ficthaus5 Two Little Magic Words

Two Little Magic Words

                                 by Headley Hauser

I’d signed on as the quest’s conjurer. It’s true I had no experience in magic, but that didn’t matter. A decade’s worth of participation trophies and good attitude ribbons told the tale. I would excel in my task because I was special – just like every other kid in my neighborhood.

I also had one other advantage – magic words, two of them to be exact, and I had great confidence in these magical utterances. They had never failed me in the past, and even the possibility they might fail me on this quest was beyond my comprehension.

Together with my band of common adventures, we struggled through hardships and battles. They did all the fighting and climbing. Being the conjurer, I demanded that they carry me through the rough spots, and protect me from the dangers.

I also let them do all the cooking and cleaning, but I praised them for their work so that they could feel good about themselves.

They never gave me credit for that. Actually, shortly into our adventures I caught a number of dirty looks.

“That’s not good attitude,” I warned them.

“Well you could help out more,” they grumbled.

“You forget that I am special,” I warned them. “I am somebody because I was made for a special purpose. There is nothing I cannot do if I want it badly enough.”

“You mean like turn us all into banana slugs?” one asked.

“If that’s what I wanted to do,” I answered.

Their attitude improved somewhat after that. While they worked to dig us out of mountain goblin prison, I made little ‘improved attitude’ trophies for each of them out of chips of rock and stale biscuit. They didn’t say thank you, but I think it meant a lot to each of them.

“Maybe you could conjure us out of this prison,” one of them asked.

“No,” I replied. “My magic words are too special. I better save them. And you are doing such a wonderful job digging us out with your hands manacled like that. Good job! You are each so special!”

Yes, that was a lot of praise for such common work, but I figured they needed the pick-me-up.

Later in the snow wastes I demanded an extra cloak. It was far colder than I found acceptable.

"If one us gives you his cloak," they complained, "he will freeze to death."

"Not if you share," I told them. "Sharing makes every task easier."

One of them - I never learned his name, grumbled, "Maybe we should share in getting rid of you."

"Now, now," I said patiently, "remember my two magic words!"

They shared, but not with a co-operative attitude. I made a note in my book that each of them should lose one gold star when we finished our quest.

Days later, the food ran out. I knew it was gone because I ate the last of it. The ration they had given me was far too small, and I've always been helpless against the late-night munchies.

"Alright," said the leader guy. "This is it. Even if we won't have your magic later, it won't do us any good if we starve to death. Use your magic words."

"You're certain?" I asked.

"Yup!" he said.

"Then hand me your largest food container." The container turned out to be a poncho, which isn't exactly Tupperware and was far from sanitary. I decided to be generous and ignore their negligence and poor hygiene. I held out the poncho as my fellow adventurers backed away in fear. I took a solemn moment before I uttered the two words that I knew had never failed me.

"Yes, please."

Nothing happened. No food appeared in the grubby poncho. I wondered if its lack of cleanliness was the problem for I knew it couldn't be my magic words. All during my childhood I had gotten anything I wanted each time I spoke those two words.

The other adventurers came closer. Once again I held up the poncho.

"YES! PLEASE!"

No food appeared, though the adventurers looked ready to eat. Each pulled out his knife and fork. Why did the leader have that funny look in his eye?

"Mom?" I called. "Dad... Grandma? I SAID YES, PLEASE!"

And that's how I came to haunt this scruffy pack of adventurers. I can accept that they cooked me and ate me...

But they didn't even say, Thank You!

fictmcfa7 Jordan

Jordan

                                  by Stanley McFarland

I was grieving. People believe odd things when they grieve.

I didn't cry at Jordan's funeral. I walked stone-faced with Grace's brother, Jeff, my father, and Kent as we carried the small coffin out of the church. We placed it into a hearse that was far larger than necessary.

"I think it would have fit in my trunk," said Jeff.

Grace was crying, embracing people, as a grieving parent should. I stood and watched. I was an observer, unable to feel, unable to reach out for comfort. Jordan went into the ground without a tear from me.

After all the ways I'd failed Jordan, being out of town on his birthday, divorcing his mother, watching him melt away in that hospital bed, this felt like the greatest betrayal in a fatherhood that was nothing but failure and betrayal. If only I could manage one tear, he would know that I loved him, that I was sorry, that I wished I could have been the kind of father he deserved.

