6/4/2014 0 Comments Ghost WriterFantasyTIM WAS DESPERATE. His best seller didn't have legs. It rose to the New York Times top ten list and stayed there just one week. Now, the money was running out and his agent was showing signs that he was ready to look somewhere else for a rising star. Success had come too easily. Tim wasn't ready to handle it. Now he was struggling to free himself from all the leeches who had arrived to suck the blood out of those first few royalty checks. The repo man came for the car. The landlord was threatening a law suit for breach of contract. The fiance hocked the ring and there were still payments due on it.
Tim was a very desperate man. The visit to the witch was an act of desperation. Although he didn't believe in God, he was ready to believe in the devil. That's how he ended up living in a hovel on the wrong side of the tracks in downtown Atlanta with Margaret Mitchell.
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6/4/2014 0 Comments RevolutionaryFantasyCLARK DUCKED AS A SPROCKET FLEW PAST. He ducked again when the chain that remained attached to the other sprocket finally came free and twisted itself into lethal knots as it flew after the sprocket. The missiles disappeared into the crowd behind him inflicting pain and suffering in their wake. Still, the carnage couldn't wipe the smile from Clark's face. “Sorry 'bout that, boss,” his assistant, Jeremy, muttered as he rooted through his box of replacements. “I'll have it fixed in a jiff.”
“No problem,” Clark responded as he stepped forward and touched the machine to share its final shudders as it ground to a halt. “It'll work the next time.” J. B. Bucksworth stepped up next to him, puffing on a thick, foul-smelling cigar. “Well, what went wrong this time?” he asked and slid the cigar to the other side of his mouth without using his hands. “Nothing,” Clark replied. “Nothing?” “No, nothing really. Just needs a little adjustment, that's all.” 6/4/2014 0 Comments The Birthday PlacefANTASYJOHN RADIN STOOD IN THE FOYER, befuddlement playing in his expression, his children tugging at his pants leg, and his wife tapping her foot behind him. “I told you to call first,” she admonished him, impatience putting an edge in her tone. “But...” John stammered.
The hostess waited, her smile becoming forced. “Sir?” she prompted John. “I asked if you had a reservation.” Collecting his thoughts, John's eyes focused on the pretty young woman talking to him. “A what?” he asked. “A reservation, sir.” “You need a reservation for... for this place?” 6/4/2014 0 Comments ShadowsFantasyLUNCH HOUR WAS ALMOST OVER and Bud glanced back over his shoulder. The same man was still behind him. He didn't like confrontation but this was the third day in a row. He took several deep breaths and turned about face abruptly to catch him before he could scurry away. It worked. He caught the man standing a mere pace behind him. “Are you following me?” Bud demanded. The man smiled matter-of-factly. “Why, yes I am, sir,” he replied.
The answer wasn't what Bud expected. He had prepared himself with evidence to accuse the man. Instead, words failed him. The man waited patiently. “Why?” Bud asked after he had recovered. “Why?” “Why are you following me?” 6/4/2014 0 Comments Sub Urban LifeFantasyGEORGE BEAT ON THE WALL. “I'm telling you, it was right here!” he exclaimed to the police detective and his partner. The detectives remained stoic while the blue clad patrolmen loitering behind didn't even attempt to mask their snickers. The senior detective squeezed past George and examined the wall. “Right here, you say?”
“Yes, there,” George replied as the detective felt around the edges of the wall. George's wife, Jane, scowled in the background, peeking past the two uniformed officers. The junior detective turned and looked at her. “You didn't see anything?” he asked. Jane shook her head and snorted. “I've told you ten times, I wasn't here.” The detective admonished her with a stern look. “Please, ma'am,” he said, “there's no need to raise your voice.” Jane pulled her head closer to her shoulders and backed away. “Well, it's true,” she insisted. “You keep asking me. I wasn't here.” “Your husband came to see the house with the realtor and you didn't accompany him,” the detective persisted. “No.” 5/16/2014 0 Comments PetsFantasyHILLARY BEGAN COLLECTING pets when she was six years old. They found her when she got a late start dumpster diving for her family one evening and the sun set before she could clear out. That's when the animals took their turn. Dogs, cats, and rats took turns ferreting out food, and didn't take kindly to a child upsetting the natural order of events. All the animals felt that their sustenance was threatened by the little girl and advanced on her from all sides.
