I can make his camel smell any way you wish.”

Perhaps, if she wished it, the camel would go back to normal.

She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. Silently she thought, “I wish the camel to go back to normal.”

Rama went about her chores without her normal enthusiasm. She was tired and disappointed. She had gotten a wish and wasted it. She should have known her father wouldn’t want a camel that smelled of jasmine. She didn’t even know if her second wish had changed the camel back.

Her father returned from the bazaar at dusk. She walked out to the pen to smell the camel for herself. Her father was feeding the animals when she arrived.

“I can do that, Papa,” she said.

Her father looked at her. “Maybe you are big enough. What a helpful little daughter I have.” He patted her on the head. “Make sure you’re inside before dark.”

The feed sacks were heavy, but Rama managed to pour feed for the goats and draw water for the trough. She put fresh hay in the manger.

She went over to the camel and took a good sniff. All she smelled was camel.

“It was a silly thing to wish a camel to smell of jasmine,” she said.

“I liked smelling that way.”

Rama had never heard the camel speak before, nor any other animal. She had been pretty sure that animals couldn’t talk like humans did. Still, the camel had just spoken to her.

She was only six; there were probably a lot of things she didn’t know.

“You like jasmine?” she asked

“It’s a lot better than how I usually smell,” the camel replied. “Though I think I like the smell of lemons better.”

Rama crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. “I wish for you to smell like lemons,” she said.

Instantly the pen was filled with the delicious smell of lemons. It was very strong, but not overpowering.

“Ah yes,” said the camel. “That’s very nice.”

Rama agreed, but she still liked jasmine better.

She was just about to wish the camel back to normal again, when a large group of people she’d never seen before came over the hill from the north. The crowd went right up to the animal pen where she and the camel were standing. They were holding shovels, and pick axes, and rock drills, and every one of them had a clove of garlic for a nose.

“Since the day we were cursed,” said the first person to reach the pen, “I have smelled nothing but garlic. Now, I can smell lemons.”

“We all smell lemons,” another agreed.

“I never thought I would smell something so wonderful again,” added a third.

“Is it you child, that I’m smelling?” asked the first.

“No,” Rama replied. “It is this camel.”

“We are gold miners,” said the first. “If we dig gold for you all night, may we sit by this wonderful camel during the day?”

Rama knew she should ask her father, but here was a way of getting a real present for him. If she asked permission, it would ruin the surprise.

“I agree,” she said.

The miners went to their work.

“If father comes and smells lemons,” said Rama, “he may think someone has tricked him again.”

“It is true,” said the camel. “You should wish me back to normal.”

“I will return in the morning,” promised Rama “and you will smell of lemons then.”

Rama woke before the dawn and rushed out to the pen to see the camel. Next to the pen lay a mound that sparkled even in the deep blue pre-dawn.

“Good morning, Rama,” the camel greeted her politely.

“Good morning, Camel,” she replied. “Are you ready to smell like lemons again?”

“There’s no hurry. It’s not day yet,” said the camel. “I’ve been thinking. I also like the smell of cinnamon a lot. Can we try that?”

“Oh, I like cinnamon too,” said Rama. She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and held her breath. “I wish for you to smell like cinnamon,” she said.

Instantly the pen was filled with the delicious smell of cinnamon. It was very strong, but not overpowering.

“Ah yes,” said the camel. “That’s very nice. I like it as much as I like the smell of lemons.”

Rama agreed, but she still liked jasmine better.

She was just about to wish the camel to smell of lemons, when a large group of people she’d never seen before came over the hill to the south. The crowd went right up to the animal pen where she and the camel were standing. They were holding hammers, and trowels, and chisels, and every one of them had a wad of wet wool for a nose.

“Since the day we were cursed,” said the first person to reach the pen, “I have smelled nothing but wet wool. Now I can smell cinnamon.”

“We all smell cinnamon,” another agreed.

“I never thought I would smell something so wonderful again.” Added a third.

“Is it you, Child, that I am smelling?” asked the first.

“No,” Rama replied. “It is this camel.”

“We are palace builders,” said the first. “If we build a palace for you all day, may we sit by this wonderful camel at night?”

