Those Who Rule, Flash Fiction Friday cycle 44

El Presidente stared across his expansive desk at the naked muzzle of the gun in Raoul's hand. "So it has come to this has it, Raoul, old friend. You, of all people, would turn on me? I am your President! But more than that, I am your friend, and now you lash out at me like a viper in the sugarcane. Why? Have we not grown up together, shared the same ideals, the same goals? Have we not weathered every storm together? Faced and conquered the challenges of running this country and kept it from falling into the hands of the rebels and extremists. How could you bring yourself to betray me like this?" He spread his hands in a pleading gesture.

Raoul cocked the pistol and aimed ever so carefully at El Presidente's heart. He adjusted the cheroot in his lips and looked the President in the eye before he spoke. "Do not think that I have arrived at this decision lightly Don Miguel. For years, I have championed our cause together. I have lead your troops against the rebels and rooted out dissidents and unrest where ever they have raised their ugly head. I have always been your biggest supporter but something has come to pass that has made me realize that I have misjudged you, and in so doing, I have wasted my life." Raoul sighed and took a long pull from his cheroot.

"What could I have possibly done that would make you turn traitor and murder me in cold blood? That is what you have in mind isn't it old friend?" Don Miguel asked.

"Oh yes. Make no mistake about it Don Miguel. You are going to die by my hand, and you are going to know what you are dying for. On Sunday last, you signed a death warrant. Just one of thousands that has crossed your desk. I have seen you scribbling furiously to get through a stack of them on a Friday afternoon so that you could leave early for the weekend. And if there is one thing that will be remembered about your administration Don Miguel, it is the efficiency of your Death Squads and Secret Police. They are quick and ruthless. The man on that warrant was caught and executed in the street within the hour, but then it isn't hard to find a priest on Sunday. Father Juan Maria Ramerez had his brains blown out in the town square after saying the morning mass. A mass in which he prayed that God would guide you in running our beloved homeland."

"I remember that case. He was blatantly providing aid to the Upsequa rebels. He deserved to die!" Don Miguel said with venom.

"He was giving first aid to a ten year old boy who had been shot by one of your soldiers while trying to keep his sister from being raped!" Raoul spat back, and he threw his cheroot into Don Miguel's face. "No matter," Raoul said, steadying his calm and his aim, "You will die just the same. Your country cries out in agony under your oppression. Instead of the peace and prosperity that you give lip service to, we have a country over run by kidnapping, rape and murder. While your countrymen struggle to put food into the mouths of their children, you have a fleet of armored limos and dine on steak and caviar here in the palace. Your police and troops number in the thousands but our streets aren't safe to walk because of them. The rebels fill the hills and jungles because that is the only place they can live without being under your boot heel. The farmers don't grow food anymore because the cartels insist they grow drugs instead. The one man who may have saved us all from spiraling into the pits of Hell had his head blown off and he died by the stroke of your pen. For all that, you must die Don Miguel." Raoul settled back into his chair and let his words sink in.

Don Miguel's face blanched white as he realized that his time had come. "Is there nothing I can say Raoul...nothing I can do? I have money," he offered weakly. Raoul shook his head no. "Well then, can I write a short note to my wife? It will only take a moment and it will mean so much to her."

Raoul considered this. "A very, very short note," he said with resolve. Don Miguel pulled open a drawer in his desk and shuffled past the blank death warrants looking for a pen. The click of the mechanism he triggered was almost silent. Suddenly Raoul gave a shout of pain and began to claw at his back, still trying desperately to hold the pistol on Don Miguel as he slumped forward and slid from the chair to his knees, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Don't worry old friend. The poison in the needle concealed in the chair works fast. You won't have any pain. Goodbye." Don Miguel smiled. Raoul spread out on the floor and with his last gasp uttered, "See you in Hell!" and with that, he died.

The soldier threw open the door to El Presidente's office brandishing his automatic weapon. "Sir, the alarm," he sputtered, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," Don Miguel reassured him. "Send someone to collect General Ortez here and bury him in an unmarked grave." The soldier saluted smartly and turned to go about his duty. "Oh, and one more thing soldier. Tell the Secret Police to track down and kill his family. Brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, anyone who would want revenge. He has a mother along the coast. Make sure she dies too." And with that, Don Miguel returned to the work of troop movements that would help him make his final push into the rebel strongholds.

Doc

F3, Cycle 38, The Unwanted Man

"It's time for your medication Mr. Smith," the nurse intoned with as much of her sunny disposition as she could.

"B-bugger off! And my name isn't S-smith. S-stop calling me that." Smith returned to staring out the window, searching the horizon, always searching. He couldn't say what it was that he was looking for but he kept hoping that something would pop up and he would suddenly be gifted with everything he had lost.

The nurse handed him his little white tablet and held out the tumbler of water. "Well what would you like to be called then? Somehow being refered to as a surly pain in the ass doesn't have quite the same ring to it now does it?" Her frosty smile at her own sense of humor rubbed Smith the wrong way but he gulped down the pill and the water if for no other reason than it would send her on her way all the faster. She turned on her heel and left the room to finish her rounds of pill pushing to the drooling imbeciles on the ward. She met the doctor at the door. "Be careful with him today Dr. Kroger. He's in a right state," she warned. Dr. Kroger nodded and gave a knowing smile. He sat down in a chair next to Smith and opened a file, uncapped his pen and looked Smith over with a critical eye.

Smith was of an average height and build with sandy blonde hair. No tattoos or obvious scars other than the small, pink pucker at his right temple where the bullet had entered his head a year and a half ago. He had been found in an alleyway, shot, presumably mugged since no wallet, watch or phone had been found on him. The surgeon who had removed the slug had said it was a tricky business but Smith had quickly regained his strength, but not his memory. The surgeon swore that it would return in time but all Smith could recall for certain was a few dirty words in French and the phone number of a pizza place two blocks from where he had been found. His fingerprints weren't on file anywhere and posters in the neighborhood had turned up zilch.  They had only taken to calling him Smith as they needed something for the forms. "Good morning Mr. Smith," Dr. Kroger began.

"Oh, h-hello Doc. I didn't notice you come in. I-I was hoping you'd be by. I was kinda looking forward to a cig-cigarette. Have ya got one?" Smith's eyes brightened at the prospect. He knew he could only smoke under supervision and the nurses just didn't have the time nor inclination. Dr. Kroger shook two from the pack and lit them both. Smith inhaled deeply and closed his eyes at the rapture of the nicotine. "Ah, now," he grinned, "what did y-you want to talk about today?" Try as he might, Smith just couldn't lose the stutter. The surgeon didn't think he ever would.

"Well, I just wanted to check in. You know, to see if you had remembered anything new. Something that we could use to track down your friends or family. You've been with us here at Shady Acres for some time now Smith and I'm sure you are eager to return to your life." Dr. Kroger took a puff of his own cigarette and tried not to think about the fact that funding for keeping Smith had run out two months ago and it was only his stalling and reshuffling of paperwork that had kept Smith from being turned out on the street.

Smith grinned as he examined the lengthening ash on his cigarette, "N-now that you mention it Doc, something occurred to me yesterday."

