The prompt for this week was "gear." Not much to say about the story here except that I had a lot of trouble deciding how to punctuate the story within the story. I think that the proper thing to do is use open quotes for each paragrap and only add closing quotation marks at the end of the story so that is what I have done. I would love to hear what others do under those circumstances.

Without further ado, here is my story...


Margaret and her brother, Simon, sat on the front porch of farmhouse where Margaret lived with her husband and children. Croplands stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Tall corn stalks swayed under the late afternoon sun as her husband supervised the harvesters in their labors. Margaret missed city life and was happy to see her brother, a Dragon Knight, lately come from the capital for a visit.

As they sat, sipping apple juice that had been chilled in the well, they talked lazily about the latest gossip from court. Suddenly, Celia, Margaret's oldest daughter, burst out from between the rows of corn. She came up the front steps and was about to go inside when Simon called her over. He hugged her close and then held her at arms length, examining her. "Well, well, Celia, you've grown so that I hardly recognize you."

Simon was alarmed to see that tears streamed down Margaret's face. Her cheeks were red and her lips were tightly clenched as though she was trying not to  cry out loud. "Why what is the matter?"

"Don't want to be a girl no more," said Celia. She scrubbed at her face. "Rob says that girls don't get to go to school and they don't get to be anything but mommies."

"That's not true, Celia," said Simon. "Girls can do lots of things."

"But--but, Rob said that boys don't hav' ta be nice to girls."

"Why that little brat," cried Margaret. She stood up and said, "I am going to remind him of how--

Simon held up on hand in a stopping motion and Margaret sat back down. "Even if you could change," he said, "why would you want to be a boy?"

"Cause boys are more 'portant than girls."

"Nonsense," said Simon. "Let me tell you a story and then you can tell me if you still want to be a boy." He leaned forward in his chair and took a long sip of his juice. "A long time ago, when Sir George, the first Master of my order, still walked amongst us, there came a day when he visited the village of Droflim."

"He was right near here?" said Margaret.

"Yes, he was here for some time before he went to the capitol and founded the order of the Dragon." Then he turned back to Celia and continued, "On that day, many, many years ago, he entered the village square and was shocked to see a man beating a woman who crouched on the ground, covering her head with her arms.

"He approached the scene and said to the people who crowded around the two, 'Why do none of you stop that man?'

"There was no answer at first, but then one of the men said, 'Why should we stop him? That is his wife.'

"'That does not make it right,' said Sir George.

"He approached the man and, just as he pulled back his arm to strike the woman again, Sir George grabbed him by the wrist and stopped him. 'How can you be so stupid?' he asked the man.

"The man stared at Sir George, obviously angry. He finally replied, 'What is stupid? She will not do as I say so I must teach her to behave.'

"'I say that you are stupid and I will show you how. But first, how do you make your living?'

"'I am a miller,' said the man.

"'Then you are familiar with the small gear that transfers the motion of the oxen to the plate that grinds the grain.'

"'Yes, of course,' the man replied.

"Would you smash that gear?'

"'No.'

"'And why not?'

"'It would be stupid. If I broke that gear, the mill wouldn't work.'

"'Exactly. And that is why you should not beat your wife,' concluded Sir George. 'You see, your wife is like that gear. It is she that is at the center of the family; she who makes things work within the home and without it. Break her, physically or mentally, and your home will no longer work.'

"As the man stared, Sir George reached down and helped the woman to her feet. Leaning closer to her, he said, 'If I were you, I would leave this fool and find a man who already understands your value.'"

"Did she leave her husband?" Celia asked. She stood with one hand on Simon's shoulder, leaning close so as not to miss one word of his story.

"The tale does not say," he said. "It ends there. But we all know that it is true that a wife is the heart of a home. Do you disagree?"

Celia shook her head.

"Do you still wish you were not a girl?"

As she opened her mouth to reply, her brother, Rob, came running out of the fields and onto the porch. He screamed with delight when he saw his uncle and threw himself at the man to hug him.

Rob glanced at this sister and saw the tear stains on her now smiling face. He looked from his mother to his uncle, eyes wide, as though waiting for a punishment he was sure would come.

"Rob, who told you that girls were less important than boys?"

"The overseer's son, Stefan," he said. "Isn't he right?"

"Take a look at your mother, children," said Simon. "Do you think your home would be a nice place to be if she wasn't here?" When they both shook their heads, Simon asked again, "Do you still wish you weren't a girl, Celia?"

"No, uncle." She turned to her brother with a mischievous grin and said, "Don't you wish you were a girl?"

The prompt for this week was "parasite." Speaking of "in the start" the only mood that the editor would allow me to select was "accomplished" when I would actually have seloected "happy."

Let's see if you can find the parasite in this little tale:


"Call me. I can help."

Martin Wayne, the tall, handsome host of "In the Stars," looked soulfully into the camera. He radiated confidence and compassion as the 800 numbers flashed across the screen under his chin.

Suddenly he said, "Susan in Carpenter's Point, I'm sorry, but you're right, he is cheating. I have good news though, so call me."

"Must be a put-up job," Susan muttered. "They probably saw the engagement notice in the paper. Don't know why I watch this show anyway." She turned off the television. as  Jack, her fiancé, burst through the door waving a bunch of red roses.

"I brought you one rose for each hour of the day I spend thinking about you." He paused and then continued helpfully, "There are two dozen."

Susan found this speech annoying rather than romantic. Somehow, Jack's behavior struck her more and more often as phony instead of endearing. "I just can't imagine spending the rest of my life listening to speeches like that," she thought.

Jack was distracted and barely heard anything she said. He ate quickly. As she was serving the coffee, he said, "Did you get that money?"

"I did," she replied. "But, Jack, are you sure this is a good investment?"

"Of course," he replied. "Don't you trust me?"

"The money should be in my account tomorrow," she said.

He scribbled his account number on the back of an envelope. "Got to work late tomorrow," he said. "Just transfer the money to this account."

He left without kissing her goodbye.

The next night, she lay in bed, watching the late-night episode of "In the Stars" opened. "We have a great show for you tonight." He gestured at the audience. "We've got Cathy from Syracuse, New York, George from Miami, Florida, and Paul from Everett, Washington." The camera turned to show the surprised faces of Cathy, George, and Paul.

As the music swelled to a crescendo, Martin turned to the audience and said, "Susan, I'm disappointed that you didn't call me." He paused. Then looked directly into Susan's eyes and said, "Don't worry, Susan, it's not a scam"

As though in a trance, Susan leaned over and picked up the phone. When she heard Martin's voice, she said, "Where did you get my name? Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Let me explain how this is going to work," he said. "I will explain who you are, that you are the one I talked to yesterday, and then I will explain everything."

Susan reached behind herself and plumped up the pillows. She lay quietly, listening to the sounds in the studio. Then she heard the fanfare, followed by Martin's voice, "I've got something special for you. For those of you who don't know the story, Susan's name came to me yesterday as I was closing out the afternoon episode. I told her something that she probably didn't want to hear, and asked her to call me.

"Susan, tell the audience what I told you yesterday."

"You said my fiancé had been cheating on me." She stumbled over the words, her face flaming, despite the fact that the audience couldn't see her.

"Was I right?"

"I don't know. I find it hard to believe."

"He brought you flowers, didn't he?" After a pause, he said, "Do you know anybody who wears perfume that smells like roses?"

As she opened her mouth to deny it, she heard Kathleen's, voice in her head saying, "Yes, it is nice isn't it? Essence of roses."

"Well..."

"That's who he's seeing. Call her. He's there now."

"But he's working late."

"Go ahead and call," Martin said. "Then call us back."

Feeling numb, Susan hung up the phone and dialed Kathleen's number. The phone rang two times, three, four, then Kathleen answered.

"Kathleen? Sorry to bother you so late. I'm looking for Jack and someone said he was at your house."

After an eternity, Kathleen said, "Why would he be here?"

Susan heard a man's voice whispering and then the sound was muffled as an indistinct, but obviously heated, argument ensued.

"Susan, what made you think I'd be here?"

"Why are you there, Jack?"

"I asked you a question. Now please answer me. What made you call here looking for me? Have you had me followed? Don't you trust me?"

"I trusted you one hundred percent until yesterday, Jack." Her heart began to pound. Her voice sounded funny in her own ears.

"Susan—"

She slammed the receiver down, breaking off Jack's protest mid-sentence. She sat, frozen with disbelief, for several heartbeats, and then burst into tears. Hands shaking, she dialed the television show.

The staff person who answered told her that Martin would be with her shortly. Gradually her tears subsided and her breathing returned to normal. After another click, she heard Martin's voice. "Was I right?"

"Yes. He was there."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could have been wrong."

"How did you know?"

"The same way I knew that you were watching yesterday afternoon, not watching earlier today and that you are watching now." Susan heard the audience gasp.

She glanced at the screen in time to see a close-up of Martin's face. Either he was a really good actor or he really sympathized. She suddenly became aware that he had the most amazing green eyes she had ever seen.

"You said you had good news for me too. What is it?"

"I'm sure you will find this unbelievable as all the rest of it but, when I heard your voice a little while ago, I realized that you are my soul mate." The audience gasped again. Before Susan could answer, Martin continued, "I won't rush you. Let's get to know each other but I ask you to start by having dinner with me tomorrow night."

"I might as well," she thought. "What do I have to lose?"

"Yes," she said aloud.

Martin called her after the show was over and they talked for hours. The last thing he said as he wished her goodnight was, "As sorry I am about Jack, I'm glad you called. Our meeting was foretold in the stars."

The prompt for this week is Brave and Crazy. Here is my take on the prompt: This week's story is shorter than last, only 1,040 words.


Gabriella Wilson, Gaby to her friends, leaned closer to the campfire. The last of the light was gone from the sky. Gaby and five of her closest friends sat around the camp fire swapping ghost stories. The small circle of sky overhead was satiny black and thick with stars. It looked as though a drunken decorator had thrown hands full of sequins against satin sheets.

It was getting cold. The wind had picked up around sunset and the six girls huddled closer and closer to the warmth of the fire. Even the trees around the clearing seemed to be leaning forward to share the comfort, rubbing their branches together as though to warm them. A young woman came out of the trees and approached the fire. "May I join you?"

When nobody protested, Gaby said, "I suppose so. We've been telling ghost stories but they've heard most of mine already." This was greeted by shouts of laughter and a couple murmured comments that Gaby couldn't quite catch. "I can always use some new blood." She leered in the stranger's direction.

As the giggles, punctuated by occasional little screams of fright, died down, Gaby looked around the group. She waited patiently for them to stop and give her their full attention, and then she started her story.

“I've saved the best story for last," she said with a grin. "Did you know that these very woods are haunted?”

She looked at each of her friends in turn, and then paused again. Her friends’ surreptitious glances into the darkened woods were gratifying. This story would work so much better out here than it would in a warm, cozy room. “It’s true," she continued. "Many years ago, a girl named Mary came here with some friends on a camping trip.

“From what I understand, she and her friends camped very near to here, maybe right where we are now.” Tracy, Gaby’s best friend, shifted uncomfortably and glanced over her shoulder into the darkness behind her.

“They had a lot of fun during the day, just like we did today. The weather was clear and warm, but shortly after dark, it began to rain. Mary and her friends quickly set up their tents and crawled into their sleeping bags.

