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| >> Campfire Creative >> Appendix >> Writing >> ID #1782522 |   |
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| [Introduction]
. - - - - -      - - - - - This is a collection of short stories by two writers written according to simple rules. The rules are: ...1. The first writer creates the title and the beginning of a story ...2. The second writer has two options: .........A. Finish off the current story and create the title and beginning for a new story. .........B. Or further develop the current story. ...3. Now it's back to the first writer who has the same two options. [Note: If the writer who begins a story is the one who ends it, then he doesn't have to start a new story unless he wants to.] - - - - - - - - - - Whenever a new story is started, a new font will be used for it. |
 Steve Ellen  The Tale of the Two Scribes In the summer palace of Shariz al Sharif there were employed two scribes, Motep and Petol. They had but one function, to tell stories to the Great One, for Shariz al Sharif loved to hear his stories every afternoon after lunch from 1pm to 3pm, without fail, no excuses allowed. Both scribes worked together to invent new stories, although sometimes one or the other had the better day. They liked to call it "flow" and likened their stories to water from a fountain. It was a dry land ruled by Shariz al Sharif and such analogies came naturally to it's inhabitants. One day Motep said, "Today there must be ice in the mountains because the stream that feeds my fountain has slowed to a trickle." "Don't worry about a thing," Petol said. "Today I am like a mighty river. My cup runneth over. I am drowning in ideas." "That sounds dangerous," Motep said. "I retract that word. Drowning I am not. My thirst is quenched. My bathwater is assured" Motep frowned. "You talk strangely today. I cannot quite put my finger on what is different. Perhaps because I do not feel so alert. Can you handle the stories by yourself this afternoon?" "Did I not assure you I was drowning in ideas?" "Not drowning," Motep said. "That was retracted." "Yes! Yes! You quibble. And your silly talk is interrupting the flow of creativity that is swirling around in my head and shaping itself into stories. How can I do the work of both of us if you keep discussing trivial things?" Motep headed for the doorway. "Then I shall leave you to your thoughts. If you need me I will be resting on the veranda." Mike Whitacre With Motep gone, Petol was confident his fountain of ideas were still overflowing, but as he sat on his desk and inked his pen, a sudden jolt of realization came before him: he could think of nothing else except the thought of drowning in a mighty river."What is the meaning of this?" Petol asked himself in shock. "So many ideas come to my head, but all leave so quickly I cannot fathom where to begin. All I seem to think about is the abominable act of drowning in a wretched river... I must be too excited, that's it. I just need to calm down. After all, it's only seven in the morning. I've plenty of time to write a thousand stories before one o'clock." Convincing himself he needed calm, Petol opened a window, opened his mouth wide, and began to take in a deep breath of hot air. As he inhaled, a bug flew into his mouth and he caught it in his throat. Petol became startled as he choked. He tried calling for help, but his voice was stopped from the loss of breath. Before long he was blue in the face and feared the worst. "Oh, this is my fate!" he thought. "Alas, this is what I deserve, for I had paid a witch to fill my head with infinite amount of stories, so I would be the only one to tell Shariz al Sharif stories today, thus sending Motep to his doom." Petol writhed as he cried and prayed his life would be spared. He promised he would never try to take the full credit again, if only this curse would be lifted! Suddenly, Motep came in and saw Petol jerking about on the floor trying to breathe. With a sudden rush, Motep aided his fellow scribe by pressing pressing down on the lower part of his lungs. In an instant, the bug flew out Petol's mouth and out the window. Coughing and catching his breath, Petol cried, "Motep! Thank you friend!" He then gave Motep a warm embrace. "It was nothing, Petol," said Motep, a bit confused. "Please forgive me!" Petol ejaculated as he cried on Motep's shoulder. "For what?" Motep asked. Petol then explained what he had done and planned. Motep just smiled and said, "All is forgiven, but this is rather funny." "What do you mean?" asked Petol, now confused. "Well," explained Motep, "when I was resting in the veranda, a story suddenly came from me, out of nowhere. I wrote it down instantly, and when I was done I wanted to share it with you." Still not understanding, Petol