"Anything would help," Dr. Kroger encouraged, "What was it?"

Smith snickered, "Y-yesterday Nurse Kelly dropped my anti-depression pill on the floor and as she bent over to pick it up, I recalled that I was more of an ass man than a big tit man. I-if that's of any use, please put it down in my f-file."

Dr. Kroger made a big show of putting a large check-mark in the folder. "Well we know you are heterosexual which I guess is something. I'll write it in next to the fact that you are right handed," Dr. Kroger chuckled. "On a more serious note, I have someone who wants to see you." Dr. Kroger noticed how Smith stiffened with fear at the prospect. "It's all right. It will only take a moment. It's a long shot, but she is the only one to have answered our ad so far. Be brave Smith, and come on." Smith stubbed out his smoke in an empty coffee cup and rose slowly to his feet. Dr. Kroger noticed the sweat that beaded his forehead and upper lip as he slowly followed him to the door. "Sweet Jesus," the doctor prayed, "let this be the one." He lead Smith to the visitor room and ushered him in.

Smith seated himself at the stainless steel table on a chair that was bolted to the floor. "I....I'm ready" he mumbled. Dr. Kroger opened the other door on the far side of the room and a woman walked in. She nervously crossed the room and sat in the only other chair. Her eyes never left Smith. They stared at each other for a full minute before Dr. Kroger broke the silence. "Smith, this is Ellie Griffin. Ms. Griffin, this is Mr. Smith."

Ellie fumbled in her purse and produced a tissue to dab at the single tear that slid from her eye. "It's Mrs. Griffin actually. And your name isn't Smith. It's Gary Oscar Griffin. Your buddies at the department store call you Merv as a nickname. Your birthday is October seventeenth and your favorite food is your mother's meatloaf but you always say that mine is almost as good. At Christmas, you always play Santa. You like to garden and raise tomatoes but you hate ketchup. You vote in every election but always vote out the incumbant. You hate sports but always watch the Olympics. You cry at movies and blame it on alleregies that you don't have. You love dirty jokes and you can translate them into the little bit of French you learned in high school. You...oh God, at last I've found you!" She covered her face and wept. Smith reached out and took her hand and she clutched it with all of her strength.

"I-I've missed you Ellie," was all he could manage to say. She looked up at him and smiled as if the light in her life had been ignited again. Dr. Kroger counted that moment as one of the most rewarding of his career. He was even a little choked up himself.

Dr. Kroger waived from the front steps of the sanitarium as the cab pulled away and Mr. and Mrs. Griffin waved back. Gary settled back in the seat and said, "I can't wait to see our home. Y-you say we've got a garden? Oh that will be nice," his eyes drifted to her's and his grin betrayed the extremity of his joy.

"Oh well," she thought to herself, "at least this Mr. Griffin will be better than the last one. I can train him to be the husband I want and not the drunken lout that had the good sense to get himself lost at sea on a fishing trip. Besides," she reasoned, "this one might be good in bed."

Jackie Boy - Flash Fiction Friday; Cycle 31

Jackie looked down at the shiny, black .38 in his lap. The weight of it seem to hold him in his chair. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his stomach tightened into knots. "What's this for George? What do I need a gun for?"

George settled back into his seat and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Jackie boy, you are going to do a job for me. A simple little job, but it is one that has to be done, and you are the man to do it." George smiled like he had a chicken bone caught in his throat. It was his way of trying to be charming.

"But George, I'm just a nickel and dime man. You need someone hustled for a few hundred bucks or a pawn shop busted into, I'm your guy, but I don't want no truck with guns. If they even catch me toting this thing around, I'll go up for a stretch. We go back a long way, you and me, clear back to the ol' street gang, and you know I don't do muscle work. No knives, no guns, no fires. You got guys for that kind of gig, so why shove it off on me?"

"Because Jackie boy, if I use one of my regular boys, it'll lead straight back to me. You know I don't wear no prison orange, and that's because I'm smart an' careful. No Jackie boy, you are the man for the job. Everyone knows you are small time. Everyone, and that's why no one is going to look for you. Now tonight you are going to a little bar on Lamont and you are going to show up right before closing time. There is a little old man who owns the place who just can't seem to get it through his thick skull that our protection is worth paying for. He is starting to rile up our other clients and that just won't do. So, you air him out and the rest fall back into line. Simple. I'll meet you back here at 2:30, you can tell me how it went and I'll dispose of the gun. In a week, you'll have your money." George smiled a little wider as if he was trying to rearrange the bone in his throat.

Jackie picked up the pistol off of his lap and held it as if it was roadkill. The revolver weighed a hundred pounds in his hand. Its cold heft made him shudder a bit. He tried to hand it back. "Naw George. You know me. I don't have the guts for this sort of thing. I'm tender hearted. I couldn't hurt a flea. You want me to scam the old buzzard for everything in the register, sure. You want me to break in after hours and bust up the joint, swipe his liquor, and crap on the bar, Hell I'd even consider that. But to walk in and shoot a man in cold blood, naw George, you got the wrong guy. Find somebody else."

George shook his head no. "If it's about the money Jackie boy, you know you will be well compensated. I have always been more than generous in the past and you will be paid what it's worth. So shut up and take the gun!"

Jackie blinked as a bead of sweat from his wet forehead dripped into his eye. He set the gun away from him on the coffee table and with a trembling hand, slid it to George. "I can't do it George. I'm a chickenshit. I cry at the fuckin' movies for fuck's sake George!" he pleaded.

George shook his head no. He picked it up and shoved it into Jackie's chest, hard. "You can and you will do this Jackie boy, cause this is only going down one of two ways!" he screamed. "You off this guy tonight or I come and off you! Cause I ain't going to have you squeal and cop a bargain the next time you get busted. No. Come two-thirty, I'm going to be back and one of you is going to be dead. Get me?"

Jackie took the heavy black lump off of his chest and stared at it. Jackie was stunned at how lethal it looked, as if it had an innate menace to it. He looked up to George's snake-like eyes. They had the same menace too. Jackie knew George would carry through, he would kill him. "W-what if I miss? What if I just wing him? I'm no crack shot. I've never even fired a BB gun!" his voice wavered.

"Just get in close, like this. Then just aim for the eyes. If you can get behind him, put it right behind his ear and pull the trigger. One shot to kill him and one more to make sure. Simple, Jackie boy, simple." George pasted on his chicken bone smile.

Jackie never heard the sound of the shot that made a ragged hole in George's forehead. He just felt the recoil, saw the flash. And from the other side of a puff of smoke, Jackie watched George's corpse settle back in the into recliner among the remnants of what had at one time been the back of his skull. George still wore that sickening grin and cigarette smoke trailed from it."I ain't doing your dirty work," Jackie spat, "and quit calling me Jackie boy!"

Doc

"Scornful Dogs Will Eat Dirty Puddings" - Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 29

"Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings." - In emergency men will do many things they would scorn to do in easy circumstances.