“Tired from the day’s activities, they were soon asleep. Mary was normally a sound sleeper, but several hours later, something woke her up. Striking a match, she looked at her watch and saw that it was only minutes before midnight. When she glanced over at her friend’s sleeping bag, she saw it was empty. Thinking that was what had awakened her, she rolled over to go back to sleep. Just as she was dozing off, she heard a scream from beyond the edge of the clearing.

“When Mary finally managed to disentangle herself from her sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent, she realized that it would be stupid for her to go into the woods alone to try and help her friend. If she had been attacked, Mary might be the next victim. So, she opened the flap to the boys’ tent, intending to get them to help her find her friend.

“The tent was empty. With a sinking feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, Mary realized that she was alone in the middle of the woods.

Gaby reached down and picked up the can of soda at her side. She took a long sip, then put it down again and looked around the circle. The girls stared at her, their eyes wide. They had all moved closer to Gaby and sat leaning forward, waiting anxiously for her to continue.

A draft of air skimmed icy fingers up Gaby’s spine and she shivered. She glanced up and saw that the sky was no longer as clear as it had been when she started her story. Stringy bits of cloud streamed across the face of the moon, obscuring its light. The wind was picking up. She glanced at the stranger who sat staring at her with rapt attention.

“Mary was completely alone," she continued, and the stranger nodded in agreement. "There was no sign of her friends anywhere. She looked around the clearing where they had made their camp, but there was no sign of a struggle. Despite the fact that the ground was muddy, she couldn’t even find footprints from anybody but herself. If her friends had left the clearing, voluntarily or otherwise, they had done it without their feet touching the ground.

“Mary became increasingly frantic. She spent the rest of the night trying to find her friends. She was afraid to stray too far from the clearing, but she walking in increasingly larger circles around the ring of trees, calling the names of her friends every few seconds.

“In the morning, she hiked out of the woods. The police gathered a search party and this entire area was searched for days, but no sign of the three friends who had set out with Mary was ever found."

"Wow, she was brave," said Tracy. "I would have hidden in my sleeping bag until daylight."

“Poor Mary; she was brave all right, but the shock must have driven her slightly mad. Every year on the anniversary of her friends’ disappearance, she returned to the woods and spent the night alone, searching for them. In the late sixties, when she was nearly seventy years old, she died right here in the woods.

“It took several weeks before the body was found by some campers. Her will stated that her last wish was to have her body cremated and her ashes scattered in these woods, so she could be with the friends she had lost so many years before.

With one last look around, Gaby said, “They say she was cremated and her ashes were spread on the exact spot where her body was found.”

"Good story," said the stranger. "But the truth is, they didn't cremate my body. They buried me right over there," she pointed to a large tree on the edge of the clearing, "under that tree."

Gaby and her friends watched, horrified, as the stranger faded to invisibility and the heavens opened to soak them all with icy rainwater.

"Another rejection," I said as I pulled it from the tiny metal mailbox. It was certainly fat enough. I've been writing stories for--well, let's just say that I've been writing stories since I was old enough to draw pictures. I'm into Middle Earth, Oz, and the Disc World. Oh, and don't forget Alice. I certainly shouldn't have. After years of writing stories, I had reached the point of getting personalized rejections but I was becoming tired of the whole process of writing stories, sending them out, and then filing yet another reply that contained some variation of, "Nice story, unfortunately I can't use it."

I nearly tossed the envelope on top of the junk mail pile and forgot about it but on some impulse I still can't explain, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a cover letter, a contract, and a check--a check! I called my best friend, Margery, and shouted into the phone. "I did it--"

"Good for you," she answered. "You've been a little on the tense side lately. When did Paul come home?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, that's not what I meant! I made a sale--for money--" I took a deep breath. "I'm a real writer now."

"So? When can you be here? We have got to celebrate!"

In the twenty-five minutes it took me to get from my house to hers, she had called all of our friends. We drank Cosmopolitans, ate chips and salsa, and just generally partied.

After everybody else had left, Margery brought out a leather-covered box about the size of a cigar box. She opened it and pulled out a joint. Pot, Mary Jane, weed, whatever you want to call it, this stuff was the best and Margery didn't share it with just anybody.

"I know," she said when she saw the look on my face. "You don't usually smoke, but today is a special day."

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the broken-down flowered couch in her living room and staring at the huge mirror over the fireplace, watching the thin plume of smoke rising from the joint in my hand. It proves just how high I was that when my reflection waved at me I didn't scream and run out of the room. I looked down at my own hand where it was resting on my knee. Had it moved? I looked from one to the other, from the real me, the body that I inhabit, to my reflection. My reflection was now making a "come here" gesture.

As I moved closer, the other me nodded with encouragement. I looked over at Margery. She had dozed off, leaning against the footstool. Next to her on the floor, her fat, black cat watched me intently with its mint green eyes. I turned back and touched the mirror. The glass didn't feel right. Instead of cold, slick, and solid it felt warm, soft, and slightly sticky. I pushed against it and the next thing I knew, I lost my balance and fell forward.

I heard a soft noise that reminded me of the sound gauze bandages make when you rip them. Then I was standing on the other side of the mirror, watching the mirror-me walk across the room and drop onto the soft pillows of the couch where she leaned back and took a huge drag on the joint.

I know. I don't believe in that kind of crap either.

I remember reading Through the Looking Glass when I was a little girl. Afterwards, I had spent a lot of time trying to peer into the world behind the glass. But I never really believed that it was possible to go through. I've been wrong about many things in my life.

I did what anybody would try to do in my situation. I tried to get back through the mirror. From this side, the glass felt like--glass. Whatever had happened to facilitate my passage had stopped happening. I was on the other side to stay--at least for now.

I made a circuit of the room. The furniture, the arrangement of the room, everything in the room around me was a reversed image of the room on the other side of the glass. At least, the inanimate objects were the same. I was the only living creature in the room. Both Margery and the cat were gone.

I looked through the glass again. Except that I no longer had a reflection in the normal sense, everything on the other side of the glass was exactly as I had left it. Margery still drowsed against the footstool, the cat still curled on the floor next to her. Mirror-me was still slumped on the couch asleep or unconscious. The only difference that I could see was that the cat, instead of staring at the person on the couch was now staring directly into the mirror.

I knocked on the glass. Maybe I could wake up Margery. If I could make her realize that something was wrong, maybe she could help me. When there was no response from my friend, I knocked again. I waved, I banged on the glass with my fists, and then I noticed something. I tried to yell. And that was when I began to panic. There was no sound.

I suppose, in a weird way that made sense. When you look in a mirror, you see images but there is never any sound from the reversed world on the other side of the glass. I mean, if you stood in front of a mirror and spoke, your mirror image imitated your motions, but you wouldn't hear an echo.

I became obsessed with the idea that if I could find Margery on this side of the mirror that maybe she could help me find a way back. I searched the house from basement to attic but I was the only living occupant. Everything else about the house was a perfect duplicate of the world from which I had come but I was still the only living inhabitant.

Dreams can sometimes move you from place to place in a heartbeat. It was just like that. One minute I was in the mirror equivalent of Margery's house, the next I was standing in front of my own front door, key in hand. I had no memory of driving home but my car was in its accustomed place in my driveway. It was dark outside and none of the houses on either side of me showed any light.

I opened the door, surprised that my key worked, and went inside. My house was as silent as Margery's had been. No joyous barking greeted me.

"Rick," I cried. There was no sound.

I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. My office, just as messy on this side of the mirror as on the other, was not exactly like the original. The shelf above my computer monitor contained a row of paperback books. In my world, a row of dragons, fairies, and other magical creatures marched across that shelf. I called it my inspiration shelf. I looked more closely and had to acknowledge that the books would have provided me more inspiration than any plastic dragon. The reversed text on the books was just like what Alice had found on her trip through the looking glass. I could still make out the author's name on the books--on all of them--was my name. These were my books. Maybe I didn't want to go home after all.

I searched the rest of the house.

That my husband wasn't there didn't worry me. He was out of town on business but the dog should have been there. My dog, Rick, always greeted me at the door with ecstatic barking, wagging his whole body with excitement. He was gone and might never have existed. There was nothing left to mark his existence, not even a dog dish in the kitchen.

The many photographs that lined the walls of our home were there but instead of friends and family members, the photographs showed empty rooms and landscapes. I looked outside. We live on a main street and there was normally a steady stream of traffic going in both directions but after five minutes of watching I didn't see a single vehicle.

I went into my bedroom and looked in the closet. My clothes hung neatly on the left side of the closet but the right side was empty. The mirror over my dresser showed my room, exactly as it always did. Well, not exactly. I could see my husband's sleeping form on the bed in the mirror but not myself. Somehow, I was not surprised to see that there was nobody on the bed on this side of the mirror. I began to pound on the mirror, using both hands.

This time the glass did what glass usually does if you pound on it--it shattered. Pieces of glass cut into the sides of my fists and shards of glass and blood splattered everywhere. There was nothing behind the glass but a blank wall. What had I been expecting?

I cleaned and bandaged my hands, all the time watching in the mirror above the sink as my life continued on the other side of the mirror without me. Maybe I am sleeping, I thought. I pinched myself. Nothing changed.

Let's see, I thought. I can't get through the mirror, I can't wake myself up, maybe I need to go to sleep.

I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. It didn't take long. I woke up early the next morning; the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Broken shards of glass were scattered across the top of my dresser, my hands were bandaged, and I was still alone. I picked up the telephone. I don't know who I thought I was going to call but there was no dial tone.

I had to do something, didn't I? I sat down in front of my computer and gave the mouse a slight push to wake it up. When the screen cleared, opened Microsoft Word, and started to type. It took a bit of getting used to because the type was backwards, but after a bit I got into the story and stopped looking at the screen.

At first, I didn't try to direct my thoughts or to write about anything particular, but after a bit I began to describe my circumstances. As I typed, faster and faster, the world around me began to flicker as if there was a strobe light overhead. For the first time since crossing through the looking glass, I began to hear sounds. I focused on the screen and watched in nauseated fascination as the letters flipped back and forth between left to right and right to left.

I felt an electric tingle in my fingers as they danced upon the keys. Encouraged, I continued, describing my arrival on the porch, searching the house, breaking the mirror, and the faster I typed, the faster the flicker between real world and mirror world became.

I felt a popping sensation in my ears, a feeling I associate with taking off or landing in a plane and the world spun around me faster and faster until everything turned black.

When the spinning sensation cleared, I realized that I was in my bed, next to my husband. Rick barked and chased his own tail on the floor next to the bed and downstairs, I heard footsteps on my front porch and the sound of the mailbox lid as it clanked shut. I jumped out of bed and raced the dog down the stairs to get the mail.

So I'm back to my old tricks, waiting until the last minute. I've just written the last sentence of this weeks entry. The prompt for this week is "Thousand Island" and (maybe because of the video) I've been fixated on the thought that "No man is an island." Here you are...


"I think the biggest thing I miss about Earth is the seasons," said Wilbur Writer. "Mars is nice, but it's always dry and windy. There's no greenery except in our hydroponic garden. Nothing ever changes and there's nothing to tell you what time of year it is."

When his wife didn't answer, he glanced up to see what was wrong. She was sitting in the rocking chair, the one piece of furniture they had brought with them from Earth, staring off across the algae fields outside the dome. Meryl was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. The fact that she was his, that she had agreed to move all the millions of miles to start a new life on the red planet never ceased to amaze and thrill him.