asked, "What is the story about?" "It's about a man who pays a witch so he'd win a race," answered Motep. "He wins the race, but a piece of sand somehow enters his throat and kills him... I have to say, I'm glad you turned out better than what happened in my story." The two scribes laughed and spent the rest of the remaining hours coming up with stories to tell to Shariz al Sharif. Their stories were the best the Great One had ever heard, and thus the two scribes lived long lives telling greater stories long into old age. * * * * * Eyes From The Window Molly saw it all from the window of her bedroom, and it had fully transformed her world so fast that she could have sworn she was dreaming. Witnessing a murder so clearly in broad daylight wasn't reality, couldn't be reality. This was a reality sufficient for corny mystery dramas or slasher films. Of course, no matter how many times Molly blinked, she wouldn't be able to wake up from this nightmare: Mr. Juarez, her Sociology professor, had his hands around Claudia's throat, and there was no doubt he had choked her to death. Despite being daytime, he was in an area of the campus near her house that was surrounded by trees and foliage. Even without the cover, no one would have caught Juarez in the act because it was the weekend, so the campus was nearly desolate. The window she peered from was the only place anyone could ever get a view of the murder, and Juarez knew it. He had his dark eyes on Molly as she was frozen with fear. His intent was clear, he wanted no witnesses left alive. Steve Ellen Even as Molly ran downstairs to make the phone call to the police, she heard the glass breaking in her kitchen door as Juarez forced his way into her house. He's so fast, she thought, and ran toward the front door, but his hand grabbed her blouse."No!" she shrieked and managed to rip free of his grasp, leaving a big piece of her blouse in his fist. But now he was between her and the door, so she ran to the basement and clattered down the stairs. Once at the bottom she realized her stupid mistake. There was no other entrance to the basement than the way she had taken. She crouched in the darkness, as far from the steps as she could get, and waited. One hand trembled as it touched the exposed skin where her blouse was ripped. She wondered if Claudia had been raped by Juarez before he killed her. Why wasn't he coming down the stairs? What was he waiting for? She could hear his heavy feet clomping around on the floor above her head. what was he doing up there? Fixing dinner? She stifled the hysterical laughter that threatened to overtake her. Think! Was there something she could do to protect herself? Maybe there was a weapon down here, although she could hardly imagine herself fighting with Juarez. He was far more muscular than any professor should be. Didn't she once hear that he had been an amateur bodybuilder in his youth? He must have finished whatever he was doing up there because she heard his footsteps walk back over to the door at the top of the basement stairs. A shaft of light entered the dark basement as he slowly opened the door. Molly held her breath. Mike Whitacre As Molly quickly hid behind some cardboard boxes, Juarez began a slow, heavy-footed descent down the stairs.Despite the tell-tale sound of expensive shoes clicking onto hard wood, it wasn't his footsteps that gripped her fear most, as much as it was the tall, brawn shadow that seemed to slither into the basement. What was more, she could make out the sharp knife Juarez held to his side. She struggled to keep herself hidden and silent in the darkness as Juarez came closer to the bottom of the stairs. But the more her thoughts raced, the more she thought about how she didn't want to die, period, especially in a dark basement. What could she do? She was helpless down here, trapped, as good as dead. Then, the moment Juarez stood at the end of the stairway, came the sound of the door opening and a deep familiar voice that said, "Molly!" It was John, her boyfriend, who should have still been on duty at the police station. "Molly!" called John. "I got off work early." Juarez was a statue, yet he did not seem worried. His demeanor automatically reminded Molly of how the professor presented himself in class: over confident, narcissistic, and always talking down to students who ever tried to voice a different opinion or brought forth contradictory data. It should have been obvious that this man thought himself to be an undefeated god. Then he stepped into the darkness, away from the entrance stairway, and flattened his back against the wall next to it. He was going to surprise-attack John, who would likely come down here, first, if he came into the kitchen. Quick footsteps came into the kitchen and a shadow passed through the rectangle of light