Iberia, in the year of our Lord, 1645

Rodrigo crawled through the underbrush on his belly, swatting mosquitoes and praying to God that he wouldn't die tonight with a brigand's blade in his back. He followed the shallow ditch full of brackish water and tried to move as silently as he could but briers tugged at his clothing while nettles stung his face and hands. He could see a pale window of moonlight through the brush and made for it. Here the ditch emptied into the river and would provide him with some means of escaping the bandits that had his ancestral home surrounded.

He eased himself into the cool waters of the river and tried very hard not to make a ripple as he made for the other side. The sound of the water dripping from his wet clothes seemed like a raging surf in his ears as he emerged on the other side and climbed the steep bank. As he crested the bank, he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse on the far side. At this, he threw all caution to the wind and bolted into the trees. His heart pounded in his throat and his legs pumped with all the fury of a charging bull. He ran as far and as fast as he could but with no moonlight to guide his way in the thick forest, his progress was arrested when he ran full speed into an unyielding tree.

How long he lay flat on his back unconscious, Rodrigo couldn't really say but the sun was dappling the forest floor as he rose on unsteady feet. He touched his sore, disjointed nose and looked around but every way was simply more trees. "God's eyes!" he swore, "I've gone and gotten myself lost!" and not knowing what else to do, he trudged on.

Rodrigo couldn't remember ever feeling more low. His fine clothes were now wet, muddy rags. One of his boots had lost it's heel and was raising a grape sized blister. His mouth was dry and his belly grumbled, not to mention the odd crunching noise his sore nose made when he touched it. "At this rate," he thought, "I'll be dead by nightfall. I would have been better to have stayed at the keep and face the bandits. At least I would have had an honorable death instead of perishing from hunger lost in the woods."

Rodrigo pushed through a thicket and entered a clearing and there was a log hut. At it's door stood a friar holding a leather tankard with a puzzled look on his face. "Please dear brother, some succor for a fellow Christian who has lost his way," Rodrigo pleaded. The friar shrugged and beckoned him inside. Rodrigo slumped on the only stool, took the mug the friar offered him and gulped it down. "I have seen some sights in my day boy," the friar began, "but I ain't never seen anything like you stumble out of the woods. I've seen beggars who were less the worse for wear. How came you to be in such a state?"

At this, Rodrigo poured forth his awful tale. He explained how his father, Count Alvarez, had taken the men of the valley and marched off to fight the King's war and had left him in charge of the family lands and keep. He told the friar about the brigands who had shown up the day before and how they had only managed to bolt the door in time to keep them from charging right in. With no way to get in, they simply set up camp around the keep and waited. Since the men of the valley were gone, the crops hadn't been harvested yet and the larder was nigh empty. So with no other recourse, Rodrigo slipped out through the waste water ditch and ran to find whatever help he could, only to break his nose in the dark. At the end of the tale, the friar nodded.

"You're not going to like this boy but you will thank me later. Now hold still a moment," the friar said, and with that his hand shot out and gave Rodrigo's nose a mighty tug. Rodrigo swore he heard an audible snap as his nose fell somewhat back into place.

"God's eyes, that hurts!" he exclaimed as he struggled to see through his own tears.

"Now don't touch it," the friar admonished. "I expect you will be wanting something to eat after your ordeal." Rodrigo smiled at the mention of food. "Well I was just sitting down to break my fast when I heard you rustling through the brush. Here, eat mine." The friar passed him a wooden trencher and a sea shell for a spoon. Rodrigo looked down at the mottled mash before him and his empty stomach turned.

"I can't eat this," he exclaimed, "It has got maggots in it!"

"Those are not maggots," the friar scowled, "Those are wood grubs and berries steeped in bark tea. It is perfectly healthy. I eat it all the time. Besides, even scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings if need be. Now eat up, we've a long walk ahead of us as I know how to save your keep." Rodrigo grimaced, closed his eyes and scooped some into his mouth. It had a sweet, earthy taste but it wasn't as unpleasant as it looked. After a couple more bites, Rodrigo was sorry that it was all gone.

"How are you going to save my keep? Do you know how to get a message to the army?" Rodrigo queried.

"Nothing of the sort. I just need my bag of herbs," the friar said with a knowing smile.

"You are going to drive off forty blood thirsty bandits with a bag of herbs?" Rodrigo asked incredulously but the friar ignored him, grabbed a little leather pouch from the bedpost of his pallet and set off at a brisk pace, out the door and into the woods. Rodrigo jogged to catch up.

In two hours time, they arrived at the edge of the woods and Rodrigo could see the bandits milling around their camp in front of his family keep. "You wait here in the trees and stay out of sight," the friar warned, and with that he strolled off as if he didn't have a care in the world. Rodrigo watched as the friar approached the bandits and one came to meet him. They spoke for a few moments. The friar seemed quite animated as he pointed towards the woods. He held up his little herb bag and then pointed to the keep. Soon all of the bandits were gathering around the friar and Rodrigo feared the worst. But then, miracle of miracles, they began to pack up their things, mount their horses and off they rode down the valley road. They crested the hill and never looked back.

When they had gone, the friar ambled back to the tree line. "It is all right now. You can come out. They've gone, and in quite a hurry too." the friar smiled.

"What did you say to them?" Rodrigo asked in wonder.

"Oh nothing really," the friar grinned sheepishly, "Only that I had come with some herbs and ointments for the nice people in the keep who were suffering from the plague!"

Doc

Peabody's Hex; Flash Fiction Friday-Cycle 27

**Author's Note** This week's installment is another themed word list with the provision that it is a courtroom drama and under 1000 words, but money, foolish, kneecap, trace, and widow must be among them. Enjoy!


The Village of Peabody, Near Salem, In The Year Of Our Lord, 1692

"Reverend Breedlove and the honored deacons of the church, there is much to this trial that remains to be seen. The widow Mary Selby stands accused of witchcraft and much evidence has been brought to light. Mr. Mason has gone to great lengths to convince you of her guilt of being a witch while I am not so certain. There is no doubt that on the night of November first, All Saint's Day, she went to the farm of William Smith, a close neighbor of hers. She visited after dark and spent some time at their window without knocking. She stayed long enough to observe them at their evening prayers and to trace a heart in the snow with a stick. Mr. Mason suggests that this was part of her spell to summon the Evil One. I say she went to see a happy family at prayer because she missed her departed husband, Peter Selby, a man that no one could impugned of being impious, and drew a heart to represent her lost love. She was lonely and heartsick, seeking comfort in the Lord by watching William Smith and his family pray." Nathaniel Saltonstall clasped his hands in supplication and then continued.

"Mr. Mason calls as evidence the imprint she made in the snow by the road. He says that this is where she had congress with the Horn'd One and sites the blood found there the next day as proof of how he used her rudely. I say she tripped over the stump that was hidden by the snow and cut her kneecap when she fell. Her footprints and her wound confirms it. Mr. Mason says that this is where her familiar, the hog, came to suckle after her deal with the Dark One. I say this is an untruth." Saltonstall dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and paced the meeting house, but his eyes never left Reverend Breedlove.

