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."

"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.

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I have been writing for–oh hell, nearly forty years. I wrote my first book, a horrible mish-mash of The Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and Doctor Doolittle when I was 11 years old. It was really bad, but the way, in case you are curious. Not only did I steal every plot twist and turn from my favorite books, I included every one of my friends as characters.

For most of those forty years, I believed that writing fiction was something that had to be inspired. By what? Who knows. I guess I imagined some schizophrenic muse residing somewhere in my brain. Once in a whle she would throw me a bone and I would write a story. Mostly I wrote parts of stories that had beginnings and no ends but that’s beside the point.

When I write non-fiction, articles or documentation, I have no problems. No blocks have ever existed for me with non-fiction. There are times, in fact, when it seems like cheating. I don’t need to be inspired. The words just appear on the page. Sometimes it feels as though someone else is dong the work and I’m just getting it all down.

Fiction is hard. I write, I re-write, and I question every word. At least, I always did. I worry about writing clichéd stories. I want every story to be perfect and wonderful and–you get the idea. Usually about halfway through I begin to hate the story and, more times than not, I end up throwing it away. For every story I have completed, there are at least five more that will never see the light of day.

Today I decided to stop trying to write perfect, unique, absolutely fascinating stories. From now on, I’m going to write stories that are fun to write whether they are “wonderful” and “perfect” or not.

That’s not as easy as it sounds but I wrote a story–a complete story–today in about three hours. It’s not long (only 1,970 words) but it is complete. It’s not perfect. It’s not totally original, but it’s done.

If you want to read it, go here… Of Smoke and Mirrors

Does this mean I’m going to become the prolific, successful story teller that I’ve been trying to become for the past forty years? Probably not. Yet I feel as though I’ve taken a huge step forward today. I’ve stopped believing in writer’s block. I’ve stopped believing that I need to be inspired to write, and–this is the best part–I wrote a complete story because I decided that was what I was going to do. **Pats self on back.** That’s a good start.

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..."

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.

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."

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.

This is my entry for week three of the August 2008 Brigit's Flame writing competition. The topic was "Canary in a Coal Mine." It's not as easy as you think. This story is even longer than my usual pieces, about 1600 words. It wanted to be longer, but I resisted. Here it is:

"Why did you bring that thing?"

"Everyone knows that dragonets are highly sensitive to magic auras." I stroked the tiny, scaly creature perched on my shoulder.

"Tell me again why we're doing this," George paused in the act of coiling a length of rope. "I mean, what benefit is there for us in breaking into an empty house. You don’t really think the sword is there, do you?"

"He doesn't dare carry it with him," I replied. "He must have hidden it in a safe place until he can find someone a way to wield it. What better place to hide it than his own estate? Pip will find the sword for us. We'll be in and out before you know it."

George is a good friend, but he's not always the brightest candle in the box. Didn't he realize that if we recovered the king's sword, we would be set for life? No more starving through the winter, no more selling our services to the highest bidder. If we brought Dragonslayer back to the king, the reward would be enough so we could live in comfort for the rest of our lives.

Dragonslayer, the sword of the King of Rhodanthium had hung on the wall over the king's throne in the great hall for over a century. Only the true king could wield it. For as long as I can remember, the sword has accepted no master, not even the king himself. From the time that King Andrew took the throne from his grandfather, King Stefan, the sword had refused him. Now the sword was gone.

Rumors abounded that the sword was with the true heir to the throne. Princess Ana, the King's sister had disappeared shortly after he took the throne. Nobody knew where she went but the consensus was that she had been murdered by her own brother. That he had killed her to prevent any offspring of hers from making a claim to the throne. Even so, some insisted that she had run away and given birth to a child who would one day appear to claim his birthright.

Word on the street was that the Duke of Droflim had stolen it. It was common knowledge that the Duke craved the throne. Perhaps he thought that possession of the sword would convince the army to follow him instead of the king even though he was further from the throne than any of Rhodanthium's nobles. What possible use the sword would be to him was beyond me. He could wear it all he wanted to but as soon as he drew it from the scabbard, it would become so heavy that he would drop it immediately. If it had accepted him, the whole world would know about it. If it hadn't, then why had he kept it?

George and I were down on our luck. What small amount of coin we had in our possession had run out. The bread was moldy and the rent on our small room would be due in a mere three days. Pip, my tiny dragonet, would have no trouble feeding himself. He could live off the land quite comfortably. He even tried to bring food for us, dragonets are quite aware of the needs of their owners, but the one time he brought me "dinner" I learned to think about other things when he was around. I'm not quite ready to eat rat.