upon basement stairs. John was now standing in the kitchen, saying something in a faint voice that she couldn't make out. Silence. Juarez waited, holding the knife ready for a swipe. Molly waited, hoping to warn John before it was too late, but she was almost half convinced she was in the kind of nightmare that would keep her from making noise when it counted. It was irrational, true, but fear had so gripped her that irrational thoughts were practically driving her mind into a frenzy. Creak... Creak... Creak... John was on his way downstairs, being as stealthy as he could. His shadow was only seen for a second as the door closed, leaving only a slit of light to illuminate the darkness. Molly took in a deep breath. She was about to warn John, even if she had to scream her lungs out. However, before she could whale, a spark of light occurred in the dark, followed by a loud blast, coming from a gun. What happened? she asked herself. Did John shoot him? Or did Juarez have a gun also? She was so overwhelmed with doubt that, when the basement lights turned on, she let out a pathetic, startled yelp. "Molly?" asked John, standing over an unconscious Juarez, a bullet in his shoulder. "You okay?" Coming out from behind the boxes, Molly wanted to smile and cry with gratitude, but her legs started to shake, then they went weak, and then she fainted onto the floor. With one risen eyebrow and a bewildered expression, John scratched his head and said, "Oh brother." *** Whilst I Am It was a hot summer day in the small town of Courtney. Sky blue, sun bright, and with the summer flowers in bloom, a man named Waldo thought it a perfect day for a walk. As he strolled, the warm wind blew steadily all around and up Waldo's nose, forcing him to sneeze. "Achoo!" he said. "Nothing like a perfect sneeze to go with a perfect walk on a perfect summer day." While others convinced themselves that perfection was far beyond reach, Waldo was a man who was raised with the idea that perfection was an attitude, a goal to strive for, not a monotone reality. "Monotone," Waldo said aloud to himself. He particularly loved to say aloud words that sounded funny to him: like monotone, agape, and befuddlement. Waldo was actually a very normal person with a normal mind. See, Waldo was a clown, and being a clown was an honor to him, so he constantly thought of things that would make people laugh, entertaining them with smart wit and physical comedy. Today, of course, was just a normal day with normal clothing, which was also perfect. As Waldo continued walking, he ran into, and was stopped by someone who was not so normal: A faceless, eyeless man, wearing a black suit and a black hat, leaning on a black cane. "Hello Waldo," said the Faceless Man. Steve Ellen "Hello," Waldo said. "Do we know each other?" A chill spread down Waldo's back and down his legs and he shook himself like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Nervous tension?" asked the Faceless Man. Waldo stared at the fascinating faceless face then looked away. It wasn't polite to stare. "Who are you? How do you know my name?" Somehow the Faceless Man talked without a mouth. "I am you. I am your true self, the one you left behind when you set out on your road to happiness." "How do you know about that? I've never told anyone about my road to happiness." It was a phrase that had occurred to Waldo when he had first formulated his plans for his own future and how to become the person he would like to be. "I told you. I am your true self, the lost one. Why wouldn't I know? I am the one you abandoned, the one you wanted so much to leave behind so that you could become The Great Waldo." "I'm not The Great Waldo," Waldo said, "just Waldo. Look, I can understand you might be a little bitter about being left behind, but what do you want now? We have separated. Surely you realize that? There isn't any way we can get back together." "But there is. Put your makeup on me." "What? Even if that would work, why would I want to do it?" "Who knows better what's best for you? You or your true self?" Waldo drew himself up into a dignified pose and said, "Whilst I am honored by your attentions, dear sir, I must consider your proposal preposterous." Waldo chuckled at his own whimsy. There was no reply from the Faceless Man. Waldo smiled at his own wit, especially that word "whilst" which was worth saying again, so he repeated it, saying, "Whilst I am.. Whilst I am..." then laughing out loud. Was there any terror that could not be frightened away by a derisive laugh? But a voice cold as steel came from the black-suited stranger who had no face. "Do what I ask. Give me a face." And Waldo trembled as the chill returned and his teeth chattered like a man freezing to death. "All right! All right! I'll do it." Waldo and the Faceless Man