Living on Mars was like living on a deserted island somewhere in the middle of a huge ocean. The nearest neighbors were nearly a hundred kilometers away, far across the red sands, at the very end of the range of the small rover vehicle. Contact with the other plantation owners was not easy. Even so, when he had told Meryl about the opportunity, she had been as eager as he was to make a go of this new frontier. "We'll be just like the pioneers during the land rush in the 1800s," she had told him.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the circuit board he was examining. Being a home owner on Mars was not significantly different from living in the 1800s, despite all the technological advances that had come along I the three hundred years since. A plantation owner on Mars had to be just as much of a jack-of-all-trades as any homesteader on the American prairie. He became involved in his job and never noticed when she left the room.

"I think we have a problem," said Meryl. She was standing close beside him, leaning slightly on his shoulder.

"Hmm..."

"Pay attention, Wilbur."

"Sorry dear." He put down the circuit board and turned towards her gently laying his hand on her swollen belly; caressing her and the baby that swam so energetically within. "What's the problem?"

"It's the baby, dear."

"Yes, of course," said Wilbur. He bent down to talk to his wife's stomach. In the same singsong tone of voice that adults so often use to talk to children he said, "And we can't wait until he gets here."

Meryl shook her head. "No dear, you don't understand, we need to get to the space port. I think the baby is coming now."

"That's silly. He's not going to arrive until Christmas; it's only October--early October. We've got plenty of time."

"I'm afraid he has other plans," she said. "I know you don't like to talk about 'medical stuff,' but the mucus plug just came out."

"The what did what?"

"It's a big blob of mucus that protects the baby by keeping bad bacteria from getting into the uterus."

"And it--?"

"It came out. That's not supposed to happen until I'm ready to go into labor."

"What do we do now?"

"Ask the computer. Maybe there's something we can do that will give us some extra time."

Wilbur picked up the stylus and wrote the words "stop premature labor" on the pressure-sensitive screen. After a series of questions and answers, he turned to face Meryl and said, "Drink a glass of water and go lie down." At the look on Meryl's face, he said, "No, really. The computer says that dehydration can cause premature labor. While you are lying down, I'll contact the space station and see if they can send someone to help us."

"That's going to take hours," said Meryl. Then her eyes widened and she grasped her belly with both hands as fluid mixed with blood cascaded down her legs. She moaned, whether from pain or fear, Wilbur couldn't tell, and sank to her knees on the floor.

Wilbur was afraid to move her. He ran into their bedroom, grabbed the pillows and blankets off the sleeping platform, moved her away from the puddle she had made, and tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

"I don't know a lot about medicine, but I'm pretty sure we're going to have to let the baby come now," he said gently. She closed her eyes and lay back against the pile of pillows. A single tear escaped her closed eyelids and rolled silently down her cheek.

"This is Wilbur Wright as Station 13. We need medical aid as soon as possible." Wilbur listened for the acknowledgement from Space Port Bova but all he heard was static. He tried again but with no better results. Then he looked out through the clear polymer of their habitation dome and saw the reason. A rising wall of dust told him that communication would not be possible for anywhere from a few hours to a few days until the dust storm blew itself out. The chances of getting help in time were slim.

He checked on Meryl. He didn't have the heart to tell her that help wasn't coming. He needed to keep her calm. She stared deeply into his eyes and he had to fight the urge to look away. Looking away would tell her just what he didn't want her to know. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"I haven't had any pains yet," she replied. "But I think I'm still leaking. I can feel the moisture under me.

He lifted the blanket, thinking that he would turn it so that the wetness was away from her. He nearly yelled out when he saw the huge red stain that had spread across the blanket. "I'll get some more blankets," he said and moved away into the next room as quickly as he could so she wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face. The only thing left now was to wait until the baby came and just hope that Meryl didn't suffer too much.

He pulled the extra set of blankets out of the storage unit along with nightclothes and some towels. Working as swiftly as possible, he cleaned her up. Then he fashioned a clumsy pad from a towel and placed it under her before putting on her nightgown. "Can I get you anything?"

"Did you reach the spaceport?" She leaned against the pillows again.

"Don't worry. Have you had any pains?"

Her eyes flutter open and she grasped his hand tightly. "I'm not sure." She patted his cheek. "So far there hasn't been anything worse than what I get with my period."

Did he dare hope? Maybe the pains wouldn't start until after the storm was over. Maybe he would be able to contact someone and get help here in time. Maybe--

"Oh no," moaned Meryl. "I think this is it; I think this is the first one."

Hour by hour, Wilbur divided his attention between Meryl and the weather outside the dome. The storm reached them at about the same time as Meryl's labor. The red dust carried by the dome blocked out their view yet Wilbur compulsively stared out into the gloom, trying to make himself believe that it was nearly over. Then Meryl would cry out with another pain and he would run to hold her hand and try to keep her calm while the contraction gripped her. Once the pain eased, he would try again to reach the spaceport and get help.

Finally, he realized that it was going to be too late. Even if the storm stopped immediately, there was no way anybody could arrive at the dome in time to save the baby. He concentrated on Meryl, trying to minimize the discomfort. "I can give you a shot that will take away most of your discomfort," he said.

"No. I'm not going to put the baby at any more risk than he already is," replied Meryl.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her that it didn't matter; that the baby wasn't going to survive anyway so it didn't matter if he gave her drugs to ease the pain. She adamantly refused.

As time passed, she started to cry; started to berate herself for not leaving as soon as she knew she was pregnant. "You told me to go back to the spaceport," she kept repeating. "Why didn't I listen to you?"

"You wanted to be with me and I wanted you here," said Wilbur each time.

He carefully uncovered her and checked again to see what progress she was making. "My god!" He gasped. "The baby's head is right here."

"What?" He saw her stomach ripple, almost as though a shockwave was propagating across the taut surface. He knew that she was going to push again.

"Wait," he cried. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he placed his hand on the baby's head and tried to hold it in place so he could try to get the blankets beneath her. With great difficulty, Meryl lifted her backside and he inched the blanket underneath so that the baby wouldn't be delivered onto the cold floor.

"Ready?"

When she nodded, he removed his hand and the baby followed. The only comparison he could make afterward when he tried to describe it to her was that the baby popped out of her womb with the same speed and force that bits of lettuce flew out of a salad shooter. He had the feeling that if the baby had not fallen onto a blanket, it would have slid across the floor faster than he would have been able to catch it.

The tiny infant stirred and opened its eyes.

"Boy or girl?" Meryl tried to lift herself onto her elbows so she could see.

"It's a boy," he replied.

"But he isn't crying," she fretted. "Why isn't he crying?"

The baby was lying on its back, eyes wide open, looking around itself with actually seemed to be curiosity. It seemed to be breathing without distress. "He seems to be all right," he said and turned his attention back to Meryl as she delivered the placenta.

As gently as possible, he lifted the baby and placed him in his mother's arm. Reflexively he looked out through the dome and saw that, while he was otherwise occupied, the storm had ended. He leaned over and kissed Meryl before he stood up and returned to the radio. "This is Wilbur Wright at Station 13. We need some help here."

"What is it 13?"

Wilbur felt weak with relief, almost as though all of the blood in his body had rushed away from his head. "My wife has just given premature birth. The baby and his mother both seem fine but we need to get her to--"

"Did you say baby?"

"Yes, and she isn't due for nearly twelve weeks so we need some help."

"On our way 13. I'll get back to you with an ETA--" Wilbur heard voice in the background and then the woman continued, "We'll be there within six hours."

Meryl was nursing the baby when he returned to her side. As he watched, eyes misted over with grateful tears, she lifted the baby from her breast and placed him over her shoulder to burp him. Whether it was the rush of cooler air against his skin when he was lifted away from the warmth of his mother's body or just that he was still hungry, he began to cry. Wilbur thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

This week, the prompt was Caesar. Not sure this applies quite as well as it should, but here goes...


The party wasn't going well. Ken had been drinking too much, too fast. Only luck prevented him throwing up all over the host's brand new rug. "Fresh air," he mumbled as he went out the door. "B'right back."

Ken tried to clear his head on the way down in the elevator. More was wrong lately than just a party going badly. Life in general wasn't so great. The world was going to hell faster than he could understand it. On a smaller scale, his life wasn't going any better. Everything he tried to do went wrong. "Honestly," he said to his reflection in the mirror on the back wall of the elevator, "I'm just a screw up. Brenda left me, Charlie is this close to firing me, and my dog even bit me," he continued. "Can it get any worse than that?"

The alley, littered with cigarette butts and garbage, was only better than the sidewalk because it was out of the wind. He pulled over a crate from against the wall of the building next door, and almost fell on his butt in the process. A bottle rolled away from the box into the center of the alley. About the size of a liter of wine, the bottle looked like molten gold. He picked it up but couldn't see through the glass. He shook it gently. It made no sound. "Brandy? Wine? There must be something good to drink in there," he said. "Bottle's too fancy for cheap stuff." He pulled the cork.

Smoke poured out, filling the alleyway. Startled, he dropped the bottle. It rolled away, still pouring out smoke which coalesced into the shape of a man; a huge man.

"You must be my new master." The man looked around and sighed. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand and nine," Ken replied. He tried to get up but he couldn't move.

"Only eight years this time," said the man shaking his head. Then he bowed low. "I am a jinni and you are my master. What is thy first wish?"

Now Ken was glad he hadn't run away. "How many do I get?"

"Three wishes are standard. Everybody knows that. "

"Finally something is going my way," said Ken.

He considered. He could wish the world back to the way it was supposed to be. He could wish in a new world order and make everything work right again. Then he considered that he knew nothing about Economics or Politics. Anything he wished could just as easily screw things up as fix them. On the other hand, if he couldn't help everybody, he could help himself.

"Let's see… I want lots of money, enough money so I can live comfortably for the rest of my life."

"As you wish," said the jinni. He bowed low and clapped his hands together.

A large suitcase flew into the alley and landed on the ground at Ken's feet. The lock burst open to reveal stacks of bills.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Ken shook his head. "If I tried to spend that I'd end up in jail for robbing a bank."

"It's up to you," said the jinni. "You wished for money, I gave you money. It's no skin off my nose if you don't want it. That's one wish gone. You've got two left." He clapped his hands again and the suitcase disappeared.

"What do you mean? I don't have the money. That shouldn't count. I want a do-over."

"No such thing."

"Aw, man, you cheat."

"What do you want for wish number two?"

"Let me think," said Ken.

"Like that's going to happen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, is all," said the jinni.

"Well, I just wish you'd shut up and give me a chance to think."

"As you wish."

"That wasn't a wish!"

"You said, 'I wish,'" said the jinni. He laughed heartily and shook his head. "You humans are no end of fun. Let's go, genius, you have one wish left."

"Come on, that's not fair," Ken could feel his face flushing with anger. "I still think you're cheating."

The jinni didn't reply. He shrugged his shoulders and then stood with hands clasped behind his back.

Ken tried to think of a wish so straightforward, so simple, and so clear that the jinn could not possibly misunderstand accidentally or otherwise. He couldn't think of anything. Money would come from inappropriate sources, women would be married or have some horrible disease, and things would probably turn out to be stolen or broken. Maybe he should just let it go. Nah, he had to take advantage of the one good thing that had ever happened to him; but how?

"Do you mind?" The jinni interrupted his thoughts. "Neither of us is getting any younger, you know."

"Tough. I want to make this last wish a good one."

"Why don't you just give it up? You aren't coming up with anything new or interesting. You might as well wish for a bottle and crawl in."

"I told you to shut up," said Ken. "I just wish we could trade places. Then you would—"

"As you wish..."

This week's prompt was "Oil & Vinegar." I thought this one would be easy, but it wasn't.