"Mr. Mason makes much of the fact that Mary Selby owed a debt of money to the amount of three shillings to William Smith for the purchase of shoes for her son Elijah. A debt that was promised to be repaid in the spring with the slaughter of her hog. Mr. Mason cites this as the point she slipped into the clutches of the Evil One. That this and her coveting the husband of Patience Smith is what drove her into a pact with the Deceiver, and from then on, she was His agent in Peabody. This, he claims, is what drove her to make Mrs. Patience Smith to lose her unborn child." Saltonstall looked at the deacons and they seemed to be listening.

"I would ask you to not be foolish and hear the unfettered voice of our Lord. Listen to your God-given reason and return a verdict of Not Guilty." Saltonstall bowed his head. "Only He can guide you now."

Reverend Breedlove roused himself from his inattention and banged the gavel a few times when he realized that Nathaniel Saltonstall had finished speaking. "This court will reconvene at the summit of Gallows Hill where we will hear her confession."

"But Reverend, she hasn't confessed yet," Saltonstall sputtered.

"Well, we will already be atop the hill by then and there is still the flogging that needs attended to," the good Reverend mused. "Sheriff, do your duty!"

Doc

Tolchek's Venus and Vulcan; Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 26

Themed Word List: Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm.

"If you will kindly disrobe, we can get started," Tolchek said. Nastinka clutched at the neck of her peasant dress and a small shiver of fear ran through her. "Well?" Tolchek demanded, "Do you want to earn the five rubles or not?" Nastinka could only nod her head dumbly as she fumbled with the tiny buttons. In a moment, she was as naked as the day she was born. Tolchek smiled approvingly. "Now please, sit on the stool and turn your head to the light. Nyet, nyet, that won't do. Bend your head down a bit, as if you are gazing into a pool of water. Yes, that's nice. Now lean on this arm and reach out with the other as if you are going to touch the surface of the water. Good. Now hold very still."

Tolchek turned to his easel and his charcoal began to fly across the page in an easy rhythm, sketching, shading, his eyes lost to the sight of the beautiful young girl in front of him. For him, she was just a thing, a vehicle for his art. She had all the allure of a bowl of fruit or cut flowers on a tablecloth. There was no person in front of him, gifted with warm blood, with dreams of her own, or even a mortal spirit. She was just a piece to be copied and that was all.

"Damn!" Tolchek swore and tossed down his charcoal in disgust. "Your legs are all wrong! You are not sitting at a spinning wheel or churning butter! You are gazing lovingly at your own reflection you simple country bumpkin! Wait just a moment..." Tolchek hurried to move a threadbare sofa from a corner of the studio into the light. Then he carefully rearranged her on it so that the light fell just so, but he never touched her. He would not let his hand stray even a little close to her. Tolchek had learned from his master that one should never touch a model, no matter how much easier it is to pose them that way. "This girl is just another ignorant peasant," Tolchek thought, "she is probably used to the rough hands of men, and no doubt she has her wanton ways, but it would never do for her to say that I even brushed against her cheek or my budding reputation would be lost. Should that happen, I would never find another model after her and I shall be forced to do more landscapes and die in ignominy like so many before me. Nyet, this will be my masterpiece and will get me an introduction into the court of the Czar!"

Now Tolchek changed from charcoal to paint and his brush moved like a fast flowing stream. His brush would dab, then swirl, only to return from another trip to his palette to jab at the painting. Sweat formed on his brow and lip as he worked himself into the fever that was his art. So consumed by his fervor was he that he never noticed that the door of his studio had been thrown open by great force to admit a giant kodiak of a man.

"Tolchek, you he-goat! I have come to take your life for violating my wife!" the huge man bellowed and beat his fists about his chest.

Tolchek looked up in utter surprise, as if the whole of the Czar's army had arrived on his doorstep. "Do I know you?" he asked softly.

"I am Mikal Egor Sergei Timur Markastrova and I will kill you now, you lecherous fool!" the long knife in his hand seemed to punctuate every word.

Tolchek narrowed his eyes and wiped a smear of paint from his knuckle absentmindedly on his breeches as he looked over the newcomer. "Good God nyet!" Nastinka screamed, "Mikal, I was only earning money so we could keep the farm! He never touched me, I swear by the Holy Mother! Oh please..." and her sobs went unheeded as she buried her face into her hands, unable to look at the coming tragedy that was about to unfold before her.

Tolchek stroked his beard for a moment as the giant gathered his rage. "Could you take a half step closer?" was all he managed to say. Mikal lunged forward, brandishing the knife with all the menace of Cain. Flecks of foam dripped from the corners of his mouth. "Hold right there!" Tolchek exclaimed as his hand reach once again for the charcoal.

"I will cut you into little bits and feed you to my hounds, you bastard son of a whore!" Mikal swore.

"Fine, fine," Tolchek muttered, "just do it after I'm done. For now, hold still you oaf!" Tolchek grimaced as his hand moved at lightening speed. He bit his lower lip as he put on the finishing touches. "There," he smiled, "now you may deliver the killing blow, but before you do, you must promise me that this picture will find it's way to Sergei Onamatov in Kiev, and know that you have slain the greatest artist ever born and an innocent man!" and with that, he threw down his brush and palette, closed his eyes and presented his chest to receive the gleaming blade.

Mikal knitted his thick brows and walked forward to where the painter stood. With one massive paw, he shoved the painter aside and looked at the canvas. His face changed from blood red heat to the calm of a summer breeze with glacial slowness but eventually he turned to Tolchek, and instead of offering him cold steel, he offered his hand. "I am no aristocrat," Mikal began, "but you have painted my Nastinka as the Madonna herself and for that I am truly grateful. And this big man in the background, is that me?" he asked in a small voice of wonder. "Do I truly look like that?"

Tolchek smiled, "You look exactly like that and if you will stand where you were before, you will look even better." The morning worked it's way into the afternoon and the three of them hardly noticed as Tolchek labored with the ardour of a zealot. At three, he slumped onto the stool and prepared tea with thick slices of course, dark bread.

"You know Tolchek, I came here today to slit your throat. I am glad to be slicing bread instead. You are not the bad man I thought you were. For that, I am glad," Mikal said as he brushed the crumbs from his long, unruly beard.

"I too am glad Mikal. I have my life and my masterpiece, but without you, I would have neither. I am an artist and without art, I have no life, while you sir, are a fighter who will never rest without your lover, much like Vulcan without his Venus. Come, I have a little vodka left. Let us toast our success and to your ten rubles!" Tolchek raised a half empty bottle.

""Nyet," Nastinka replied, "The bargain was for five rubles and five alone," she said adamantly.

Tolchek smiled broadly as he filled their glasses to the brim, "Ah but you have forgotten my dear, it was five rubles for each model and today I have had two!"

Doc

Buster Benson and the Mole Men; Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 24

...We join now this weeks installment of Buster Benson and the adventure of the Mole Men, compliments of our sponsor, Miracle Soap Suds. If it gets it clean, it's a Miracle!

When last we met, Buster and his trusty sidekick Ray had just escaped from the underground lab of the evil Dr. Heinsmueller and his dark army, who close in on them even as we speak...

(sound of water dripping in a cave and the hum of something electric.)