walked back through the little town of Courtney to Waldo's house where Waldo dragged out his make-up kit with the red rubber nose and the facepaint and proceeded to give the Faceless Man a face, a Waldo face with a painted grin and raised eyebrows. When he was done with the Faceless Man, he did himself and when they stood opposed to each other it was like the same man seeing himself in the mirror. "Thank you," said the Faceless Man and walked directly into Waldo who felt a tremendous fire in his heart and belly and then the chill in his soul was gone. Two men walked into Waldo's house. One man walked out. And from that day forward no one ever called him Waldo again because that was the day he became.. The Great Waldo. * * * In Case of Fire Clang! Clang! Clang! Johnny Ray leaped from his bunk, instantly alert and looking for his pants. A professional fireman doesn't need coffee to get going -- it's his job to get going. And Johnny got. After pulling on his thick fireproof pants, Johnny stepped into his black boots, grabbed his protective coat, and slid down the long chrome pole to the garage below where the truck was waiting, its engine already idling because driver Ernie was even quicker than Johnny. Seeing Johnny aboard, Ernie revved the engine, turned on the mournful wail of the siren, and the big red firetruck rumbled out into the night. Mike Whitacre On their way there, Johnny and the crew could see the black smoke filling the sky ahead. When the call came, no one in the Fire Department could have imagined it, even to those who've seen it all: Nearly an entire suburban neighborhood, ten houses in total, started to catch on fire simultaneously, minutes before the call came. Upon arrival, Johnny knew this was no accident: ten houses, five houses parallel from five houses, perfectly, don't just catch fire at the same time from careless homeowners. People from the other houses were outside, most in their pajamas, their faces worried and helpless, yet their eyes were fixated on the destruction occurring before them."Did you call for more trucks?" Johnny asked Ernie, already knowing the answer. "Before we fucking started," answered Ernie, "but they won't be here until maybe another fucking thirty minutes." "This is our moment of truth." "You fucking said it." With only one hose, the truck could only put out one fire at a time, but luckily, ten men, not including Johnny and Ernie, came with them. It wasn’t standard procedure to go in a compromised building alone, but the houses were relatively small compared to big buildings. Plus, they needed to know if there were people still inside these houses, and going in them one at time was a surefire way of sending several men, women, or children to their death. At least with one person in each house, there was a chance, however small, that lives could be saved, or preserved until the other trucks came. When the truck stopped, Johnny, Ernie, and the rest started at high speed, getting the hose ready and backing the people away from the fire and the smoke. Johnny would handle the crane and the hose while Ernie kept tabs on the rest of the firemen. Everything was done fast, and everyone played their part like a Broadway show. As Johnny started spraying a house, he kept wrapping his mind around this mystery of a disaster. Who was responsible? How did they do it? And why did they do it? Thirty minutes passed by in a flash, and just as Johnny was working the hose to the third house, and as the other trucks were parking nearby, ten calls, one at a time, came to Ernie’s radio. No one was in any of the houses. Since Johnny was busy, he didn’t immediately know what was going on, but he saw Ernie, from the corner of his eye, pacing back and forth, his mouth open wide and his brow furrowed deep. Anyone could tell he was frustrated and confused, and cursing to high heaven. When Ernie finally stopped him and explained the situation, Johnny’s eyes went wide with wonder, fear, and amazement. From the get-go, he didn’t think this was a normal, routine disaster; now, Johnny knew there was nothing remotely normal about these fiery houses. Of course, this couldn’t even be called strange because strange meant something close to normal. But this was way out on left field: This was just plain wrong. Steve Ellen Every one of the residents reported being roused out of bed by The Devil and told to leave their house immediately.Johnny asked Ernie, "They actually said the Devil, Satan himself?" "Yeah," Ernie said, "a large naked man with red skin, piercing eyes, goat horns, and a tail." "Some kind of costume?" "Nobody seemed to think so. Of course, it was dark and they were sleeping and there were flames everywhere..." Johnny scratched his chin. "But look here, Ernie, if it was the Devil then why would he be saving people's