"I don’t understand.” Sarah leaned forward, tears streaming down her face, and reached towards her husband. "What have I done wrong?”

Carl paced restlessly back and forth across their small living room unable to sit still. "You haven’t done anything wrong,” he finally replied. "You haven’t done anything.”

"Then why?” She scrubbed at her face with a paper towel and immediately re-wet her cheeks with a waterfall of tears.

Carl stared. "I should feel sorry for her,” he thought. "I am a selfish, heartless bastard.”

"Haven’t I always given you everything you wanted?”

"You have.” He made the mistake of looking directly at her and felt as though he had shot Bambi. He nearly threw himself on his knees in front of her to beg her forgiveness. "I didn’t notice at first, but from the day we married, you laid yourself down and let me walk all over you. May challenges me and I’ve got to be with her.”

"But Carl, you’re married to me.”

"Not for long,” he replied. "I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to continue our marriage. We'll be better off apart.”

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She sobbed. "I’ll do anything you want me to. Just don’t leave.”

"That’s just it.” He finally sat down next to her on the couch. Taking both of her hands in his, he said, "I don’t want you to satisfy my every whim.” He lifted her chin and made him look directly at him. "I just told you that I’ve been seeing another woman; that I’m going to leave you for her. You should be angry. You should be mad as hell. Yet you beg my forgiveness.”

He saw that she just wasn’t getting it. He tried again. "You’re a superb cook. What would you do if you went to a restaurant and they gave you a salad dressed with olive oil?”

Her face brightened. "I would send it back and tell them to finish the job.”

"That’s it exactly.”

"You’re saying that I’m olive oil?”

"It’s an analogy,” he said. "I’m trying to make you understand that you have become boring, bland, and predictable. You used to fight for what you really wanted; now you let me dictate your every move.” She tried to pull away and he tightened his grip, keeping her in place. She struggled briefly and then sat still, staring into his eyes. Was she beginning to get it?

"Just like a salad needs to have oil, vinegar, spices, and a little salt and pepper, I need a woman who adds spice to my life.”

"I can change.”

"I’m sure you’d try.” He shook his head. "You might even succeed for a little while, but I don’t think you love me enough to really change. We never argue. Nothing about our relationship is important enough to fight over.”

He kissed her and then walked over to the door where he picked up the cases and walked out the door without looking back.

This story is a little bit different from the things I've been writing lately. The prompt for this week was "Once more with feeling." Here is my entry:


"Once more, with feeling," screamed Luther.

"I can't.” John turned away from the crying woman in front of him. “Please don't make me do this any more."

"I'm not making you do it. You have the right to turn me down,” said Luther. He smiled. “but you know what will happen."

Once more, John brought the whip up and then brought it crashing down on the woman's back.

"That's better. You're not so different from me."

"That’s where you’re wrong. I'm definitely better than you are," said John.

"How can you say tht you are better than I when you are the one who is torturing the poor woman?" said Luther. "So again—once more, with feeling."

"No, I refuse," said John.

"Take him to his cell,” said Luther with. He shrugged and picked up the whip. “I guess I'll have to finish the job."

As the guards dragged John to his cell, they heard a single gunshot.

"You bastard,” said John. “How could you do that? Then again, how could I?"

The guards threw him into his cell. Jose, his cell mate, was pacing the room. When John came in, he said, "How is my wife? Did you see her? Is she all right?"

John didn't know what to say. To tell his friend the truth, he would have to explain that he had chosen his own life, his family's lives over the life of Jose's wife. Could he be honest? In a half truth, he could say that she was all right when he saw her last. Which would be crueler?

The cell door opened once again. Two large men came in and grabbed Jose by the arms. As they dragged Jose out, he cried, "Long live the revolution!"

John threw himself on the filthy cot and sat, tears streaming  down his cheeks. Who was really at fault for Jose's wife's death? The easy answer was that Luther had pulled the trigger, even that Luther had forced him to beat her with the whip. But did the fact that he didn’t want to hurt anybody make it all right to do so?

Hours, maybe days later, the door opened again and Jose was thrown through the doorway.  His eyes looked vacant and his hands trembled. "They killed her, John," he cried. "They beat her with a whip like a dog and that bastard, Luther, tried to make me believe that you are the one who did it. I told him that I would never believe that. You and I are as close as brothers. You would never do anything to hurt a brother." Jose looked at John, and then broke eye contact to stare down at his own hands.

John took the rust-covered cup that held their water and tried to clean off the blood that covered Jose. Thankfully, Jose either fell asleep or passed out; John wasn’t sure which but the was grateful. He didn't know what to say to him. Telling him what had really happened would only make the poor man's pain worse.

When the opportunity to join the revolution had come, John had done so proudly. It was the moral thing to do; to fight for freedom. And three years ago John had considered himself a moral man. He wasn't so sure anymore. He had spent two years in the jungle, living off of what food he could capture, kill, or steal. He had eaten some disgusting things; things that would turn the average man's stomach. He had braved the spring rains, and the cold of winter, the scorching summers, and the separation from his family.

Those at the top of the heap had everything. The citizens of Rhodanthium were either very rich or very poor. If one had money and was willing to agree with Emperor Stefan at every turn, life could be good. The less one had, the more of it ended up going to the government. Taxes were highest for those who had least. And those who had the temerity to disagree with Stefan had no life at all. His second in command, Luther Montague, specialized in enforcing the Emperor's every whim. Those who disagreed face torture and death at his capable hands.

John lived in the small town of Quito and had originally not wanted to have anything to do with the revolution. His law practice allowed him to have a modest but comfortable life. Then in August of '97, Luther's death squad came into the town. They dragged the towns people into the square, separated the old people from the able bodied, and then executed the elderly.

The hands and ankles of the remaining men were tied together with plastic zip-ties and they were forced to lay on their stomach in the middle of the town square, next to the bleeding bodies of their elders. They were guarded by three men with machine guns while the rest of the death squad tortued and raped the women. John thanked God that his wife and child had gone that day to San Sebastian to visit relatives.

When morning came, John and the rest of the men, were transported by truck to a work camp in the mountains. He was forced to join the chain gang that was building new roads into the interior that would connect the mining camps up in the mountains to the cities down on the plains.

John noticed that many of the guards were disappearing. It was whispered throughtt he camp that it was because of the snipers of the revolution. The revolutionaries had reached almost mythic stature. They were talked about as if they weren't human and some believed that the Emperor had spread the rumor of a revolution to give people hope so that he could dash it when he told them the truth.

Fortunately for John, he didn't have to wait for proof. On September fifteenth, a group of revolutionaries over-ran the labor camp, killed all of the guards and set John and the others free, telling them that they were free to go back to the home or to join the revolution.

The leader of the band, Jose, remembered John from a case that he had handled for Jose's mother. "This is the bravest man I know," Jose said. "He defended my mother against the government and actually won the case, despite the fact that they had put him on their list."

And so, John joined the revolution.

With Jose's strength and John's intelligence, they soon became the most-wanted of the revolutionaries.

Two years went by before John was able to contact his family. Not long afterward, they were captured. When John heard of their capture and tried to rescue them, he and Jose were captured as well.

The two men were put in the same cell within the royal dungeon. At first John was left alone and Jose was tortured. Every day he was taken from their cell. He would be gone for hours at a time and, when he came back, Jose’s face would be covered with bruises. After two weeks, John was brought to Luther's dungeon. "John," said Luther, "I'm not getting too far with your friend. Jose seems to be holding out. I want you to help me."

"Why in God's name would I help you?"

"Well, you could choose not to. However, if you refuse, your family will suffer. I am sure that you can withstand torture, you are a strong man, but what about your wife and son?"

John lunged forward. He would have beaten Luther to death. He was only stopped when three of the guards beat him to the ground. "I'll kill you," he cried.

Luther only laughed. “I suppose you can try, " he said, “but you really have only one choice, John. You can do what I tell you to my prisoners or you can choose to have me do it to your family."

And so, day after day, he honored his pact with the devil to protect his family. At first, he tortured only people he didn't know. That didn't make it right but it made it possible. Then he was forced to start on Jose's family. He didn't knonw what happened to Jose's daughter though Luther had assured him that, after the torture, she had been sent to entertain the troops.

When he was broght in to torture Jose's wife, he refused at first. Luther told him that he would have to torture Jose's wife but, if he told Jose, it would be a death sentence, not only for Jose's wife but for his own as well. He weighed the consequences of his actions and continued his pact with the devil.

When he heard the shot, he knew that Jose's wife had been killed and he wanted to tell him the truth and beg for forgiveness but truthfulness didn't outweigh the life of his own wife.

Saturday night, Jose's agony increased and he called John to his side. "John, listen, I know that I am dying and I don't have much time. Under my cot is a knife. I was going to try and kill Luther but I am not strong enough. You have to do it for me and I have to ask you for forgiveness. He made me promise not to tell because he would kill my wife. But I must die with a clear conscience. He told me that he would kill my wife if I didn't torture and two of the people I was responsible for were your son and your wife."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I killed them. I was forced to. I know you can't understand that. I know it isn't something that you would do. Please forgive me. And please, I beg you, kill Luther."

John heard the church bells ringing from outside the dungeon. It was Sunday morning. Jose had been quiet for hours. When John checked on him, he was already cold.

John got to his knees and rummaged under the cot. When he found the knife, he tucked it into the pocket of his ragged pants. John knew that Luther would bring him to his office and they would be alone.

When he was brought into the office. He was forced into the chair in front of Luther's desk. The guards left and they were alone. Luther got up and started around the desk to get closer to John. "I hear that your friend died last night. Do you know that he wasn't very brave? When faced with protecting himself and his family over you, he chose his family but that's not so unusual," he said as he bent down to look into John's face. "He was a coward like you."

John reached into his pocket, withdrew the knife and plunged it into Luther's throat. Luther fell to his knees, a crimson shower bathed them both as John said, "You tried to kill my spirit by using my feelings against me."

As he plunged the knife into Luther's chest, he said, "Just as you commanded, I'm doing it once more, with feeling."

This week's prompt for Brigit's Flame is Harmony. It follows neatly on the first two prompts for the month. In case you forgot or don't know, they were Beat and Flat. Strangely enough, although I thought that Harmony would be easy, every path I tried to take dead-ended. Until I hit on this one...


"Who has the potato peeler?"

"Me, Mommy," said five-year old Carrie. "I peeled the potatoes for you." On the long low folding table Kim's husband, Rob, had set up in the corner of the kitchen was a huge pile of potato scrapings and a pitiful pile of marble-sized potatoes.

"Oh, Carrie," cried Kim. "You--" and then she saw the excitement in the little girl's eyes. She was so proud of herself for helping her mother that the anger evaporated and all Kim could say was, "You did a great job, sweetie. Now why don't you go watch cartoons for a little while? Your cousins will be here soon."

"Yay!" cried Carrie. She turned and ran from the room.

When Carrie had gone, Kim rinsed the pieces in cold water and tossed them into a large pot.  "What am I going to do?" she said aloud. "There's not enough here for two people; what am I going to tell the other eighteen?"

"Does someone need potatoes?" Her husband, Rob's, cheerful voice made Kim spin around in time to see him come through the kitchen door carrying a ten-pound bag of spuds. Once she had finished kissing him, he said, "I saw what Carrie was up to, but I didn't have the heart to tell her she couldn't help so I just went out and bought these." He bowed low and presented the bag to Kim with a flourish.