Buster: Forget the diamonds Ray! We are lucky to be alive!. Dr. Heinsmueller's ray could have turned us into goose-stepping zombies. Now we need to concentrate on finding Helen. Come on!

Ray: Ah just a few Buster. It will mean so much to the orphans.

Buster: All right you big lug. You got me. Fill your pockets.

(sound of pebbles dropping into a frying pan.)

Buster: That's enough, now let's make a break for it. Grab that torch Ray and let's head down this passage way. We're sure to find the slave quarters from there, and that just might bring us one step closer to Helen.

(sound of echoing footfalls in a cave.)

Narrator: Buster and Ray follow the passage until they reach a large cavern.

Ray: Look Buster! It's our Cave Car! Boy am I ever glad to see that bucket of bolts.

Buster: Check it over Ray and make sure it hasn't been tampered with, then get it warmed up. I'm going on to find Helen and I'll meet you back here.

Ray: Sure thing boss.

(clank of metal tools followed by the sound of running footsteps and a woman's voice singing softly in the distance.)

Buster: Helen? Is that you Helen?

Helen: Oh Buster, darling, help me. I'm chained to the wall and I think I hear those dreadful creatures coming back!

(sound of chains falling to the floor.)

Buster: I've got you my love. You're safe now.

Helen: Oh Buster. (kissing sounds, then Helen screams) Buster! There, behind you!

Mole Man: Roar, hiss. (gunshots)

Buster: My bullets just bounce right off of him! No wonder Dr. Heinsmuller created these abominations for the Nazis. Quick Helen! Run!

Mole Man: Roar, hiss. (running footsteps and some more gunshots)

Buster: Quick Helen, get in the Cave Car. Ray, fire the rock cutting beam down that passageway.

Ray: But Buster, why? It might bring down the roof on us!

Buster: It's a chance we'll have to take. Fire!

(zap. zap, zap.)

Buster: Whoa, that was close. Thanks Ray.

Ray: Anything for a pal.

Buster: Now let's use the rock cutting beam to blast our way out of this cavern and get back to the Professor. Maybe he has discovered some way to defeat these evil Mole Men and stop Dr. Heinsmueller.

(sounds of blasting slowly fade away, music swells)

Narrator: That's this weeks installment of Buster Benson and the Mole Men. Remember kids, this Friday is the scrap rubber drive, and keep saving those box tops from Miracle Soap Suds for your official Buster Benson decoder ring. Bye bye and buy bonds. Goodnight.

The Best Part Of Waking Up... Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 23

Barry rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked up at the smiling face of his beloved, Gloria. "Good morning sleepyhead," she grinned, "I made coffee and I need you bright eyed and bushy tailed. I've got plans for you buddy boy!" Her smile widened into a lascivious smirk.

"I can hardly wait," Barry hopped to his feet and followed her to the galley. His coffee cup vibrated on the table from the constant hum of the superluminal engines and he stared over it to look into her eyes. "Those amazing eyes," he thought to himself, and then he let his eyes roll over the rest of her compact frame. She was a knock out and Barry wondered how he could be so lucky. He had traveled the length and breadth of the galaxy on one off-world freighter or another but he had never seen anything like her, then he had signed up for a three year hitch on a colonization ship and there she was. She was everything he could possibly want in a woman. She was bright, energetic, had an infectious laugh, shared his sense of humor and she was as randy as an alley cat.

"Hurry and finish your coffee," she prodded, "I've got an itch that only you can scratch!" she giggled.

"What about some breakfast first? I've got more than one appetite you know, and three months in hypersleep does tend to work up a hunger." Barry pleaded.

"Oh no, me first," in one fluid move, she slid his cup aside and tugged at the zipper of her tight jumpsuit, "then we will see what you are hungry for." She pulled him close for a passionate kiss and the stellar engines hummed on.

***

Barry layed back against the pillow as Gloria snuggled close at his side and he thought about how the two of them had been thrown together. It was on their first shift that they realized their potent connection. The crew consisted of the two of them and the pilot, Roy. While the flight plan had been programed into the computer before they left Earth, Roy became the defacto pilot because he was the only one with the wetware to interface with the ship. Roy spent the entire trip in a suspended half sleep and monitored their progress as well as life support and other ship functions without ever leaving his sleep chamber. Every three months, the computer would wake them and they would spend a week staring at unmoving gauges while Roy got some deep beauty rest. It was boring, but it was part of the company's safety plan and the work wasn't hard.

The computer had awoken them a little early for their first shift and it only took a moment to figure out why. A food dispenser in the galley had sprung an unexpected leak and shorted out. The puff of smoke that it's frying motherboard emitted registered on the sensors and the computer roused them in a hurry. The parts needed for repair were locked in storage and only the pilot's okay would let them into the hold. Barry shivered a bit as he recalled trying to wake Roy. The needler made it's familiar hiss as he injected the stimulant into Roy's arm and he waited for his eyes to flutter instantly awake. He waited and waited. Nothing. He gave Roy another dose but to no avail. Roy's lifeless eyes would never open again. The feedback from the short had been too much and fried Roy's sleeping mind like an egg.

Now the ship had a crew of two, with three thousand frozen colonists in the hold and a busted food dispenser, light years from home and just as far to their destination. The decision to eat Roy was not one that they arrived at lightly but death by starvation does tend to rearrange one's priorities just a bit. Barry was all thumbs in the kitchen but Gloria made a wonderful pot roast that just melted in your mouth. It would have been better with some potatoes and carrots but beggars can't be choosers. Afterwards, they made love for the first time and that seemed to bring the universe back into alignment and seal their relationship forever.

Barry sat up in bed, finished with his post coital musings, "What about that breakfast you promised? I need some mind food if I'm going to spend a week staring at dials and playing rumpy-pumpy with you my love."

"Oh that's all taken care of. I've a nice American thawing as we speak," she said in a lazy voice.

"I hope he isn't an athlete. The last one was stringy and as tough as boot leather. Good flavor," he conceded, "but chewy."

"No, no. This one is as fat as a Christmas goose. You'll love him, but he won't be ready for at least another hour. What do you propose we do to fill the time?" she said with a purr. Barry pulled her close and the stellar engines hummed on.

Doc

Jamal & The Hermit

Flash Fiction Friday Writing Prompt: This week’s story challenge is to explore a character’s defense mechanism at work in under 1500 words in any genre you want.

***

Fate has written a tragedy; its name is “The Human Heart.” The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer’s part; The Devil enters the prompter’s box and the play is ready to start. - Robert W. Service, "The Harpy".

***

Jamal struggled with the last few feet and heaving out of breath, threw himself down at the summit of the mountain. "Oh my sweet God," he thought to himself, "I never thought I would make it!" He panted, trying in vain to catch his breath in the thin, icy air. He looked down over the edge and surveyed the hard climb he had just surmounted. Each jagged rock and switchback seemed to taunt him still, even though he had spent three of the hardest days of his life climbing them. He turned his attention away from the precipice and back to the object of his journey. There, in a patch of scrub pines, stood a crude stone hut with wisps of smoke rising from some unseen chimney.