lives? Wouldn't he want them to die in the fires so he could have their souls in Hell?" "That's just it," Ernie said, "These were good people from what I hear. Maybe their souls would have gone to Heaven instead. Maybe the Devil just wanted to make sure they kept living long enough to commit a few big sins." Johnny shook his head. "You know, Ernie, all this sounds incredible to me. Are you sure you haven't been drinking?" "What? No! These people saw the Devil, Johnny!" Later, the news media picked up the story and there was a lot of speculation on the cable channels about why Satan was playing good guy by saving people and who the heck set the fires in the first place. By the time Johnny was interviewed he had some theories. "I think Satan set the Ten House Fires, himself," Johnny said. "He set up the situation to make himself look good. Only he's so used to committing evil that he didn't realize how suspicious it would look if ten houses all burned down together." The anchor nodded in agreement. "But don't you think it's remarkable that he would show himself at all? It's not like you see the Devil everyday." "I think he's just adjusting to modern times. In the old days everybody knew him well and he was always being talked about. Now he's ignored. He wanted his 15 minutes of fame. But at the last minute he had an insight and realized if everybody died then no one would attribute the fires to the Devil. They would think there was some natural or scientific explanation. So he had to show himself and save the victims so they could testify to his existence." The anchor shook hands with Johnny, then addressed the camera. "Our latest poll shows 33% believing Yes, there is a Devil. while 60% believe Are you out of your freakin' mind?. That's a 10 point change since before the Ten House Fires. Stay with us. After this commercial I'll be back with a Republican and a Democrat to argue the significance of the surge in Devil Worship for the 2012 elections." * * * Sugar In The Morning Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at suppertime. Jack liked sugar. Fructose, glucose, or sucrose -- if it was sweet he ate it. He drank bottles of corn syrup to wash down the granulated sugar. Sometimes he spiced things up with honey or molasses. On Saturday morning he treated himself to a bottle of authentic maple syrup from Maine and on Sunday evening he had his favorite desert -- brown sugar pie. Of course, he ate other things besides sugar -- things like marshmallows, jelly beans, gummy bears, sugar daddies -- and sometimes he would even eat cakes and cookies, although only if they were made with as little flour as possible. He didn't like the way the flour smothered the taste of the sugar. Mike Whitacre He was a ghastly sight, of course, because he never left room for meat and fruits and vegetables. No, Jack wasn't portly. That is often the misconception people have about other people who have bad habits that affect their health. Generally, most people are thick because they are born that way, and they are, at times, healthier than some skinny people. Anyway, Jack was neither skinny nor big, neither muscular nor fat. He looked a little more hansom than a mummy and uglier than a ghoul. If he could be described in one word, it would be “decay”. His teeth were decaying, his muscles were decaying, and his skin color was decaying to a dreadful pail.Whatever kept him alive was anyone’s guess. If he ever went to the doctor, he’d be a medical mystery, for sure. Or with any luck attributed to reality, they’d find a completely different disease, new stage of diabetes, or numerous areas of cancer growth. It should be stated, in as far as stories go, that the moral of this story has nothing to do with errors of bad health, bad teeth, or even, bad hygiene. If there is a moral, it has more to do with the rather peculiar instance of Jack’s death, which was not brought about by heart-disease. His death came early in the morning, and this could only mean death came at a very uncomfortable and inconvenient hour. And the cause of his death was at his doorstep, ringing the doorbell and rousing Jack from fifth cup of sugary tea. The person at Jack’s doorstep, ringing Jack’s doorbell, happened to be a cannibal who happened to pick Jack’s house to find his meal. Of course, when Jack opened the door, the cannibal didn’t just up and bite him. This cannibal had standards: he preferred his food to be dead before he ate it, and he didn’t like eating brains. So, he convinced Jack to let him in before he shot Jack in the head and began preparing Jack for his meal. Why the cannibal didn’t immediately see that Jack wasn’t a happy meal, or why he didn’t stop eating Jack before realizing Jack had too much sugar in his blood can’t very well be known. Perhaps the cannibal was just too desperate