The phone rang. "Is there anything I can bring?"

"No, Mom, we've got everything we need. Just bring Dad and a hearty appetite."

"So," said Rob as they sat together at the prep table, peeling potatoes, besides the great potato crisis of '08, is everything under control?"

Kim looked around. The turkey was in the oven, and the giblets simmering on the back burner. Pies cooled on the kitchen counter and the green bean casserole was ready to join the turkey in the oven. "I think so," replied Kim. "I can't believe that we're finally going to have Thanksgiving in our own home."

"Didn't I tell you when I proposed that together we'd make all of our dreams come true?"

"You did," said Kim. "But everybody says things like that. I--"

Rob leaned close and kissed Kim. Then he laughed and said, "Just how many proposals did you get that you know so much about it?"

"Just the one," she replied and kissed him back. Then she got up to baste the turkey.

Once the potatoes were on the stove, the organized chaos that Kim remembered from her childhood settled in. She stirred, she basted, and in her mind's eye she saw her own mother going through the same motions while Kim peeled potatoes, scraped carrots, and prepared the antipasto.

The doorbell rang precisely at noon. The table was set, the parade was in full swing on television, and the house smelled like home.

Rob's parents brought wine. They had barely had time to open the bottle before the doorbell rang again. Kim's parents, her two brothers, and Rob's sister all arrived in a group along with their spouses and children.  Everybody brought their favorite Thanksgiving Day flourish and the prep table was completely covered with dishes containing everything from creamed onions to nuts.

Suddenly the huge kitchen, Kim's pride and joy, seemed more crowded than the three by five-foot rectangle she had struggled with in their old apartment. "Everybody out," she cried. "This is my job and I can handle it all by myself."

Kim sipped at a glass of wine and listened to the sounds of a football game drifting in from the living room. "This isn't so hard," she thought. "I don't know what Mom was always complaining about."

But despite Kim's careful timing, the timer on the turkey popped up much sooner than she had expected. The gravy wasn't ready and the potatoes were still hard. The antipasto had been consumed to the last black olive and the sorbet was still mushy. As Kim frantically tried to stir the gravy, and to keep the casserole dishes circulating through the microwave she realized she had forgotten the biscuits.

She yanked open the oven door and surveyed the blackened remains of what should have been light, buttery biscuits. "Oh no," she cried as every smoke alarm in the house blared into life. Kim frantically waved a towel in the direction of the alarm. She couldn't escape the feeling that she was in the midst of a video game and the bad guys were winning. Kids screamed and covered their ears as the adults milled around uselessly.

"My first Thanksgiving is going to be ruined."

"Wait a minute," said Rob. "Don't you mean our first Thanksgiving?"

Moving quickly, Rob opened the back door and fanned the smoke out. Once the alarms stopped ringing, he herded the kids out of the room while Kim surveyed the damage. The turkey was all right, the potatoes were finally almost ready, and with all of the food they had, nobody would miss the biscuits. She went back to trying to get the gravy to thicken.

"All you have to do is add a little more flour," said Kim's mother. She gently moved Kim out of the way and drizzled a mixture of flour and water into the bubbling broth. "Go mash the potatoes."

"What can I do?" asked Rob's sister, Margaret. "You direct and we'll serve," she said when Kim hesitated.

In less time than it takes to describe it, everybody had found a job. By the time dinner was served, the chaos that had ensued with the smoke alarms had turned into a well-choreographed dance. Even without the biscuits, there was plenty of food for everybody there.

Kim took her place at Rob's right hand and sat watching her family pass around the plates. It was hard to hear because everybody was talking at once. The kids were fighting over who would get a drumstick, Rob's father was busy telling Kim's father the story of how he shot two deer with a single arrow; a story that Kim could have recited herself since he told it every year. The mothers were busy telling "can you top this" stories about Rob and Kim.

Rob leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Guess you won't be volunteering for this again in a hurry," he said softly.

"I guess you would be wrong. This is the best Thanksgiving ever. I just won't try to do it all myself next time." She gestured around the table at the rest of the family and then said, "This might sound like a lot of noise to you but--" she shrugged "--to me it's all sweet harmony."

This week the prompt is "Flat." My entry has nothing to do with the musical portion of the prompt but I think the story is a reasonable interpretation of the prompt anyway.


"The famous chef, James Beard always said that the only thing that will make a soufflé fall is if it knows you're afraid of it. That said, don't stir, fold," said Madame Giselle. "If you aren't gentle here, your soufflé is going to end up flatter than a pancake.

Amanda took a deep breath and focused on the bowl in front of her. "Fold," she reminded herself. But her hands were shaking. Her spoon made a musical clinking sound against the side of the bowl as she tried to gently fold the stream of melted chocolate into the frothy egg whites. French cooking was Amanda's specialty and she was good at it but no matter how much she tried, her soufflés always ended up flatter than a crepe.

"Face it, Amanda," said Heather as she surveyed the flattened soufflé, "maybe you need to find another specialty. A French chef who can't make a soufflé isn't much of a French chef."

"True," thought Amanda. "On the other hand, I can always leave the soufflés to my sous-chef."

She eyed Heather's perfectly risen soufflé. Taking this class with Madame Giselle had seemed to be the perfect idea until Heather showed up. No matter how well Amanda did, Heather always did just a little bit better. Even back in high school when the class was making cookies, Heather's had been perfectly shaped and the exactly the same shade of golden brown as the picture in the cook book while Amanda's had looked more like pale amoebas. Yet Amanda loved to cook while to Heather it was no more than a job. Amanda's food tasted amazing. Heather's cooking was delicious too but it also looked picture perfect every time as well.

Amanda dumped the unappetizing mess into the garbage and piled her dishes in the sink with the rest. Then she gathered up her notebook and purse and dashed for the car. She had just enough time to get to her meeting with Paul Jeffries. She tried to put the latest disaster out of her mind in order to focus on convincing Jeffries that investing his money in her proposed restaurant would be the best use of his funds.

"Let's see," said Jeffries. "you were a sous-chef under Charles Kohl and then under Sylvie Gaston, is that correct?"

"Yes," said Amanda. She was beginning to relax. They had gone over her entire proposal and he had seemed not only interested, but anxious to hear what she had to say. "I have been preparing for this all my adult life."

She took a deep breath and said, "The location is perfect, the time is just right, and there's a real need for a good restaurant in this area."

Paul Jeffries stared at her for nearly a minute before he replied. "You're not the only one interested in the property, you know. I have another proposal that I'm considering." When she started to reply, he held up one hand to stop her. "I must say that I'm leaning towards your proposal. You show such real passion for the project that I have no doubt you will be successful."

"When will you decide?"

He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. "I have a proposal for you. The Iron Chef competition is coming up next month. Are you participating?"

"I hadn't planned to--"

"Sign up," said Jeffries abruptly. "I'll have your competitor do the same. I'll even give you both the entry fee. If one of you wins, you'll win my support as well."

"But what if neither of us wins?"

"Well, if you're as good as you say you are, that shouldn't be a problem. And if one of you isn't good enough to win," he continued, "I guess I'll have to find another way to spend my money."

As Amanda shook hands with Jeffries, she said, "Mr. Jeffries, can you tell me who the other person is?"

"I don't see why not," he replied. "It's Heather Conklin."

"It figures," thought Amanda. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother."

On the way home from her meeting, she pulled into the parking lot of the empty restaurant and sat staring at the building for nearly an hour. She could clearly visualize the way it would look. Soft blue shutters against the white clapboards, and a bright red front door. "La Porte Rouge" seemed the perfect name for a fine French restaurant.

It had seemed like such a sure thing. That is, until she heard Heather was interested. Despite their occasional rivalry over the years, Amanda had never really considered that she and Heather were competitors. Yet now they certainly were. It made her wonder if Heather had known the truth when they were in class that afternoon.

The days between Amanda's meeting with Paul Jeffries and the first day of the competition passed quickly. Amanda spent so much time practicing that even her best friend Cheryl groaned when she saw her coming with a plate full of food. "Look, 'Manda," Cheryl finally said to her, "I've gained five pounds in the last two days."

"But I've got to practice. Everything depends on my winning this contest."

"I know, but you're the best cook I've ever known. I don't know why you're obsessing so."

"Because I'll never forgive myself if Heather beats me because I'm not prepared."

"You're prepared already," said Cheryl. "Just remember that you can do this," she said as she dropped Amanda off at the side entrance to the theater where the competition was to be held.

Once she was in her "kitchen" on the vast stage, Amanda began to feel more confident. Just the fact that Heather looked slightly pale and more than a little sick to her stomach made Amanda feel better about the situation. She sailed through the first three rounds. She made scallops with lemon butter, the perfect light appetizer and followed it up with grilled quail over long grained rice. The quail was perfectly browned and the orange-plum sauce she drizzled over it added just the perfect grace notes to the symphonic blend of tastes.

By the time she got to the final round, the dessert, she was ahead on points and was beginning to have visions of herself holding up the prize trophy, of opening day at La Porte Rouge, and the happy ever after she had been looking forward to since she was thirteen years old and discovered the thrill of cooking.

"For the final round of the competition, each contestant will select a slip of paper from the box that is being passed around. Each of the papers in the box," continued the announcer, "has the name of a dessert dish on it."

Amanda looked around. Of the ten cooks who had started the competition, only three were left; Amanda, Heather, and some guy that Amanda had never seen before. Each took a piece of paper out of the box. Amanda held her breath as she unfolded the paper slowly. There, in black letters that seemed to float on the white surface of the page, were the two words that would decide her fate. "Crème caramel?" muttered Amanda. "At least I have a chance."

Amanda began melting the sugar in a small saucepan. She spared a glance and saw that Heather was separating eggs into a bowl. Her expression was smug and she seemed completely relaxed.

In less time than seemed to possible, two perfect desserts were lined up on the tasting table, waiting for the judges' decision. Amanda's crème caramel, or flan, looked smooth and creamy and the caramel topping was the exact shade of gold that it should be. The man, his name tag said George, placed a chocolate torte next to Amanda's flan. Then Heather carefully placed her own entry next to the others.

"Well, better her than me," thought Amanda.

Heather's soufflé looked slightly lopsided and Heather didn't look too good either. As Amanda watched, she bit her lip and tried to turn the dish so that the best side would be facing out towards the audience.

The judges, a slender, neatly dressed man and a short, nearly round woman, started with the Flan. He neatly scooped a bit of the confection with the tip of a spoon and placed it in his mouth. Amanda could tell from the blissful look on his face that he had enjoyed it. Pausing only long enough to take a sip of water, he moved on to the torte.  The woman followed suit. She tasted the Flan and then smiled and licked her lips. Before taking her sip of water, she took another tiny taste of the Flan.

Amanda watched the man's face as he tasted the torte. This time he was clearly disappointed. He made a face, as though he had tasted something sour and then rinsed his mouth again. His companion didn't look any happier. She looked back at the Flan with a longing expression on her face.

Amanda held her breath as the judges moved on to Heather's soufflé.

"Ms. Conklin," said the man, "I'm afraid your soufflé has fallen."

Amanda nearly laughed aloud as she realized that the man was right. Heather's soufflé was as flat as any Amanda had produced herself. The two judges walked away from the table without bothering to taste Heather's entry.

Amanda had to bite hard on her tongue to keep from reminding Heather that a French chef who can't make a soufflé isn't much of a French chef.

It didn't take long for the judges to fill out their forms and make their decision.

"That was the best Flan I've tasted in a long time," said the woman as she handed Amanda the over-sized prize check. "Congratulations."