Shelly from human resources approached me after the internment.

"I'm so sorry, Steve," she said.

"Thank you for coming," I said, though I didn't know why she had. I barely knew her.

"You probably know," said Shelly, "that I've put you on bereavement leave."

"Bereavement leave?"

"Yes," she said. "It's one of your benefits. You have the next two weeks to work through things, to do all the things you need to do. There's no need to be worrying about work at a time like this."

"Oh," I said.

Neither one of us had anything else to say, so after an awkward pause, Shelly patted me on the arm and left.

Later, Dad hugged me. I tried to hug back, but my arms weren't working right. He was in tears, Kent was in tears, even Jeff who never did or said an appropriate thing in his life was sobbing softly. Eventually, they all circled around Grace, while I stood alone, like a tall stump, or a short pillar, or just a bad father failing my little boy one last time.

An hour later I was back at the condo. There wasn't much to do. Jordan had a toothbrush, a set of PJs, and a couple of toys that I had bought him that he didn't like enough to bring to his real home.

It didn't even fill a box.

"Well, Shelly, I said to the eggshell cream walls, "I've done everything I need to do. Should I go back to work now?"

It was quiet. Not even my neighbors were making noise.

Mechanically, I went into the kitchen and made a sandwich. I put it on a plate like Grace had always harped on me to do, but I hadn't done till I moved out.

I stood there with the plate in my hand and looked at the kitchen table, then the dining table, then the couch. I couldn't bring myself to sit anywhere even though my legs were aching now.

My condo had a little courtyard with two patio chairs I'd never sat in, next to a grill I’d never used. I pushed open the sliding glass doors displacing leaves and other debris that had settled in the tracks. I stepped out into the courtyard, shut the door behind me, and sat on a filthy chair and held the plate in my lap.

The remains of some kind of bush brooded in the corner, partially drowned in leaves and trash. There were weeds sprouting up through the cracks in the tile. Some green plant was crawling up the fence. I couldn't identify it. Everything else in the courtyard was dead.

I sat and ignored my sandwich. The rain had left a pattern on the wall. I tried pretending it was a passing cloud and name its shape. I couldn't resolve it into anything other than a stain.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at the wall-stain, but the shadows from the setting sun grew longer and finally swallowed the courtyard. It wasn't yet dark, but the sun wasn't shining on anything I could see.

I heard a sound behind me. It wasn't a big sound, but in such a quiet day, it sounded loud. I turned my head to see a chipmunk on the fence. I watched as he ran along the top of the fence and then ran back again. He looked over at me. He didn't seem frightened - more curious.

"Is it my sandwich you want?" I asked. I tore off a piece of crust and tossed it to the base of the fence.

The chipmunk scrambled down the fence and picked up the crust with his front paws while sitting back on his haunches. He watched me as he ate.

"I can't promise you good company," I said, "but I'm glad you're here."

The chipmunk finished the crust and I threw him some more.

"I buried my boy today," I told him. "I don't suppose that means much to you. The only things you bury are nuts. Or is that squirrels?"

The chipmunk looked at me as I spoke. I threw down more bread. He didn't pick up this piece, but he didn't run away, either.

"He was a good boy," I said, "much better than I had any right to expect. He was a sweet kid. He hardly ever whined or complained, and man did he have good reasons to complain."

The chipmunk got up and ran over to the bush. He dug around in the leaves and came away with an acorn.

"Good for you!" I said. The chipmunk looked over his shoulder at me, stuffed the nut in his cheek and then slowly walked towards me. He sat a foot away, staring up at me as if it was a perfectly natural thing for a chipmunk to do, and there he remained for hours as I poured out my heart about Jordan, telling the chipmunk all the things I wished I could tell my boy.

I was in tears long before I finished.

The sun woke me. I was still in the filthy chair; the chipmunk was gone. I wondered if he was ever there. The third piece of bread I tossed was still on the tiles, but the first two crusts were gone.

Mostly, I wonder what or who I was talking to, crying with that night.

I've never told the story to anyone. How would I explain it? The chipmunk had been someone's pet, or the previous tenant in the condo had fed him? That's why he stayed by me all that time. These explanations were the most feasible I could think of, but not what I believe to be true.