for a meal, and would have eaten Paris Hilton, if she had opened the door. Or he was in the mood for some junk food, for a cannibal is still a human being and any human being is a sucker for indulging in treats. Whatever the reason, the cannibal ate everything that was attached to Jack’s bones, save the brain and eyes. No sooner had he finished did the cannibal suddenly have a heart attack, killing him before he could walk out the door. Huh? What about the moral? Well, I guess it’s this: There’s nothing wrong with being a human who makes wrong choices like eating nothing but sugary delights… after all, it may mean one less cannibal roaming the earth. * * * A Sucker, For Life Idiot, moron, sucker… yeah, that was me, now and forever. There was nothing much I could do about it, not with the bad luck that follows me like a black cloud. It even followed me here, after taking a friend’s advice to get help. I should’ve known a shrink was a bad idea, but I had to give my friend the benefit of the doubt. Now I’m waking up in a closet with my hands tied. The shrink, and nice looking broad with an ugly personality, knocked me out with some gas for some hellish reason. All I remember was her saying “Intriguing” after I told her why I punched someone in the face: the guy was bugging me with a “Save the Earth” petition I didn’t want to sign. I can only say “no” so many times before getting annoyed. Steve Ellen I admit it was probably a mistake to go to a female shrink. Everybody knows the best shrinks are bald-headed men with beards and a German accent. But I found out pretty quick that German shrinks like that run $200 an hour or more! Some of these chick shrinks are pretty cheap. I selected one in the $50 range. OK, now I realize that was a mistake. You get what you pay for.It started off well enough. I had my little anger management problem and on her sign, which was hand-lettered with a marker, it clearly stated "anger management issues addressed". She had a long list of issues she addressed on her poster... or sign. I only say poster because it was one of those 22"x28" pieces of white cardboard they sell at WalMart and I have always called them poster boards. I don't remember all the other issues she mentioned, although I'm pretty sure several of them had to do with sex. That's probably the biggest part of a shrink's job I would imagine -- dealing with sex problems. I knew this one guy who could never get it up with a broad unless he felt like he was raping her. Consensual sex just didn't do it for him. I don't know what my female shrink would have told him. I guess we'll never know since he's doing life in a federal penitentiary. Maybe I should tell you my shrink's name. Sorry that I forgot to do that. I'm not a professional writer. By trade I'm a folding chair salesman. Not the kind of job you would think would cause a lot of anger issues, right? But I don't blame my job for my anger. I blame my childhood and my neighbors and the current state of the economy. I think it's about equal parts of all three. Everybody knows the economy sucks. People aren't buying folding chairs like they were during the housing boom. Back then people were buying 3 or 4 houses at the time: one to live in, one for vacations, and 1 or 2 more for investments. That's a lot of furniture needed if you're going to be able to sit down in all 4 houses. Folding chair sales went through the roof. Then came the big collapse and now you can't give them away. I see them sitting beside the curb waiting for the trashman to haul them away. My second big problem is my neighbors. What a bunch of assholes. If my dog craps on their yard then they raise hell. If I want to listen to a little rock and roll after midnight they raise hell. Listen to this for a prime example of what assholes they are. I own a really great car, a Plymouth Barracuda with the biggest V-8. Well, there's no point in having a big engine if you can't hear it, is there? So of course I have installed reamed out mufflers on that baby and even when she's idling you have to shout to make yourself heard. It's awesome. You would think my neighbor would say, "Cool car, dude!" but instead he bribes the police to stop by and tell me I'm making too much noise. I asked the cop, "How much did that old fart pay you to say I'm making too much noise?" and I'll be damned if the cop wasn't an asshole, too! The world is FULL of assholes! I first became angry in childhood. I would have had a normal childhood if I had decent parents, but the ones I had were the pits. My old man had a dinky job that only paid enough for him to buy a house, a car, food to eat, and clothes to wear... or so he claimed. Whenever I wanted anything like a pony or a motorcycle he would pop out with some lame excuse like 'We don't have any yard to keep a pony