Heather was already gone by the time Paul Jeffries made his way onto the stage to add his congratulations and to confirm his support for La Porte Rouge.

On opening day, Amanda proudly served her prize-winning recipes to her guests. Near the end of the evening, Amanda left the kitchen to enjoy her own meal in the corner of the restaurant. For dessert, she served her special guests a perfectly risen soufflé courtesy of her sous-chef, Heather.

The prompt for the first week of February for Brigit's Flame is "Beat" The following story is not fiction...


Sometimes when you look at a piece of music on paper, it seems like a mass of unrelated squiggles. Then you sit down and play the music and it all flows into an integrated whole, a whole that almost always greater than the individual pieces from which it is made. Our lives are like that too. When it is happening, all the incidents seem unrelated but when you look back, they line up like the beats of a measure. For example...

My father was a musician. Actually he was a drummer. You know what they say about drummers? They become drummers so they can hang around with musicians.

My mother was a pianist; a good one.

In the early 1950s my father stopped being a drummer and started being a radio DJ. He was hired to manage the radio station in a small town about two hours northwest of New York City. Since the station was a new station, they had a contest. The winner would get to sing on the radio for three nights.

The contest winner was best friends with my mother's piano teacher and he asked her to accompany him.

She thought it would be a good idea to give her two best pupils a chance to perform as well, so my mother and her best friend were each assigned to play on  one of the three nights.

On the first night, my mother walked into the studio. My father watched as she sat down at the piano, took a sheet of music she had never seen before and proceeded to play it. He was impressed. He liked the way she played.

"Hello, Mary Ellen," he said.

"I'm not Mary Ellen," my mother replied. "My name is Patricia."

"Well, Patricia," said my father, "how would you like to have your own radio show?"

In the flurry of excitement over the performance, the conversation was never finished. When the show was over, my mother left the station and headed back to town. In the car, she told my grandmother about this guy who had tried such an obvious line on her. They laughed about it.

Back at the radio station, my father was looking for my mother. When he realized she was gone, he sent his assistant running after her. When my grandmother saw someone chasing after her waving his arms frantically, she stopped.

"You've got to--come--back," he panted. "Mr.--Governale--really wants to offer you a radio show."

I don't know how long my mother's radio show lasted, but she played piano on the radio twice a week. In a way, I suppose Dad's offer was a "line" too. They started dating and two years later they married. Four years after that, they had me. And the beat goes on.

The prompt for week three is: "Myth" The story is original but, well, take a look and see...

In the Woods

Artemis, she who drives the chariot of the moon across the night sky hovered near the horizon. The first light of day streamed down into the valley, warming the lands. A soft summer breeze wafted through the trees. Birds sang their praises to the new day, bees hummed their own songs, and everything was right with the world.

Deep in the heart of the forest, a babbling brook tripped along by the side of a narrow path. The other side of the path was thick with brambles, leaving only a narrow passage. As a large brown bear ambled along the path, the sound of thundering hooves heralded the approach of a large snow-white stallion from the opposite direction.

When the stallion saw the bear, it screeched to a halt, throwing up gouts of dirt with its hooves. “Out of my way, bear," said the horse. "I'm on a mission for the great Lord Poseidon himself.”

The animals nearby stopped their singing, foraging, and whatever else they were doing to watch.

'What do I care for the god of the sea?” The bear growled low in its throat. “This is my forest and you are a trespasser here. You get out of my way.”

A squirrel scampered across the path behind the bear and ran up a nearby tree. When it reached the top, it turned to look down and watch the confrontation below.

The horse stamped its front hoof and shook its fine mane as it said, “The lovely Alcyone gives birth to Lord Poseidon's child and I must run to the shores of the mighty sea and retrieve him. I tell you for the last time, get out of my way.”

This only angered the bear further. It reared up on its hind legs and said, “Step aside. I will pass now. The berries are ripe in the north meadow and I am hungry.”

A burst of light flashed on the path between the two animals. They both fell back as the smoke cleared and a tall woman appeared. She had long flowing hair, dark as the sky at midnight and stormy gray eyes.

The bear was the first to recover. It took a step forward, waving its front paws in a menacing fashion.

The lovely Artemis, for it was she, herself, who had appeared, smiled gently at the bear and said, “I'm asking you nicely to step aside and let this horse pass so that it may give its happy news to my uncle.”

She waited.

When the bear only growled in reply, she waved her hand at the creature. The bear shrank until it was less than six inches tall.

“Never mind,” it said to the horse in a high squeaky voice as it moved to the side of the path, “You go first.”

Which just goes to show, when you act too much like an angry bear, you might suddenly find you're barely there.

The prompt for this week was demon. This isn't the story I had planned to write but I just couldn't seem to finish that one. This entry for week two of the Brigit's Flame January competition is called "Good Intentions."


"You don't want to do that."

I paused with my hand on the door to the movie theater. The marquee announced a triple X, triple feature. Top of the bill was "The Devil in Miss Jones," one of my all-time favorites. I guess we all like to see our name in lights, don't we?

"I said, you don't want to do that." The speaker, a large, beefy-looking woman with a blue and white polka-dot print dress, stood off to the side of the front steps, clutching a huge leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible. An enquiring look from me was all she needed for encouragement. "Yes, I'm talking to you friend."

She pointed at the building. "That place is full of Godless blasphemies; things no Christian should ever see."

I tried to be nice. "I'm not a Christian." I said and then turned again to go inside.

"Nonsense."

Perspiration dripped down her florid face and her dress sported a large wet patch under each arm where perspiration had soaked through. We all have our secret vices and I was pretty sure what hers might be. She pulled a large handkerchief out of her sleeve, like a magician performing a trick, and wiped her face. Then she took a deep breath and tried again.

"We are all Christians under the skin. Some just haven't found out yet."

I wasn't about to argue with her. "I think I'll take my chances anyway." I turned and reached for the handle again.

Faster than I would have thought possible, she lashed out with the Bible and smacked me soundly on the hand. "Jesus saves!"

Why is it that those who shout most loudly about Christ so often seem to understand so little of his teachings? I cradled my injured hand close to my chest and looked at her. Her face had turned bright red and she was breathing rapidly. She wiped her face again. "Listen, friend, you must accept Jesus as your savior or you will go straight to hell."

I backed up as she approached, stopping only when I felt the railing behind me. She advanced, waving the Bible in the air for emphasis. "Do you accept Jesus as your savior?" She moved closer, waved the Bible directly under my nose and repeated, "Do you accept Jesus as your savior?"

I have nothing personal against Jesus, mind you but I'd had enough. I pointed one finger at her and said, "Do you honestly believe that the simple act of accepting Jesus as your savior will keep you out of hell?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Good," I said as flames burst from the tip of my finger and set her ablaze. "Now you can find out for yourself." As her hair burst into flame and her face melted into an unrecognizable lump, I transported myself back to hell to await her arrival.

This is my entry for the Brigit's Flame entry for the first competition of the new year. The prompt for this week was "Angel."


It ain't easy being a guardian angel. Back in--oh--'47 or so, I was guarding a PI. This doll came in to his office. She was hot, that one. Blond hair, red lips, and a waist that looked as though you could span it with one hand. I was so busy watching her cross the room, wiggling her pretty little rump, that I never saw the irate husband with the gun.

He yelled, "I knew you were screwing around on me!" Then he turned and shot my guy right in the face. The PI died on the way to the hospital, and the guy's wife promised she'd wait for him. Said she didn't know he cared so much and that she'd never leave him again. Me? I was recalled.

I hung around heaven until I couldn't stand the harp music any more. Then I watched what was happening on the Earth, wishing I was there. Fifty years passed, then sixty. Finally the big guy came to see me. "Mikey," I said, "You gotta get me someone to watch. I'm going crazy here."

"What guarantee do I have that you won't make the same mistake?"

What a snooty mope. Just 'cause he's an archangel is no call for him to lord it over the rest of us. I was all set to argue my case; hell, I was all set to beg and plead, when I saw the glint in his eyes. "You've got one for me, don't ya?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "The boss reminded me that everyone deserves a second chance." I waited anxiously as he flipped through the pages on his clipboard. Finally he pulled out a sheet and handed it to me. "This one should be perfect for you. I got you a private investigator; just like the last one. Well, not exactly like the last one--"

I skimmed the sheet rapidly and said, "Geez, Mikey, what are ya trying to do to me?" I flexed my wings. "I ain't no nursemaid."

"If you're not happy with this assignment we might have another..." He grinned. "...in five or six centuries."

Now it was my turn to sigh. "I'll take it," I said. "If Susan--" I looked at the sheet again. "here it is, Susan Brigham is  twenty-five, then I'm not her first angel." I looked at Mikey. "What happened?"

"He quit; said guarding her was too much pressure."

"Wimp. Let's see, she lives in..." I scanned the papers rapidly, "Carpenter's Point."

I homed in on Susan and found her in a beat up Volkswagen Beetle, parked across the street from a seedy motel. We Guardian Angels don't usually show ourselves but I prefer the hands on approach. "Not much happening," I said. "Whatcha waiting for?"

"My client's husband has a habit of--hey!" She turned in her seat to stare at me. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in my car?"

"Hell has nothing to do with it," I replied. "I happen to be your guardian angel."

"Do you make a habit of scaring the person you're guarding half to death?"

I pulled a cigarette out of my trench coat pocket and stuck it in the corner of my mouth without answering. Dames love the silent, mysterious type.

 "Why should I believe you?" Her hand was on the door handle but she didn't seem particularly afraid. I found myself liking this girl. "If you're really what you say you are, prove it." She looked at me expectantly. "Prove it or get out."

Then I saw the gun in her hand. It was pointed directly at my head. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I disappeared and reappeared in the back seat behind her. There just isn't room to spread my wings in a Beetle.

"I don't know," she said. "You could just as easily be a demon as an angel, but I'll take your word for now. Just sit there quietly and--" A large black car pulled into the motel parking lot. A man in a dark suit got out and went into the office. When he came back, he held the door for a chippie dressed in a tight dress that was so short it didn't cover the tops of her thigh-high stockings. They went into one of the rooms.

"Finally," she whispered. She glanced at me. "Got to get some video. Stay here." She pulled out a video camera. "Be right back."

She slammed the door and crossed the street to stand outside the window of the motel room. Another car pulled up around the corner, where Susan couldn't see it, and a hugely fat woman in sweat clothes got out. By the light coming from the street light I saw that she had a gun. She walked up behind Susan, holding out the gun at arm's length. I figured that Susan wasn't the dame's target but to be on the safe side, I popped over to stand between them. Not that the old dame could see me or anything--only the one you are guarding can see you--but it put me in a much better position to protect Susan.

At that point, so many things happened simultaneously that I'm still trying to sort it out in my mind. Susan opened the door, pointing the video camera at the two people on the bed. The fat lady, who I'm sure was Mrs. Suit, ducked around her with amazing agility and aimed the gun at her husband. "I told you I'd get you for this," she shouted.

Susan and I both moved forward as the sound of a gunshot was followed by the burning sensation of a bullet plowing into my shoulder. Almost immediately police sirens whined out in the parking lot as Susan stood calmly in the eye of the storm filming everything.

When the dust settled nobody was dead. Mr. and Mrs. Suit and the Bimbo were all arrested, Susan's video proved Mrs. Suit's case at the divorce trial, and I had proved myself. All in all, it was a good beginning to what I think is going to be a beautiful friendship.