Rama knew she should ask her father, but here was a way of getting a second present for him. If she asked permission, it would ruin the surprise.

“I agree,” she said.

Rama’s father was surprised to find a large group of people sitting in his animal pen all day, and a different group at night, but as he saw the beginning of a great palace, and the beginning of a mountain of gold, he didn’t seem to mind.

Rama found that her father was right. Things were wonderful living in a palace with a mountain of gold. Many things were different, but as she and her parents still loved each other, the best parts of her life remained the same.

The builders and miners were happy, her parents were happy, and even the camel was happy, with all his new friends, and smelling like lemons during the day, and cinnamon at night.

And during dusk and dawn, when it wasn’t fully day, nor was it fully night, and the world was most beautiful, Princess Rama rode out among the hills on her wonderful camel that smelled of jasmine.

FictWrig/McFa3 Flash Fiction

Myrtle

by Will Wright

Myrtle burst into the air, her flame streaking past the sputtering remains of an oldster. She surged with potential, her energy building within her. She let loose a blast of color, red, then purple, then green, syncopated by three concussive claps. Beneath her, the humans marveled. She was the star of the sky as she was always meant to be.

Suddenly tired, burned out, she descended looking for rest. As she fell, she saw Barry rushing through her embers, ready to explode into a circular blossom of light.

“Ah youth,” she sighed as she fizzled and died.

Sandman’s World

by Will Wright

In the rapid blinking of an eye, Sandman took young Justin across the seas. In Sandman’s world, ships could fly and even reach the stars. Villains were conquered, bravery rewarded, and there was always room for Frisbee the Labrador. But there was no room for homework, braces, or school bus rides next to smelly Cecil Sminglethorpe. Sandman’s world canvassed forever and beyond. Justin was the perfect age to explore it.

A different scent than Cecil’s took Justin away – a scent both acrid and demanding. Justin twitched his nose and fell back into the mundane.

Coffee: Sandman’s eternal nemesis.

Rosebud

by Stanley McFarland

A Bicycle?

Stacy’s little brother, now a man in his fifties nodded. “I said no, but you took it, and you lost it.”

“Someone stole it.”

“Because you were careless!”

“I was a child.”

“You never should have taken it.”

Stacy put her hand on her brother’s arm. “But we’re family.”

“No, we’re not - not anymore.”

Her brother awkwardly placed flowers on the fresh grave. They were orphans now as

was almost everyone their age. But that didn’t soften the grief.

Stacy watched her brother’s back as he left the graveyard.

Now she had no family at all.

Flash Edit

by Stanley McFarland

It wasn’t de-ja-vous. Allen didn’t think he’d been in the same place or done the same thing. There was the same mysterious haunted feeling, but if anything, it was anti-de-ja-vous. Allen was sure that something was different – something had changed – maybe even he had changed.

Worse, it felt as if the change had been against his will. Some force, personal or impersonal, had ripped into his life, his being and mangled it – or at least reshaped it significantly.

It left him feeling helpless, impotent and frightened. It also left him questioning the point of any action, plan or ambition he might have.

“What’s the point?” he spoke into the air, as if the monster of change was in the same room with him.

“It makes for a better story,” a voice replied, calmly, matter-of-factly, as if it – perhaps she, spoke out of the air to people like Allen all the time.

“A better story?” asked Allen, both hoping and fearing that the voice would elaborate.

“It made no sense for you to be a sea captain,” said the voice. “The story makes far better sense in a modern setting, and modern sea captains just aren’t as dashing as their 18^th and 19^th century counterparts. We also negate all that nautical argot that only a small segment of the reading public understands or enjoys.”

“So what am I?”

The bodiless voice laughed – light-hearted, unconcerned, as if Allen’s crisis was a trivial matter. “You’re an international spy,” said the voice. “You were once an assassin for hire, but now you work freelance for the NSA.”

“But my ship.”

“There is no ship,” said the voice. “There never was. Look in your pocket. There are two tickets to Rio there. What you should be most concerned about at the moment is for whom the second ticket was obtained.”

“I don’t care. I want my ship.”

“We’ll change that.”

“So all I am is just bit of fictional fluff to you?”