in," or "A nine-year-old boy doesn't need a motorcycle." Always I was denied my dreams! Is it no wonder I spent half my childhood feeling angry! And my mom was no better. She would just make up excuses for him. "Your father works hard to put a roof over our head and clothes on our back." I would say, "Mom, why don't you get a job! He doen't make enough money. If you got a job then I could have a motorcycle!" But she was just wanted to stay at home and add to my suffering. I had a brother and sister but they don't count. Basically just two nuisances living in the house with me using up my dad's money that should have been used for toys for me. Sometimes I would demand that my brother run away from home but he would always start crying and say he didn't know where to go and I would actually feel sorry for him. I don't know why. He's seeing a shrink himself now. I think he claims nobody loved him. Why should they? What a little twirp. Well... anyway... here I sit in this closet, tied up like a pig going to slaughter. Geez, I hope this shrink lady is not one of those crazy serial killer broads like you see on TV. That would be the ultimate bad luck, wouldn't it? But I wouldn't be surprised if she is. Once again the world is playing me for an idiot moron sucker. And you know what? That makes me angry! * * * Mission To Miami Tony Lazaro hit the scan button on the big convertible's radio but there was nothing but country music, baptist preachers, hip hop, and spanish language talk shows on the air. Since he wasn't country, religious, black, or hispanic, he turned the radio off and listened to the tires humming and the wind blowing past the windshield. The sky was blue, the clouds were fluffy, and the interstate mile markers were zipping past at a satisfying rate. Mike Whitacre After a minute of listening to the endless drone of this endless road, Tony decided to start a cigarette. The smoke that he blew out of his mouth and nostrils was instantly left behind as the car continued. A mixture of fresh air and cancerous nicotine was like desert for his lungs, and he relished every second as the roar of the engine sent a thrill of ecstasy to his ears. It was as if he was on the road for no reason, as if he was going until he ran out of gas and was content with any destination he’d be arriving at. But he had a destination: Miami.He prepared this trip to make it painfully obvious he was aiming for a tropical vacation: big red convertible, big sunglasses, hot red buttoned shirt, and a straw hat. All he needed was a trunk full of cocaine and he’d be the epitome of a Miami Lord… but he wasn’t going that far. Tony let out a laugh he couldn’t help as he held his cigarette an inch away from the car. Thoughts couldn’t help but race through his mind, humoring him, which was ironic because this trip was supposed to be about racing away from thoughts. As he continued driving, his eyes caught hold of a broken down, black Corvette at the side of the road, with a lady standing outside of it, waving at him. She was tall, short black hair, purple tank-top, short jean-shorts, and white sneakers. She was an angel any man would’ve prayed for on this open road, and since Ton was one of those men, he pulled over a ways in front of the Corvette. The lady ran to him and yelled, “Thank you! Thank you!” From the rear-view mirror, he saw her running with a good sized black purse, but he was more interested in how her natural bust reacted as she ran, like something off of Bay Watch. When she came to the front seat door, Tony asked, “Where you headed?” “Just to the closest town so I could get a tow,” she answered, leaning against the door. Then she held out a hand: “My name Georgia.” Shaking her hand, he said, “Tony. Get in.” Georgia hopped in and sat down on the seat and then put on her seat belt. As he pulled out, she asked if he could spare her a smoke. He tossed the pack and the lighter to her lap. She immediately monkey slapped the pack, then she pulled one cigarette out with her teeth. She lit the cigarette as if her life depended on it, and then she expressed a loud noise of pleasure as soon as she began smoking it. With a sigh, Georgia asked, “So where’re you headed, Tony?” “Miami,” he answered, placing his cigarette between his lips. “Me too,” she said with a short giggle. “Business or pleasure?” “A little bit of both,” he said cryptically. “You look like you’re going there to die.” Tony’s jaw dropped and he nearly let his cigarette fall onto his lap, but he closed his mouth fast enough. “How could you tell?” “Men were never hard to read to me. They all have the same, expressionless look when they’re ready to die… but I digress. It was just a guess. Sorry for bringing it up. “Not a problem,” Tony said, his thoughts speeding back up to him. Steve Ellen Sure, he was going to