Hillary was a smart little girl and pulled the lid shut on top of her, but it didn't fit well and the animals began wedging themselves through every gap. What little light penetrated the dumpster found its way to their eyes and they glared at Hillary from every side. Backed into a corner, Hillary's hands grasped at everything in reach, searching for a weapon. All she found were rubbish and refuse, some bagged and some not. 5/16/2014 0 Comments GoodbyeFantasyTHE BOY SKIPPED along the wooded lane, the dried leaves crunching under his feet, until he spotted the old man up ahead and increased his pace. In moments he caught up, took the old man's hand, and looked up with a smile bursting across his face. The old man stopped and looked down, bewilderment clouding his expression. “How?” he asked, but the boy's smile was his only reply.
The old man looked around as though lost. He tried to find something familiar in the landscape. The boy waited patiently at his side. Once again, he met the boy's eyes and asked, “Where?” The boy tipped his head to one side, his smile dissolving into a mask of concern. He raised his hand and pointed in the direction from which he had come. “There,” he said. 5/16/2014 0 Comments JadedFantasyDETECTIVE MORT SANDERS and his partner, Jake Thompson, stood in the eye of a crowd of onlookers held at bay by yellow crime scene tape. Uniformed officers scanned the area daring the public to cross their line. The victim lay on a gurney surrounded by EMTs and firemen. Buildings on either side of 111th Street barricading the location flashed in angry red and icy blue hues as warning beacons spun atop emergency vehicles. Their fire escapes appeared as slashes of lightning bolts in the garish lights. The suspect sat on the curb, her hands cuffed behind her back, her chin sunk into her chest. Thompson glanced at her and snickered. Sanders looked at him. “What?” he asked. A Crime Scene Investigator walked up to the two detectives before Thompson could answer. Sanders turned his attention to the young technician. “The assault didn't take place here,” the CSI reported.
Sanders winced and scratched his nose. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. Thompson waved for the uniformed sergeant to join them. “Get your men to begin canvasing the area,” he instructed when the uniformed commander arrived. “Start with the houses on both sides of the street and work outward. They couldn't have gotten too far to get here,” he added. The sergeant left the minimum number of men in place needed to control the crowd, and sent the rest off to look for the room or alley where the assault took place. Sanders and Thompson took a few minutes to catch up on their notes as the search got underway. Police and fire radios crackled with calls relating to emergencies in other parts of the city. Manhattan was teeming with them. It was a typical Friday night. Sanders finished first and walked towards the suspect. Thompson lagged behind making a sketch of the scene. Sanders stopped next to the woman in cuffs sitting on the curb and waited for her to look up. She didn't. “Here we are again,” the detective began. 5/16/2014 0 Comments The CurseFantasyA PENCIL-THIN BEAM of light aligned with two holes, one in the mausoleum door and the other in the side of the sarcophagus, as the sun passed the Vernal Equinox, and struck Don Esteban Rodriguez in the eye, and he awoke. Slowly, he flexed every muscle in his body to dispel the cramps that had gathered during his year-long slumber. The pain was excruciating, but he bore it stoically, silently, waiting for his servant to arrive and remove the lid. It was the four hundred and eighty-seventh year of his curse. The face that he saw when the lid was removed was unfamiliar to him. “Tomas is dead,” he guessed.
“Sí, Don Esteban,” the face replied. “He was my father. I am Bernardo.” “Of course,” Don Esteban replied. The duty to attend him was hereditary. “Do you require help?” Bernardo asked. “Sí, gracias,” he replied, and the new servant lent him a hand as he sat, then stood up. The stairs were already in place, and Don Esteban descended to the mausoleum floor with stiff steps, one hand on the young servant's shoulder. 5/16/2014 0 Comments The VisitorFantasy“YOU'RE AWAKE.” “Yes.” There was no use denying it. He always knew. Ben cleared his throat, the rasp fled, and his breath quieted to a gentle wheeze. He closed his mouth and collected the little spit that he could find, and used it to wet his parched lips.
“You need a sip of water.” “Yes.” “The glass is next to your right hand. That's it. A little further. Good.” The gentle voice guided Ben's hand. Some spilled. Ben couldn't raise his head to drink, not yet. He poured a dribble where he thought that his mouth might be. Most of it entered, and he choked a little. “Careful.” “Yes.” |
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