Jamal made for the hut in some haste but paused at the ill-fitting door, almost afraid to knock. "Come in young one," came an ancient voice from beyond the door, "Come and warm yourself by my fire." Jamal stooped to enter the small doorway and let his eyes adjust to the smoky darkness of the interior. A small, withered old man sat hunched by the fire and beckoned him to sit down.

"Oh great master, I have traveled so long and so far to seek you out. I-" Jamal began.

"I know why you have come," the old man interrupted, "You have come, like many before you, to seek the answers that you could not find below. You have braved the mountain, seeking the answers to life's hardest question. You want to know what life is all about, don't you?" The old man thrust a steaming cup of tea in his hands and turned away from him to gaze into the fire once more.

"Yes, oh master. You know my innermost heart. Please, wise one, tell me what I must do to live a good and happy life!" Jamal's eyes grew wide and he leaned forward so as to catch every word that tumbled from the old man's weathered lips.

"You must..."

"Yes, yes." Jamal trembled.

"You must find a pretty girl and settle down. Have children. Enjoy yourself and try not to think too much."

Jamal sat in silence as the words rolled around in his head. "That's it !?!" he barked incredulously, "Get married and try not to think too much? That's it?"

The old man poked at the fire with a stick, "All of life is a sad and funny play. Sit back and enjoy the show." The old man shrugged as if there really wasn't anything more to say.

"You can't be serious!" Jamal sputtered, "There has got to be more to it than that!" Jamal swore loudly and smacked his knee. "You sit up here at the summit of the mountain, reading and contemplating the wisdom of the ancients, pouring over the holy word day after day, and communicate with God himself, and that is all the wisdom you have to offer? You sir, are a fool! You are no wise man at all!" Jamal spat on the hard packed earthen floor.

"I never said I was wise. You did. I tell you to go and find a wife and live a happy, simple life because I do not want you to make the same mistake I did and live the cold, solitary existence of an aesthetic as I have done. Go, drink the wine, make love to a woman, smell the flowers." Jamal shook his head in disbelief.

"Besides," the old man continued, "Who is the greater fool? The old fool who wastes his life at the top of a mountain seeking something that cannot be found, or the young fool who risks his life climbing the mountain seeking a shortcut to enlightenment?"

Doc

Creature's Night In, Flash Fiction Friday

"It is a little known fact that the undead are fond of cards, dice, and board games. You see, since they live forever, they have so much time to kill." - Brom Stoker, on his death bed; courtesy of the library of the Knowmordenudo Institute.

***

"Can I get you something sir?" Carrington asked in a snooty voice as he set down the candelabra on the huge dining room table. He made sure to set it so that it illuminated the board better and to make it easier to see the deeds. "Perhaps I could bring you some refreshments?" he offered.

"Yes Carrington, I will have a patty melt and a Diet Coke. The Wolfman will have a leg of lamb with mint jelly. Frankenstein wants a meat lover's pizza with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The Mummy will have clam chowder and see if there is any of the key lime pie left will you? Have you got all that?"

"Yes sir, to the letter. I'll only be a moment," and Carrington bustled off.

"Now," Dracula sighed as he turned his attention back to the board, "Whose turn is it? Wolfman landed on Marvin's Gardens and Frank went to jail, so Mummy that makes it your turn."

"My pleasure," the Mummy's voice whispered like the wind blowing through dry leaves. He rolls a nine, rounds Go and lands on income tax. He has too much cash and property to try and pay the 10% so he just tosses his Go money into the pot in the middle. Dracula tries to roll the much coveted double fives to get out of jail and land on Free Parking in one fell swoop but he doesn't get it. He pays his fifty bucks into the pot and moves to Community Chest. Second prize at a beauty contest $10. While the Wolfman slowly counted out his move to Luxury Tax, Dracula looked around the table to see how his competition was shaping up.

The Mummy was a contender. He owned all of the cheap side of the board and had hotels on everything, not to mention a fair amount of cash. The Wolfman was in a strong position too. He had the reds with three houses each which amounted to a pretty steady income. Frankenstein however had been backed into a corner early on by spending so much time in jail while the other three had been snatching up properties left and right. Sure he had the railroads and the utilities, but with nothing he could develop, he was just walking the board and donating his money as he went. Dracula eyed his green ones with the couple of houses and hoped that it would be enough to eliminate the others and he would be crowned the victor in this Battle Royale of high finance.

It was Frankenstein's turn but he just sat there quietly, staring off at nothing in particular. The Mummy nudged him. "Oh I am sorry. I'm holding up the game aren't I?" Frankenstein said in his deep, baritone voice, "So sorry. I was wool gathering. I was just wondering which of us is the scariest? You know, just out and out fright-wise." Frankenstein rolled but remained in jail.

"That is a very interesting question," the Wolfman replied before scratching behind his ear with his back foot, "Who do you think is the scariest Mummy?"

"Here you are gentlemen. Piping hot from the kitchen!" called out Carrington as he wheeled up the trolley and began to remove the lids. "For you sir, a Cobb salad and a tepid Mountain Dew, A can of Spam and a mint julep for the Wolfman, fish tacos and a bottle of Old Crow for Frankenstein, and corn chowder for the Mummy. And I am ever so sorry sir but I'm afraid the key lime pie has been eaten."

"What the devil are you playing at Carrington! This isn't what we ordered at all!" Dracula thundered. He explained the order in detail and waived him away. Carrington wheeled the trolley off with some haste but not before Frankenstein had snaked his long arm out and nabbed the whiskey. He took a long pull from the bottle and dabbed at the little bit that seeped out from the stitches at his throat. "Ahhh," he sighed, "So, Mummy, you didn't answer. Who do you think is the scariest?"

"Why I am you silly boy," the Mummy was always a little condescending to Frankenstein because of his young age, "The mighty Ra has endowed me with the strength of twenty men and I am relentless in my pursuit of defilers and heretics. I never rest and will cross vast oceans to deliver my vengeance on those who offend Ra!" His voice rose and fell like a dessert sandstorm, then he paid through the nose for Street Repairs with five hotels.

"Well I don't care what you say, I know that I am the most frightening," the Wolfman growled. "I appeal to one of the most primal of fears, the fear of a predator. I am an archetype. I am the Hell Hound of old if you will, but my fright is universal. Who outside of Epypt is going to be afraid of a bandaged man, while everyone runs from a rabid wolf. Case in point. Drac, it's your turn." Dracula rolls and lands on the one yellow one the Wolfman owns but it's mortgaged.

Frankenstein sets aside the bottle, sits back in his chair, and folds his long arms over his barrel chest and nods politely. "I can see your point Wolfman but by that same logic, I'm an archetype as well. I am literally the living dead. I am a corpse, the most obvious representation of death in even the most primitive mind, and I am reanimated to walk among people once more. I don't know that I am the scariest, but I am at least as frightening as you my hairy friend. I think we can all agree that I am the most gruesome among us, and I think that ought to count for something." Frankenstein collects the Wolfman's two hundred dollars for landing on Short Line, lights a cigar and takes a few puffs. 