The bullet? It only stung for a minute. Angels can't be killed that way. Like I said, a guardian angel's job is never easy and I had a feeling this job was going to be harder than most. Then again, that's the way I like it. It's a tough job but somebody has to do it.

This week's prompt was "Truth." This is my story...


"Don't you think there would be some sort of concrete evidence by now?" Heather flicked an impatient hand at the golden brown curls that fell across her forehead before picking up her pencil to write the word alphabet five times in neat, flowing script. "Just because your last name is Kringle, Roger, it doesn't mean there is a Santa."

"She's right," said Bill. "If there was really a Santa don't you think you would have seen some sort of story about him on the news? I mean a real story, not the usual junk."

"Face it," concluded Heather, "Those cool gifts don't come from any big, fat elf living at the North Pole. Those presents come from your Mom and Dad."

It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation and although they were supposed to be working on spelling, the kids were more concerned with the coming holiday than anything else. Apparently, the Mrs. Kaye was intent on the holiday too because she hadn't complained.

The argument had started when Roger asked his friends what they had asked for in their letters to Santa. Their answer made Roger want to cry but crying like a baby in front of his friends would have been worse than finding out there is no Santa. He thought furiously, trying to find a way to prove that Santa Claus really existed. Finally he said, "But the presents aren't in the house now. Mom wrapped up all the gifts weeks ago and there isn't a single tag that says, 'from Santa.'"

Heather wasn't bothered a bit by Roger's declaration. "I bet the stuff from Santa is hidden up in the attic or something," she said

At that point they were interrupted by Mrs. Kaye, their teacher, who called them to line up for the buses. Roger quickly slid his books into his backpack and joined the rest of the class in line. Mrs. Kay was his least favorite teacher. She always gave homework and Christmas vacation was no different. Here he had two weeks off from school and he had to write a book report about Robinson Crusoe. They had started reading the book together in class and then Mrs. Kaye had announced that instead of having fun for the next two weeks, they were supposed to finish reading it and write a book report. Yuck!

Once he was outside, Roger was sure he could smell snow in the frigid air. The sky looked like snow too. It was the color of the tinsel on the Christmas tree at home. It would be really cool to have a big snowstorm right before Christmas. Not even thoughts of the book report he would have to write could bring down Roger's excitement. Christmas was his favorite time of the year. He couldn't wait to get home. Excitement over the snow forced thoughts about what his friends had said about Santa from his mind. He ran down the street, whooping as loudly as all his friends.

When he arrived home, he stopped in the living room to kiss his mother and then ran right into his bedroom where he dropped his books on his desk. He considered starting to read Robinson Crusoe but somehow he just couldn't get started.

"Roger, be a good boy and play quietly for a while," said his mother. She stood in the doorway to his room, sweater clutched tightly across her stomach. "I'm going to take a little nap before dinner. Come and get me if you need something."

When she had gone and the house had settled into drowsy quiet, the conversation from that afternoon came back to him. He considered waking up his mother and asking her to tell him the truth about Santa Claus but then he decided against it. Mom was tired a lot lately. He guessed it was because of the baby she was carrying around in her tummy. Anyway, he decided he'd see if he could find the Santa present. There weren't many hiding places in the apartment he shared with his parents and it didn't take long to check them all. He found lots of wrapped packages but none of them said, "From Santa."

Finally he went to the living room and sat down on the floor in front of the television. He turned on his XBox 360 and put in Lego Batman with the sound turned low so it wouldn't bother his mother. Roger felt like gloating. Every package with his name on it had said "From Mom and Dad." He had enjoyed squeezing them and shaking them, trying to guess what was inside. Magic was back in the air and Roger was "happy as a clam," as his father always said.

Then it hit him.

He hadn't looked everywhere. There was one place left, one place that his parents would probably believe he wouldn't think about looking—the attic. The apartment complex where Roger lived was one long, three story building. There were three pairs of apartments, with a common flight of stairs between them, on each floor and the people who lived on the top floor were allowed to use the crawlspace that ran the length of the building for storage. Access to the attic was through a trapdoor in Roger's closet. Walking as quietly as possible so as not to wake Mommy, he took the key from his father's top dresser drawer. The trapdoor was heavier than he had expected but he managed it without too much trouble and in no more than a few minutes, he was standing at the top of the ladder, looking around the attic.

Dust motes floated lazily in the broad beam of late December sunshine that streamed through the sole window. Cobwebs were strewn over everything like old lace curtains. Clearly nobody had been up here for a long time because the dust on the floor was nearly as thick as a rug. Then he noticed a trail of footprints leading into the back corner of his family's section of the space. He followed the footprints to a spot along the back wall where he found a trunk.

The trunk was shaped like a pirate's treasure chest. It was made of wood and covered with a collage of antique maps. "Probably locked" said Roger aloud. Then he knelt in front of the chest and examined the latch. It was large and rusty. The keyhole was big enough for him to insert the tip of his pinky. Taking a deep breath, Roger put pressure on the latch. To his amazement, it lifted easily and silently. He paused. Maybe it would be better not to look. If there was a Santa present in here, it would ruin everything. He would have to admit that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

He reached out to open the lids and—

"Roger!"

"Oh no," thought Roger, "Mom!"

He jumped to his feet and ran across the attic to the ladder, trying to be as quiet as possible. He was pretty sure that his mother wouldn't climb the ladder but he didn't want to be caught snooping. He didn't bother to lock the trapdoor, intending to return later and put everything back the way it had been. He opened the closet door just as his mother entered the room.

"Oh, there you are," she said with a relieved tone in her voice. "Why didn't you answer me sooner?"

"Sorry, Mom. I was in the closet looking for something and I probably didn't hear you."

"Daddy is on the phone. He wants to say hello." His mother handed him the telephone receiver and stood watching as he put the receiver to his ear.

"Hey, Sport," said his father.

"Daddy, when are you coming home?"

It took so long for Roger's father to answer that Roger wasn't sure he had heard the question. Then, finally, he said, "I'm sorry, Roger. I won't be home until after Christmas. You knew that."

"I know. But I was hopin' that you would come home this year for once."

"I can't. I have a lot of work to do every year at this time. Are you being good for Mommy?"

"Yes," said Roger. He wanted to cross his fingers but he was sure his mother would notice it and know he had been doing something he shouldn't.

"That's great, Sport." Daddy sounded distracted. "I love you. Have a merry Christmas. I'll be home the day after."

"I love you too, Dad." Roger tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Then he handed the phone back to his mother and went to sit at his desk.

His father had never been home for Christmas and Roger had no idea why. Every year for as long as he could remember Daddy had left right after Thanksgiving and didn't come home until after Christmas. He had no idea what his father did on these business trips or why they always had to last so long. Roger tried to read Robinson Crusoe but it wasn't going well. He wondered if he could find the movie on DVD at the library and watch it instead.

He pretended not to pay attention, but he listened carefully as his mother started talking to his father again. "Well, that's good for you, isn't it, Chris?" said Mommy. The tone of her voice didn't match the words. She didn't sound happy. As she left Roger's room and moved back down the hallway, he heard her say, "Will we have to move there?"

Roger groaned. He didn't want to move. He liked the place they were living. He had friends here and--he looked around his bedroom--his room was exactly the way he wanted it. He tried to put the thought of moving out of his mind and went back to his book. After a while, it became more interesting and he lost track of the time.

After his mother tucked him in for the night, Roger waited tensely, listening for his mother to go to bed as well. Once he was sure she was asleep he took a flashlight and climbed the ladder into the attic. If the large dark space had seemed slightly spooky in the daytime, it was even more so at night. Black shadows pooled everywhere. He could faintly hear the sounds of television coming from the next apartment.

He made his way carefully across the floor to the chest and carefully lifted the lid. The chest was filled with sheets of paper. He lifted out a few to see if there was something hidden underneath but as far down as he could reach, there were only more sheets of paper. He lifted out the top sheet. "Mary Cole has been teasing her little brother… naughty."

He scanned further down the page. "Bill Thompson has been telling fibs…naughty," and further down the page, "Lauren Smith set the table for her mother… nice."

Roger heard a soft pinging sound and another sheet appeared in the chest. It too was filled with names and comments. Each line ended in "naughty" or "nice."

At the bottom of the new sheet, Roger found his own name. There was no last name this time, but he was sure it was about him. "Roger is wondering whether there is a Santa…" as he started incredulously at the sheet, the words swam out of focus. He rubbed his eyes and then read the new entry:

"Roger Kringle believes… nice."

The prompt for this week's competition at Brigit's Flame is "Chaos." Thinking about it reminded me of the D&D concept of the Chaotic-Good character. This entry is actually a rewrite of a story of mine that was published some time ago on a web site called RITRO. It's a fantasy of sorts. I hope you like it. (Edited to add the missing word "graceful" in the second sentence.)
Jared wandered down the main street of the town of Westgate on a beautiful spring morning. He was a handsome young man; tall with the athletic yet graceful physique of a gymnast. His oval face featured bright green eyes and he wore a soft leather cap over his brown curls.

On all sides, people bustled to and fro, intent on their own errands. Westgate was the largest place he had ever visited. Far more people passed in and out through the huge gates than he had ever seen in one place before. He tried not to gape at the chaotic ebb and flow of horse and foot traffic. He had never been in such a large city before. He calculated that there must be hundreds of people living here. It might even be possible for someone to live here and not know everyone else in town.

He wandered at random thorough the streets, enjoying the sights. He whistled as he walked, watching the faces of the passersby, paying particular attention to the females.

"Psst... farm boy."

Jared saw a pretty, dark-haired girl. She was dressed in an elegant dress of green silk and her pale peach colored shift beautifully set off her complexion. She stood at the mouth of an alleyway. Waving her hand in his direction, she gestured for him to come closer.

He approached her, swept his hat off his head and said, "Yes, miss? What can I do for you?"

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"No, miss. I just came to town to go to the market. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, you can—" and she leaned close to his ear and whispered her request.

"What?" A bright red flush crept slowly up his throat. "I hardly know you."

"You’d be the first, I swear." Her large, darkly-lashed brown eyes searched his for some sign of agreement, some sign of interest. When he didn’t back away, she continued in a rush. "Listen, I’m not the kind of girl who does this, but since the dragon showed up..."

Jared put his arm around the girl and kissed her softly on the cheek. "I understand," he murmured. He kissed her again, on the lips this time. Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and half-led, half followed her back into the alley.

Sometime later, he emerged from the alley, looked around, adjusted his clothing and continued his ambling stroll. A bit further down the street, he heard, "Psst, farm boy..."

He turned to find yet another young girl, leaning out the window of a small cottage. She was even prettier than the first with long red hair and creamy skin. She leaned forward and Jared was sure that her breasts would tumble out of the low-cut neck of her gown.

"This is going to be a good day," murmured Jared under his breath. Then he went closer to the building and looked up at the girl. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"Well, there’s a dragon in the neighborhood and I thought maybe you could help me by—" she paused, her cheeks turning a shade of red even brighter than her hair. Jared nodded in understanding, looked around to see if he was being watched, and then went into the cottage closing the door firmly behind him.

It was nearly mid-afternoon when Jared reached the market. He pulled a small collapsible stool out of this pack and seated himself in an out of the way spot next to the stall of a merchant who sold herbs.

Even in that out of the way spot, he was propositioned several times during the course of the afternoon. He told one or two of the prettiest that he would meet them later. He glanced up several times in the direction of the large mountain that overshadowed the town. The skies were a clear, bright blue, but once or twice, he thought he saw the distant shape of a dragon as it soared through the still air.