“Exactly.”

“And you don’t care if I wish to participate in this… story?

“Not a consideration.”

“I can’t believe that even a writer would show so little feeling for his characters.”

“I’m no writer,” said the voice laughing. “I’m an editor.”

“Very well,” said Allen as he sat firmly on a chair that he felt certain had been his sea trunk not long ago, “I refuse to cooperate.”

“Oh well,” said the voice laconically. “I guess you’re just flash fiction.”

FictHaus8 Mortified

Mortified

                       by Headley Hauser

I remember it started the Halloween my frat brothers hauled a keg out to Woodland Cemetery. While I’m as brave as the next guy – or at least some of the next guys, I spent the night in front of the tube. Why go to a graveyard on the one night of the year when the dead are supposed to rise?

The next morning I felt like a coward. Why was I shy about graveyards? What was I worried about, ghosts, zombies, vampires? I wasn’t a child anymore. I was a grad student. It was time to do something stupid.

Anyway, it was All Saints Day. Wasn’t that supposed to be an undead-free holiday?

That night Woodland didn’t look very spooky, though it wasn’t exactly tidy. Toilet paper hung limply from a marble Jesus, as it did from a massive oak tree. Beer cans leaned against William A. Mayberry’s (1870-1921) stone. That had to be high school kids. Even the dead won’t drink Coors Light.

Meeting Godfrey gave me a start. Suddenly he was just there, standing straight but not stiff. His clothes were perfect without looking metrosexual. Even the wind didn’t bother his natural-looking perfect hair.

Of course, I hated him immediately. He extended a manicured hand and flashed a cold smile.

“Godfrey Hamilton.”

“Stan Plotz,” I said, shaking his cold hand and feeling inferior. It reminded me of shaking the priest’s hand after mass. “You’re very nicely dressed for graveyard walking,” I said.

I was just saying something to make noise. What did I know about graveyard-walking attire? Was there a uniform, maybe from a business fashion magazine? What would that be, Graveyard Quarterly?

“First impressions are important, Stanley,” Godfrey answered. “People judge you by your outward appearance. They’ll never take the time to appreciate your finer points if your presentation shows a lack of self-respect.” Pausing, he took in my flannel shirt, grass-stained blue jeans, Demon Deacon jacket, and three-year-old Nikes. So much for my “presentation.” “You’re a grad student?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That would be MBA or law school?”

I’d been turned down for both, so I lied. “No, I decided not to go the money route. I’m getting my MSW at Wake.”

“Master of Social Work.” Godfrey frowned. “Yes, I suppose it’s important to have qualified people in every field.”

I felt vindicated. Why, I didn’t know.

“As long as you’re striving,” said Godfrey, “to be the best you can be each and every day.”

One never knows what to say when encountering a Dale Carnegie cultie. I hated him more, but I sucked in my gut and straightened my jacket. Then, rebelliously, I unstraightened, earning another frown from Godfrey. I’ll be damned if I’ll change my appearance to earn the approval of some upper crust Ken doll.

“So, Mr. Hamilton,” I said in what I hoped was a superior tone, “why is it so important to give a good first impression to perfect strangers one meets in a graveyard?”

Godfrey showed no sign of irritation. “Well, Mr. Plotz, in some cases, hardly important at all.” He gave me a glance that made it clear I fell in that category. “However, once in a while you’ll run across a more formidable type. It’s important to keep them off balance so you can do this.”

I was flooded with a mix of sensations and emotions. Incredibly powerful hands grabbed me by head and shoulder. I felt a sharp, two-pointed stab in my neck. Racing through my head was fear, anger, embarrassment, and the feeling that this all would be a lot better for my self-esteem if Godfrey had been a hot woman.

Everything went black.

It took a few moments to realize that I was no longer unconscious. It was that dark. The air was stuffy, and I had a disgusting flat taste in my mouth. I shifted to ease a lump in my back and bumped into walls to my right and left.

That’s when I heard an odd muffled sound, like someone else’s phone conversation bleeding through the line. It seemed to be a human voice or a number of human voices. It sounded far away and close at the same time. There was a musical quality to it like singing or, more accurately, chanting. I strained my ears to hear the words, but the harder I strained, the less distinct they became. Whatever I was hearing, it wasn’t with my ears.