"I will concede that your appearance borders on the ghastly, while mine tends to lie much further at the other end of the scale, I am happy to say." Dracula began, "But if we are to follow the argument that the Wolfman put forth, then I am the oldest archetype and therefore the scariest. If he is the Hell Hound, I am the Devil himself. I am this malignant spirit or demon who manipulates the minds of innocents so that I may feed on their suffering. I am known for my penchant for seducing and deflowering beautiful maidens, always with the same tired temptation of eternal beauty, eternal life, and an unearthly love. Oh, I think I hear Carrington coming. Good. I'm starved" No sooner did the words leave his lips, than in comes Carrington pushing a laden trolley. "You better have it right this time, or I'll have your guts for garters!" Dracula threatened.

"No, no. Everything is as it should be. I brought everything you wanted. I have Doritos, Slim Jim's brand meat snacks, a beaver skin hat, five raw yams, a six pack of AA batteries, ramen noodles, a road flare, a bottle of Blue Nun, whole wheat hot dog buns, and a shaving mirror with a built in clock/radio." Carrington bowed and smiled insipidly.

"Carrington! You adlepated ninny hammer! What in the nine Hells am I going to do with a shaving mirror?" Dracula roared.

"It's got a clock/radio," Carrington offered softly.

"You boob!" Dracula was so angry he stomped his foot. "Alright, give me the Doritos and start pouring the wine. And be quick about it!" He sat down in a resigned huff and proceeded to stain his fingers orange as he stuffed his face. "Anyway, that is my argument on why I am the scariest of us all," he said between mouthfuls, "Who's with me gentlemen?"

"I don't know that I would agree with you there," Carrington mumbled as he poured the wine.

"You have an opinion on this matter Carrington? Well please enlighten us!" Dracula taunted.

"I would have thought it would have been obvious. I am the scariest one here." The walls rang with their collective laughter as each monster in turn snickered and guffawed. "Laugh if you must," Carrington continued, "but look at it from my point of view. Each of you is capable of horrible violence, but I'm a member of the service industry. I am overworked, underpaid, am apt to snap at any minute and most days, I could give a shit if you get what you want. There's four of you and about a million of me. So now who's scariest?"

Doc

When Reggie Came To Town

The first time Reggie came to town, he caused quite a stir. Arnold had been mucking out the stables and was carting the third load of manure out to the garden when he saw him from afar. Reggie was coming up from the valley road at a halting, limping gate. Arnold stopped to stare. "Now there is something you don't see everyday," he thought to himself. The late afternoon sun shone brightly from Reggie's coat and mane. He didn't have the dull luster of the local work horses whose hide often sported burs and bald patches. The breeze caught Reg's hair just right and it fell across his face as he approached. He shook it back and addressed Arnold in a quiet, timid voice.

"Pardon me young sir," he began, "but is there a blacksmith in town and could you kindly lead me to him? I'm a stranger here and I need some help." He sounded embarassed to admit the last bit.

"Yes sir!" Arnold brightened, "My master would be more than happy to help you gentle sir. Come, it is only one street over." Arnold smiled as he thought of all the notoriety that he would garner among the locals as the one who brought the forrest creature to town. He smiled as he pictured himself retelling the tale for weeks around the inn's fireplace to a rapt audience. He would be famous. He turned to look at his new charge, the subject of his newly minted fame. The centaur followed at a slow pace and with every step of his right forefoot, he winced.

Arnold led him around the corner of the stables to the open courtyard of the smith. "Master, we have a customer!" Arnold called out. The smith turned from stoking the fire and out of habit, wiped his dirty hand on his leather apron before turning to greet his new customer. He blinked at Reggie who was framed by the late afternoon sun. The smith paused a moment before he stammered out, "What can I do for you sir?".

Reg put his forefoot up on the wood block and steadied himself from the cross beam. "I've got this bad hoof you see. It hurts like the devil to the point it goes clear up my leg. It's not a stone bruise, it hurts too badly for that. I don't know what to do with it and I was hoping you did." Reg wiped his brow on his forearm and looked the smith in the eye.

The smith scratched his beard and looked at the hoof, then he called out to Arnold, "Boy, go and fetch our guest a drink. Tell Mr. Miller we will have a pail of ale on account," and then in a much quieter voice he said, "and hurry yourself too!"

Arnold dashed off as quick as his legs could carry him and only paused to dodge Mrs. O'Leary and Mrs. O'Donnel at the well as he passed. Breathless, he asked Mr. Miller for the ale. "What's the hurry boy?"

"We've got a customer of some quality at the smithy and we need some of your excellent ale, but there is some haste about it or the customer is lost." Arnold fibbed and he hated to do it, but he knew he had to hustle the slow innkeeper or perhaps he would be missing precious time away from the centaur. If he wasn't there, then who would be able to tell the whole story to the village later? He had been the first to spot Reggie, so he had an obligation to be there for the whole thing, if for no other reason than having the bragging rights to the tale and make a name for himself.

No sooner did Mr. Miller set down the pail of ale than Arnold was off. Again he passed the old ladies and they called to him, "Where ya off to?".

"Gotta customer, gotta go," he called back over his shoulder. Arnold fetched the gourd dipper and held it up to Reggie as the smith got down on one knee and examined the hoof more closely.

"I'd advise you to have some of the ale the boy has brought. You've come quite a ways under a hot sun and I expect you'll be needin' some relief." Reggie took a long draw from the dipper and nodded his thanks. The smith started with his hands on his knee and slowly slid them to Reggie's ankle. "This may sting a bit but I gotta know." His probing hands slid lower and cradled Reg's hoof in his hands until he winced.

"I'll have a bit more of that ale now boy," Reggie said, perspiration standing out brightly on his forehead.

"Have you been runnin' any fever or had some chills perhaps?" the smith asked after he had sniffed the hoof very closely.

"Now that you mention it, I haven't felt myself for the past couple of days. What? What is it?"

"Rot. You got hoof rot. Some kinda infection an' there is only one kinda cure," the smith shook his head.

"What is it?" Reg asked.

"I gotta split the hoof and get it out."

Reggie just nodded and the smith got his chisel and hammer. In two blows, the hoof was split and the yellow seeped from it. The smith washed it with the last of the ale and patted it dry. Throughout the experience, Reggie kept a brave face, only pausing now and then to sigh softly. Arnold admired his courage.

"Now comes the hard part," the smith explained. "Hand me the hot tar there by the fire." Arnold carried the hot pot at arm's length and the smith daubbed it into the split hoof. The air smelled of char, but quickly the smith waved him away as Reggie took a deep breath. The smith eyed his work and smiled. In a moment, he had mounted a shoe on the split hoof. In twenty minutes, he'd done the other three.

"That'll hold ya for now," the smith grinned, "but in thirty days, you should come back and let me take another look at it. You'll be wanting to keep it clean and dry. Take this bottle of medicine and smear it on every night before ya bed down. It'll kill anything the tar didn't."

Reg looked down at the bottle in his hands and then back at the smith. "I don't know how to thank you," he began, "I've naught with me for payment..." he trailed off.