I can't help it. I believe that as in some Native-American myth, my son visited me that night transformed into a chipmunk.

And in so doing, transformed me back into a human.

FictHaus6 Wally

Wally

by Headley Hauser

Wally didn’t mean to keep people away. He liked people, but most found him forbidding, stand-offish, and restrictive.

Maybe if I was made of field stone, thought Wally, or even decorative brick.

Wally, as you may have guessed, was a wall. He wasn’t just any wall. He was the 28 foot, razor-wired exterior wall to the Murphysboro State Correctional Facility for Men, and in spite of every attempt to look pleasant and friendly, people avoided Wally.

Maybe it was the three strategically placed sharpshooter towers. The guards were not at all understanding when friendly inmates socially scratched Wally’s mortar.

In spite of his isolation, Wally wasn’t bitter. He reflected the gentle early morning sunshine into the exercise yard when the highly violent inmates of C block lifted the weights and did their drug deals. He blocked the harsher afternoon sun when the mob enforcers of B block smoked their cigars and planned who needed to sleep with the fishes.

The mobsters and murderers lives would have been far less pleasant if it hadn’t been for Wally, but as he was off-limits, he had to content himself with listening the inmate’s conversations.

“So, we got a movie tonight?”

“We did, and it was a good one, at least my kid liked it when they showed it at Youth Correction.”

“Your ex-wife tell you that?”

“She might have if I hadn’t planted three nine-millimeter slugs behind her right ear.”

“You know? The metric system ain’t as bad as people say.”

“You got that right.”

“It’ll be nice to have a good movie.”

“It’s a no go. Bubba smashed up the flat screen to make shivs out of it for A block.”

“Why didn’t he ask me? I got a gross of ready-made shivs hiding in my mattress!”

“Tough break.”

“Yeah, the marketplace is a jungle – hey, don’t they still have that old projector?”

“Sure, they still got it, but Jerry’s blood is all over rec room wall.”

“Ain’t it like Jerry to get in the way of a good time?”

“Yeah, if he weren’t in a coma, I’d…”

Wally stopped listening as an amazing thought occurred to him. My surface doesn’t have any blood on it! No one leans on me, or paints gang symbols on me, or anything. Once the sun goes down, all these great guys could gather in the exercise yard and watch their movie on me!

But there was one problem. Having no mouth, not to mention lungs, diaphragm, or larynx, Wally couldn’t communicate with humans whether they were guards or serial killers. Wally blocked harmful UV radiation from Big Louie and South Side Gang as he contemplated his problem – Wally was an accomplished mult-tasker.

Suddenly he heard a squawk. Wally looked for blood, but everyone in the South Side Gang looked unpunctured.

“Stupid Wall,” said a voice. “What’s the big idea, putting all this sharp stuff up here where folks are supposed to land?”

Wally followed the voice to the razor wire on top of him, and saw a grey bird.

“Don’t move,” said Wally. Birds can hear walls – even ones without a mouth. “That razor wire can hurt you.”

“I figured that out on my own, Blockhead.”

“If you stand still, I’ll get you out.” Wally shifted his blocks, slightly stretching the wire in one spot, and opening a hole in another. The bird jumped out of the wire and perched on Wally’s central rifle tower.

“Thanks, Wall, you’re a pal,” said the bird. “Anything I can do for you – just let me know.”

The bird must have thought it was unlikely that a wall would need a favor – or maybe he was insincere in his offer because he was already in flight before Wally could shout, “wait!”

“What now?” said the bird with less than perfect manners.

“I don’t want the mobsters and murderers to miss their movie,” said Wally. “They could show it on my surface if they wait until after sundown, but they don’t know that because humans can’t hear me when I speak.”

“Yeah?” said the bird. “I can take care of that for you.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I’m Stoolie the Pigeon. Talking to the Warden is what I do.”

So that night the inmates of Murphysboro State Correctional Facility for Men got to watch their movie. There was less than the normal amount of violence because Wally the Wall reflected the movie in all its wonderful colors. (The sound was crappy, but Wally didn’t have anything to do with that.)

And yes, the movie turned out to be Wall-E, but Wally didn’t think the main character was any relation.

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.