Did I have new sensory organ? I touched my face expecting to feel a lump or mutant zit. There wasn’t anything there, but the chanting got louder. What do you do with a new sense? I had no recollection of using my eyes or ears for the first time. Maybe that’s why babies sometimes look so thoughtful.

Reaching up, I felt cushioned fabric. I was in a pretty tight space. Normally I’d be trembling with claustrophobia. I was never good with closets, elevators, or even small cars, but I felt fine, even comfortable. I pushed against the ceiling. I heard wood cracking and metal complaining as I pushed the roof several inches. Did I just do that? I’d never been particularly strong, as every bully in my middle school could tell you. Maybe the wood was rotten? Freshly turned soil and sand poured down on my face.

The voices were clearer now, and much louder. Working my way through dirt and debris, I got to my knees, then to a crouch. I reached up till I felt a breeze on my fingertips. The earth parted above me like water, but when my hands gripped the topsoil, the ground held.

I stretched to loosen tight muscles. It was a delicious sensation. I felt both light and strong. With one heave I not only cleared the surface, but sailed several feet into the air, landing majestically on a stone.

A grave stone.

My grave stone.

So this meant what, I was a vampire?

Some might have been horrified, but I felt great. I was a lord of the night. No more fear of brawny troglodytes like those who had, a decade past, beaten me with my own violin case. I was now a creature to be feared. Gathered around me was my new brotherhood, fellow members of a mighty pack. I was secure in our mutual admiration. Why else would they be gathered to sing me out of my grave, imbue me with their mighty spirit, and… laugh?

Around me the dread fraternity of vampires rolled about, cackling like so many Shriners at a whoopee cushion trade show.

“Plotz,” Godfrey said, “you haven’t any pants on.”

It was true. I was in my best shirt, tie, and suit coat, but with nothing but boxers below. I suppose I should have been grateful for the boxers, but I didn’t feel gratitude at that moment.

“Who did this!” I sputtered.

The vampires laughed even louder. Godfrey, however, only snickered. “Plotz,” he said, “you might want to check with your undertaker.”

“How do I do that?”

“The cemetery office. You’re newly buried; there’ll be a file.”

I disliked Godfrey Hamilton, even in my newly glorified state. I was also afraid of him, but I took his advice.

The file identified my undertaker as Mr. Feeley Nuzbetch, who ran his establishment in the West End. I knew the place – up the hill from Burke Street Pizza.

There was a light burning downstairs at the Feeley Nuzbetch Funeral Parlor. I didn’t have a watch on, maybe Feeley took that too, but it felt really late or, more likely, really early morning.

I went to the door and silently broke the deadbolt. I planned to sneak in and spring on Nuzbetch. That’s what vampires do, right? I opened the door, but I couldn’t cross the threshold. I’d heard something about thresholds and vampires. Breaking into the cemetery office hadn’t been a problem, but no one lived there. Maybe this was Nuzbetch’s home.

That was sort of creepy. I tried to imagine living in a house with a continuous flow of dead bodies. Of course I was dead now, so I guess I had no reason to be judgmental.

I circled the building. Through a window I saw a pudgy man in his fifties or sixties. He was working on a body using a machine with tubes attached. The process fascinated me. It also made me hungry. Then I realized – the man was wearing my pants.

And my pants fit the guy. I couldn’t be as fat as he was. Maybe he had them tailored.

Something nagged at me. A clock inside read five-fifteen. What time did the sun come up?

I wondered if the government kept records of vampires’ mortality or re-mortality on their first dawn.

Maybe you got a mulligan if the sun toasted you on your first night out.

Maybe not.

If dawn meant certain death, or whatever it’s called when dead people expire, how much longer could I afford to stand by this window in my boxer shorts watching this pants-altering mortician? If I didn’t do something soon, Nuzbetch would find himself a matching jacket. But where could I go? I looked around me. There were plenty of homes I couldn’t get into. There were also shops and restaurants, but if I could enter those, they might not appreciate a corpse resting the business day away. Even worse, they might move my body, and once outside…

So where to go? Saint Paul’s Episcopal?