The smith smiled. "My wife's been after me to go up in the hills for some gooseberries and I been tellin' 'er that it just ain't time for them to be ripe just yet, but I figure thirty days will ripen 'em up quite a bit. When you come back, maybe you could bring enough for a couple of pies."

Reggie gave a brief nod and the sound of his fresh shod hooves resounded throughout the town as he dashed away for the cover of the deep forrest once more. "I'll never see the likes of him again," thought Arnold as he watched him fade into the gathering dark of the valley road.

For two weeks afterwards, Arnold could be found at the fireside of the inn retelling the tale about how he had coaxed this shy sylvan creature from the woods to seek the help of his learned master for his wound. By the fourth telling, the smith only entered the story slightly. By the eighth, the smith had only been there to hold the hot bucket of tar and to marvel at the skill of his young apprentice. When pressed for confirmation, the old smith would only scratch absentmindedly at his scraggly beard and say, "It is as the boy tells it," and he would hide his knowing smile behind the rim of his ale cup.

Thirty days had passed swiftly and everyone in town had heard Arnold repeat his story to the point it was old news and no one wanted to hear it yet again. The smith sent Arnold out to fetch more wood for the furnace and he was relieved to be away from the heat, if only for a moment. They had spent the morning working on some hinges for Mr. Miller's cellar door and the afternoon hammering out new shoes for Mr. O'Leary's mare. As Arnold filled his arms with wood for the greedy furnace, he happened to look down the valley road. His heart leaped and he took off at a run. Breathless, he rounded the corner of the smithy.

"Where's the wood boy? That furnace ain't gonna feed itself," the smith chided.

Arnold panted, "Master, he's come back! He's back and we better lay in some more shoes as there must be thirty more with him!"

Doc

Whispered Words Of Tender Love

Dear Zeke,

Oh my dear, how I long for your gentle touch. I miss you so much it hurts. I have trouble facing the day knowing that you aren't by my side and I need your warm embrace to steady me against the cold, outside world. I need you. I need you badly. I want to feel your arms around me. I want to feel the gentle brush of your lips along my neck. I ache to feel you inside of me once again like we were in the orchard last fall. I shiver to remember the way we made love beneath the apple trees. I know we have had our differences in the past but can't we put all that behind us now? Can't we embrace our love and just let the world fall away like we used to? I miss you darling. Come back to me, my loving man.

Yours forever more,
Maggie




Dear Maggie,
You two-timing white trash bitch! I wouldn't take you back for a billion dollars you selfish whore! It is one thing to get drunk and kiss Billy Ray on the dance floor of the Boar's Nest but it is another thing entirely to take him out to his pickup truck in the parking lot and shag him like some dog in heat! And to make matters worse, you have to follow him up with the entire high school football team, right down to the water boy! When the cops show up to arrest you for disturbing the peace, you blew them in the cruiser! I should have listened to my mother. She always said that you were a cooze but I didn't believe her. I know now why we got such a deal on the Firebird from the dealership, cause you banged Harold Sykes on the tire rack you unfaithful slut! I know cause that is how I got that bad case of the crabs back in April. Maggie, I'm taking that job in Texas and I'm taking the truck and the TV with me. You can have the trailer and all of the Designing Women DVDs. Good luck, you unfaithful harlot. I hope you catch a disease.

Zeke

Pembrook's Guitar (For Flannery, my guitar hero)

Now I've heard a lot of hard luck stories since I bought this pawn shop from old Mr. Spencer near twenty years ago. Hard luck is what keeps the doors open and keeps people coming back. It is the one thing that every customer has in common and if they know it or not, it hovers over them like a black cloud, at least to some degree. Like the new father who is selling his football equipment to help pay for the birth of his new child and is hocking his dreams of youth, or the middle aged woman who peddles Great Grandma's broach to help pay for the lawyer in her divorce. Even the buyers who come to rifle through the broken dreams of others in the hope of finding a bargain have a tinge of the black cloud about them, like vultures hovering over the still warm dead. You have to have something of a hard heart to do this business.

Like Wednesday for example. I open at nine but business doesn't really roll in until lunchtime. About ten-thirty a couple of teenage boys come in and it's obvious that they are skipping school. They pour over the video games for twenty minutes, buy sixty bucks worth and hurry off to rot their brains. Then in comes this old black man. He's got to be eighty if he is a day. Snow white hair, natty black suit worn at the elbows, and he walks hunched over with a cane. He doesn't pause to look over the racks but comes right straight to the counter. I figure he's come looking for a TV or a pistol.

"I'm lookin' fer a guitar," he says in this hoarse, whiskey-and-cigarettes voice.

"I got a nice Fender here," I offered.

"Naw, I don't want any of that shit. I'm lookin' for an acoustic. A Gerhardt-Brecht."

Now anybody who knows anything about guitars knows that Gerhardt-Brecht is no ordinary six string. These are top of the line, hand made, custom order from old world craftsmen kind of thing. It is what Stradivarius is to violins, and this guy wanted one. "I don't think I've got anything like that..." I said.

"Sure you do. I got the ticket right here," and he plunked down a pink claim ticket. I check the ticket and it's genuine. I check the lot number and it's way in the back. I find the lot and it's wrapped in brown paper with a date on it of 1976 and it's in Mr. Spencer's handwriting. I bring it out and he unwraps it there on the counter and damn if it isn't a Gerhardt-Brecht, with gold and pearl inlays, and it's in mint condition. If I sold this guitar for what it was worth, I could retire. He hands me sixty bucks and it's his. I have to honor the ticket.

"Let me ask you something, why did you ever hock this guitar?"

"Well, I promised my wife I wouldn't play no more. Ya see, I used to play the blues in the clubs and she didn't like that. All the drinkin' an womanizin'. She didn't like that see, so I quit playin'. Went ta church, sobered up, got a job at da mill."

"And now you are going to start playing again after all these years?"

"Yes sir, cause she up and died yesterday. I'm going to the funeral now. I'm gonna play her one last song afore she go." He choked up a little and covered it by lighting a Lucky Strike and cradling that beautiful guitar like an old friend in his gnarled hands. "Is there a liquor store between here an' the graveyard? I'd hate to do this without a lil drink of something."

"Yeah, two blocks down." I could have shared my Johnny Walker with him but sometimes you need to have something of a hard heart to do this business.

Doc

**Author's Note** I honestly don't know spit about guitars, so forgive my poetic license. I just thought that Gerhardt-Brecht sounded like a good name. Let me leave you with another one of my guitar heroes, Mr. John Lee Hooker...

From the Mouthes Of Babes

Like most of the country, the recent ice storm that we had knocked out our power for several days. The kids embraced the idea of camping out in our basement by the kerosene heater and playing board games by candlelight. While we were rearranging the laundry room into a more suitable living area, I thought it might be a good idea to explain some fire safety tips.

"Now you have to understand," I began, "this heater is a wonderful tool. It gives us heat and light but we have to be very, very careful around it. It can start a fire, and while it is a great tool, it can go horribly wrong in a hurry."

And without ever missing a beat, my youngest, Lucy, chimes in, "Like a wedding?"

Doc