It didn't take much argument to get George to come along with me. He usually follows my lead. He may not be a genius, but he knows enough to know my ideas are much better than his. We waited until it was nearly dark and then into the grounds of the Duke's estate.

The last light of the dying day stained the western sky a deep maroon. In the East the sky was black and clear. The first stars twinkled madly. The carriage yard was empty save for the occasional blink of a firefly and the sleepy twittering of the birds settling down for the night. Beyond the gathering shadows the house was dark. George and I sprinted across the yard and approached the back door as quietly as two mice. The only sound was the rustling noise caused by Pip's wings as he adjusted his perch on my shoulder.

Taking out his tools, George swiftly picked the lock on the door and eased it open. We listened carefully but there was no sound from within. He stepped through the open door, gesturing over his shoulder for me to follow. Once we were both inside with the door closed firmly behind us, he whispered, "Now what?"

"Watch," I replied. I put up my hand and Pip jumped onto it, making a soft trilling noise as he did so. "You know what we are looking for?"

The dragonet nodded his head.

"Then show us where it is," I said to him as I simultaneously raised my hand over my head so that he could comfortably take off. He flapped his wings and took to the air. It didn't take him long either. He circled the room a single time and then flew up the chimney.

"Come back, Pip," I called. "We can't go that way."

I had to call him several times before he dropped down onto the cold hearth. He shook his wings to clear the ashes from them and then sneezed, emitting a tiny flame, shook his head and took off again, this time leaving the room through the doorway.

George and I followed Pip through the great hall and up the wide stairs to the second floor where we followed him down the hall to the Duke's private chamber. The walls and windows were draped with thick tapestries, now coated with a thick layer of dust and spider lace. The broad bed was heaped with pillows and soft comforters. George opened the shutters of his lantern wide so that we could see it all clearly. The rich reds, blues, and greens of the wall hangings, undaunted by their coating of grime, seemed nearly alive in the flickering light.

Pip alighted on the bed. Could it be that simple, I thought?

"Look under the bed," I ordered. George looked at me but didn't do anything until I said, "Come on, George, I'm too big to fit under there. Look and see if the sword is there."

While he got down on his knees and lifted the edge of the comforter, I looked around for anything else that we might sell for a few coins. There wasn't much. Lots of valuable things were in the room but they were either way to large, like the tapestries or too obviously belonged to the Duke, like the large seal that lay on the desk in the corner of the room.

"Well, what do you know," said George. He backed out from under the bed, completely covered in dust, holding the Dragonslayer's scabbard. He brushed away the dust and started to pull the blade from its sheath.

"No," I cried. "Don't be stupid. If you pull the sword it will be too heavy to hold. You'll probably cut off a toe or something."

"It doesn't look too special," he said. "Are you sure this is the right one?"

"Of course I am. I saw it every day when I was growing up." I walked over to the bed and held out my hand. "Come on, Pip," I said softly. Pip opened one eye and trilling softly jumped to my hand and then walked up my arm to perch on my shoulder.

Sometimes life is good. You make a plan and it works just as you expected it to do. This wasn't one of those times. As we descended the staircase into the great hall, we heard the sound of at least a dozen horses thundering up into the courtyard outside the front door.

George froze. He looked at me, one eyebrow raised as if to say, now what? I gestured towards the kitchen. George shuttered the lamp until only the dimmest light shone to light our way across the room.

We had nearly reached the doorway into the kitchen when the huge double doors crashed open and about a dozen soldiers came into the room carrying a battering ram. "Stop right there," cried the captain. He drew his sword and another dozen soldiers entered through the now-opened doors with swords drawn.

This is the end, I thought. They're going to skewer us on their swords and take Dragonslayer back to the king themselves.

George had other ideas. "Is this what you are looking for?" He raised Dragonslayer in its scabbard.

"Hand it over," said the captain. "It will be much worse for you if you don't."

Slowly George pulled the sword from its sheath. As he did so, Pip took flight, trilling happily and flying around the room near the ceiling before settling on my shoulder again. To the amazement of the observers, me included, George lifted the sword over his head before placing it back into the sheath.

As one, the soldiers bowed low before George. "How did you know that the sword would accept you?" I have known George all my life and it never occurred to me that he was any more than the wanderer and sometime thief that I had met at the Purple Dragon Inn back when we were both teenagers.

"I didn't." He smiled and patted the pommel of the sword. "I knew we couldn't get away, so I was about to give them the sword. Then I heard this voice in my head saying, 'Pull me and show them who you really are.'

"So I did," he finished with a huge grin on his face.