Too chancy.

Inside Feeley shut down the machine and pulled a large plastic bucket from beneath the bench. He headed toward the back of the building. Silently I moved with him. Should I cross my fingers? Crossing anything was probably not a good idea for a vampire.

Before the door opened I smelled blood in the bucket Nuzbetch was carrying. I could also smell the mortician’s blood. His was more appetizing, like prime rib holding a bucket of chipped beef. I waited for Feeley to clear the door, then I slammed it behind him. He spun around, sloshing blood from the bucket onto his pants – no – my pants.

“Who are yo…?” He never finished the question, maybe because he recognized me. I could smell his fear, but he was also laughing.

I wanted to kill him; I wanted to drain the blood from his body, but most of all I wanted to scare the hell out of him. I knew I couldn’t do that partially dressed.

“First of all, give me back my pants.” I tried to sound scary and mysterious, and I guess I succeeded, because he wasted no time stripping down to his green and orange boxers.

Instead of getting fancy, I put my pants on one leg at a time. With my new undead abilities I could probably jump ten feet up in the air, have my shoes off, pants on, shirt tucked in, and shoes back on and tied before I hit the ground, but I didn’t want to give Nuzbetch a chance to escape. I sure didn’t want to botch it and have him laughing at me again.

I zipped up; the pants fit. It had to be a vampire thing. No way was I as fat as Nuzbetch.

The mortician shot glances at the door and at me. I made a point of pulling the belt in an extra notch as I casually stepped between him and the door. The move might have appeared more ominous if I hadn’t burned my hands on the silver belt buckle. Wasn’t it supposed to be werewolves that hated silver?

“You know, it’ll be dawn soon.” Feeley sputtered. “You can’t enter my house, so you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust unless I help you.”

The man knew his vampire lore – certainly better than I did – probably came with mortician training. Still, how certain could he be about everything? “It’s very simple, Feeley,” I told him. “After I kill you, your home will be as open to me as any other abandoned building.”

I leaned in and smelled rising terror in his blood. The scent was intoxicating. No wonder vampires didn’t just bonk people over the head and drag them off to feed.

I was glad I got my pants back before I scared him. A stream of yellow ran down Feeley’s leg, forming a puddle by his right foot.

The smell of urine, while unpleasant, did nothing to stem my appetite. The urge to kill and feed was strong, but there was another force inside me.

I never liked my great aunt Agnes. When I was a child, she used to hector me about proper behavior and table etiquette. As much as I wanted to ignore her, I always buckled to her irresistible will. I was the only kid in summer camp who ate his hot dog with a fork.

Here she was again, nothing but a dead woman’s voice ensconced in my supposedly demonic, undead brain. “Don’t slay your food,” she said. What did that even mean? Ridiculous, how could I survive if I didn’t slay?

From Nuzbetch’s perspective my inner battle must have looked ominous. The man was on the ground, his bare bony knees in mud and urine, shaking and blubbering for mercy.

“Don’t kill me!” he cried. “I can help you. I’ll do anything. Please, don’t kill me!”

He was a pathetic mess. He stole my pants. But I needed his help.

I waited, feigning uncertainty. The sky was going pink in the east. As much as I enjoyed the groveling, I needed to get under cover. I grabbed the mortician by the chin and forced him to look me in the eye.

“Invite me inside, Nuzbetch.”

I suppose things could be worse. Nuzbetch’s basement is dry and blocks the sunlight during the day. He set me up in a lovely coffin and asked if I wanted it lined with Transylvanian dirt. I declined; it seemed more messy than exotic. The funeral business keeps me well supplied with blood. Dead blood makes an uninteresting dietary staple, but it keeps Great Aunt Agnes quiet.

I went back to school, taking only night classes. People were pretty surprised to see me, but it raised less fuss than you’d think. My frat brothers thought it added prestige to the house. They try not to eat too much garlic when I’m around.

I make money for tuition and death’s little extras as a night watchman. The black uniform suits me. Feeley packs me a thermos each night.

I do get tired of dead blood all the time.

Maybe someone will show up and make trouble.

Great Aunt Agnes would never defend a troublemaker.