Finally, the day was over. Jared followed the road out of town towards the mountain passes. When he neared the peak, he slowed down and started looking from side to side. "Hey," he shouted. "Where are you?"

He hadn't gone far when a large dragon landed at the side of the road not more than ten feet from Jared. He approached the dragon, whistling merrily.

The dragon put out one leg so that he could climb up onto its back. Once he was seated comfortably, it took off, bunching its powerful hind legs to leap into the air. Once they were high enough, the dragon twisted its long neck to look back over its own shoulder at Jared. "Are you ready to leave so soon?"

"Don't want to push my luck."

"Explain this to me again. What makes you so popular?"

"I think they figure that by doing it with a stranger, word won't get around and they can keep it a secret unless they need to tell. Besides, by picking someone who is just passing through, they don't need to make a long-term commitment. Either way, nobody wants to be a virgin when there’s a dragon in the neighborhood."

The prompt for week one of December for Brigit's Flame is "Unity" and starting with December we have a word count limit of 1500 words. According to Word, this story is 934 words long. Here is my story...


Celia stared across the lawn at the gaily striped tents. Tiny white lights sparkled through the darkness, making the tent look as though hundreds of tiny fairies had gathered to join the celebration. The reflections on the water made it hard to tell, from this distance, where the wide sloping lawns left off and the lake began.

"Changed your mind?"

"Why would you even say that, Dad? Vincent is the perfect husband. He's handsome, romantic, and extremely rich." She laughed but the laughter sounded strained. "What more could a girl ask for?"

"Well I think it's mighty strange that he insisted on having the wedding so late. Who gets married at ten o'clock at night?"

"Apparently I do." Taking a deep breath, she tucked her arm through her father's as the first strains of the wedding march drifted through the quiet night air. "Ready?"

As she walked across the lawn towards the tents, praying that she wouldn't catch her heel and stumble, she tried to think what it was that bothered her. As she had told her father, it wasn't Vincent. Her fiancé—in a few minutes her husband—was the perfect man. They had only known each other for a few weeks but even in the first moment of meeting him, she'd known that he was perfect. Their personalities had meshed like two pieces from the same puzzle.

As they drew closer to the tent, she could make out his face, illuminated by the soft light of the lanterns that had been hung from the tent supports. His raven hair contrasted starkly with his pale skin, a contrast made particularly evident in his black tuxedo. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd but would have stood out even if he'd been a foot shorter with his aquiline nose, his grace, and the air of absolute confidence that he exuded.

As he tipped his head to say something to Arthur, his best man, Celia found herself caught once more by the sheer beauty of the man she was about to marry. It reminded her of the first time she saw him, at the Fourth of July celebration. Until that moment she would never have applied the word beautiful to a man, but for Vincent there was no other word that fit so well.

She had spotted him as he leaned against a tree, watching the fireworks. "Who is that guy?" She had asked her best friend Maggie.

"Don't know, but wouldn't I love to find out," Maggie had replied. Grabbing Celia's arm, Maggie had marched right over to where he was standing.

"New in town?"

Vincent bowed deeply. Maggie thought, "Who bows these days?"

Then he said softly, "Yes, I moved here just last week. I am Vincent D'Evereux. And you are..."

"I'm Maggie Carpenter and this is Celia Dominick."

Resisting the urge to curtsy, Celia had reached out to shake hands. After a slight pause, Vincent had taken her hand in his, turned it over and kissed the back of it. The spot where his lips touched tingled and she shivered.

"Are you cold?" Vincent took off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. "The breeze from the lake can be a bit frigid," he continued.

Maggie had quietly wandered off about fifteen minutes later, winking at Celia. From that day forward, she and Vincent had been together every moment they could. For the first time in her life, Celia regretted the newspaper job that kept her at work until nine nearly every night. But Vincent was there, every night without fail, to pick her up and take her somewhere exciting.

She quickly got into the habit of sleeping from dawn until it was time to go to work and then spending the night on the town with Vincent. Her only regret was that he never seemed to take her up on her increasingly broad hints that he would be welcome to stay.

They had only known each other two months when he proposed. "Celia," he had said as he got down on one knee, "I have been a happy man for the past weeks, since I met you. The only thing that could possibly make me happier is if you would say yes to the question I am about to ask you." He paused dramatically and then said, "Will you marry me?"

Of course she'd said yes, who wouldn't? "Celia, are you all right?" Her father's whisper woke her from her reverie with a start. He lifted her veil and kissed her cheek, then took her hand and placed it in Vincent's as he stepped back to sit in the chair next to her mother.

The ceremony and the reception were a blur. Seconds later, it seemed, Celia found herself standing in front of the mirror in the hotel bathroom, brushing her hair. She saw the reflection of the open doorway behind her and the bedroom beyond where a huge four-poster awaited.

"Finally we will be united." She jumped as Vincent's hands caressed her back. She turned and kissed him, an increasingly passionate kiss that made her think that everything was going to be all right. As his lips softly skimmed the skin of her neck, she opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyes widened and she gasped as she realized that hers was the only reflection visible.

"By the way," Vincent said, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you." His lips moved softly over the pulse in her throat and the sudden sharp pain made words unnecessary.

(Edit: forgot to italicize something!)

Actually, I had two wins this week. On Sunday I crossed the finish line with 50,051 words to become a NaNoWriMo winner. I now have a slightly messy manuscript which I can start editing as soon as I decompress. Here is my winner's icon:


I also won the monthly competition at the LJ Community Brigit's Flame. It was close, in fact, I only won by 1 vote, but the story below "Night Shift" was the November 2008 winner. That win means a lot to me because the writers who belong to Brigit's Flame are all good writers whose opinion I value. So, November ended well and December seems to be starting off with a bang!

This week's prompt was "Night Life" and while I thought of a whole bunch of vampire stories at first, I figured that everybody else would be doing something similar. I wanted to do something different. This is what I finally came up with...


It was a typical Christmas Eve. Anybody who could get away with it had called in sick and there were just two of us on the floor, me and another nurse, a guy named Mac. I have been a night nurse at the Carpenter's Point Senior Care facility since I graduated from Nursing School. Since I'm the only nurse who has no children to go home to, I have worked from eight at night to eight in the morning on every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Eve for the past ten years.

Under the best of circumstances, nobody visits on Christmas Eve. Tonight it was snowing. When I was a little girl, I watched "Frosty the Snowman" every year. The narrator, I think it was Jimmy Durante, tells us that Christmas snow is magical. Maybe so, but it was bound to keep even the diehards at home.

I logged in to the computer and checked the vitals reported by the evening shift. Most of the residents had been asleep since seven-thirty. When I made my rounds, not a patient was stirring; not even Mr. Mulot.

By the time I got back to the nurses' station, Mac was out for his sixth or seventh cigarette so I was temporarily alone. I kept looking at the Christmas tree in the day room. The lights flashed and sparkled. It brought back memories of my childhood when my Dad and I used to lay under the tree and look up at the lights. Mom died when I was three. After that it was just the two of us. Dad has been gone for close to ten years now. Christmas has lost its charm.

My attention kept wandering back to the tree in the day room. Did I dare go in there? Why not? I would be able to hear the call bell if someone needed me. I went over to the tree and lay down on my back so I could look straight up into the branches. It was hypnotic, like staring at a sky filled with multi-colored stars.

"Gosh, it's pretty isn't it?" My companion looked about seven years old. She wore a long flannel nightgown with fuzzy pink slippers. Her blond hair had been plaited into two long braids. The teddy bear tucked in the crook of her arm was dressed to match, without the braids, of course.

"Where's your Mommy?" I asked her. We allow visitors twenty-four hours a day but I was still a little bit surprised that someone would bring a child out so late on a snowy Christmas Eve.

"My Mommy died years ago and now I'm here." I stared. She had made it sound like the one thing had caused the other.

"Your Daddy then."

"He's gone too."

Before I had a chance to ask any more questions, a little boy dressed in blue Dr. Denton's with yellow ducks joined us. He dragged a blue satin blanket. I sat up. Behind him was another little girl in bright red pajamas. She wasn't carrying anything but she had fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet. She held hands with a boy dressed in blue.

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Where did all you kids come from?"

"From here, of course," said the boy in blue. "Where'd ya think we came from?" He rolled his eyes at his companions as if to say, "Boy isn't she dumb?"

"Let's sing," said the blonde with the teddy bear. "Jingle bells, jingle bells…"

So I put my suspicions aside and we sang. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." When I remember that night, it seems to have lasted for hours but I would swear that every time I looked at the clock the hands were pointing straight up.

I found a charm in that Christmas night that I hadn't felt in years. I remembered the stories that my father used to tell and shared them with the kids. When I ran out of stories, I made up new ones. I raided the nurse's station and gave each of the kids a candy cane from the box of them someone had left there.

Finally I said, "Listen, you've got to go back to your parents. They must be ready to leave by now."

One by one they filed out of the room and into the hallway, disappearing into various doorways. The only child left was the blonde with the teddy bear. We walked together down the hall. She stopped across the hall from Gladys Oliver's room. "It was nice sharing Christmas Eve with you," I said. "What's your name?"

"Gladys." She turned and when through the door before I could ask her if she was named for her grandmother. I'd swear I was right behind her when I went inside but she was gone. Mrs. Oliver was sleeping soundly in the bed, clutching a candy cane in one hand and hugging a teddy bear in her other arm. It wore a pink nightgown.

The prompt for week three of the November competition at Brigit's Flame is Limelight. Here is my story...


"Good morning, have you read the paper?"

Rubbing his eyes, Bob Everett tried to focus on the alarm clock. Six forty-seven in the morning, it said in large blood-red letters. Who got up that early? "Course I haven't read the paper," he said hoping that his voice didn't have that just woke up quality. Sleeping late was one of the reason he had become a novelist in the first place but he didn't want anybody else to know that. At first he wasn't awake enough to determine who was calling so early. Finally he managed to identify the voice of his agent, Stan.

"Guess who has a book on the New York Times best sellers list?"

"I don't know," said Bob, "Stephen King?"

"Not right now, no. The number one book on the list right now is Roses for Red by Violet Beauregard"

Bob said nothing for a full minute. Then he simultaneously sat up so fast that it made him dizzy and dropped the phone's cordless receiver. His whoop of joy was so loud that his wife woke up. "Whassup?" she mumbled.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he whispered. He leaned over and kissed her and then dug through the blankets for the phone. "Still there, Stan?"

"Of course I am. I should have known this was coming. I had a call from the publisher yesterday. They want to know what Violet's next book is going to be about."

"I don't know yet, they haven't published the last book I wrote yet."

"Yeah, and about that…"

Bob waited patiently. He heard Stan shuffling through papers on the other end of the phone. "They want a picture for the back cover."

"No."

"Obviously. But what are we going to do?"

"Tell the truth?"

"Normally I would agree, but you pretended to be Violet. You gave her a life story. Heck, she even has a MySpace page."

"But that was for the public. Don't they know that Violet Beauregard is a man's pen name?"

"Well, no, not really. You know how Phoebe is. She likes writers who use their own names. She hates pen names because then the author can't do the talk show circuit."

"So we have to give Violet a face," said Bob.

He stared off into space, trying to think where they could find someone to be Violet. Then it he knew what to do. "Call you right back," he said and before Stan could say any more, he disconnected the call and put down the phone. He kissed his wife again and then said, "How would you like to be a famous writer?"