Miami to die. That was the only way to end something he never should have started. But he did start it and it got too big for him. Now his girlfriend was dead and if he didn't pay the money that Friendly Frank was asking for, then Tony would be dead too. Something must have shown on his face because Georgia said, "Look, Tony, I'm sorry if I said something to make you feel bad. I was just making a crack about that to die thing." Tony glanced at her. "No, don't apologize. You guessed right, that's all. I'm going to Miami to die." Georgia looked hard at him. Maybe he was pulling her leg, putting her on for a gag. You pick up some chick on the road and feed her a lot of bullshit about death and Miami. "Why?" she asked. "You really want to know?" "I wouldn't ask if I didn't. You're helping me out with this ride. Maybe I can help you about by listening to your story." Tony thought about that one. He didn't feel any need to tell his story until she mentioned it. But now it seemed like a good idea. For one thing, after Friendly Frank and Tony and whoever got in the way was dead, then at least this Georgia chick would know why. For another thing, maybe she would make sure his car got to his brother's house. His little brother had always admired Tony's convertible. And Tony liked the idea of leaving him something to remember him by. "Yeah," Tony said. "I'll tell you. Maybe you're right. Maybe it would do me some good. There's a guy in Miami that I owe money to. Lots of money. He's the kind of guy that don't like to be stiffed on a loan. If you can't pay then you suffer a little bit until you pay something. You keep suffering more and more until pretty soon that's all you want to do is pay the money so the suffering will stop." "What did he do to you?" Georgia said. She didn't think Tony looked like he had suffered much. He was healthy and tan and wearing good clothes and driving a nice car. "He killed my girl," Tony said. Georgia gasped. "Murdered her?" She tucked her black purse in beside her next to the car door. "After some fun and games, what you might call torture, I guess, with me a thousand miles away listening to it on my cell phone." "That's awful! Why didn't you call the police?" Tony tossed away his cigarette butt. "It's not the kind of thing you can go to the cops about. I would end up in jail. Anyway, I want to take out that bastard myself. It won't be easy because he's well-protected. But I'm pretty sure I can get Friendly Frank before his goons get me." Georgia guffawed. "Friendly Frank? That's his name? You're putting me on, aren't you?" Tony aimed a hard look at her. "I didn't name the guy. That's the name he gave me." "Wait a minute," she said. "It's not Frank Callow, is it? He used to run a used car lot called Friendly Frank's." "Is he a big guy with white hair and a mole the size of a penny on his forehead?" Georgia put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide. "What's the matter?" Tony said. "You know the guy?" "He's my father-in-law! Or he will be after I marry Frankie, Jr. That's why I'm going to Miami. To get married." They looked at each other. "It's a strange world, ain't it?" Tony said. Georgia's face was thoughtful. "Yeah... it is. Did Frank Callow really kill your girlfriend?" "It's the God's truth. He didn't do it with his own hand, but he called the shots. It was done on his orders." "Pull over, Tony." Her voice sounded different, harder. When he looked over she had a gun in her hand, pointed at his belly. It must have been in her black purse. "Sure," he said. "I'll pull over. So what's the deal? You're gonna get yourself sent up on a murder rap just so your good-for-nothing future father-in-law can keep on hurting and killing people?" Mike Whitacre "Just pull over and we'll talk," Georgia said, her voice almost sounded tortured, but he wasn't going to give up his life for a chance she was fake with threats. She didn't look like the kind of gal to put a gun to a total stranger for no reason, but she definitely had a steady hand and knew how to use a gun.So he pulled over without saying another word. As soon as the car stopped he reached for the keys, but she stopped him by saying, "Keep it running." "What do you want to talk about?" Tony asked, putting his hands slowly into the air after pulling the brake leaver. "Were you telling the truth?" she asked. "If I knew you had a gun, I would’ve told you I was going to Miami for a sex change.” With a smirk and a glimmer in her eyes, Georgia said, “Okay, Costello, how do you expect to take on Friendly Frank without a gun?” “I thought I’d just walk in and get shot,” Tony replied. “Let me rephrase the question,” she said as she flipped the cigarette out of the car with her free hand. She then flipped the gun forward and caught the muzzle, the butt pointing at him. “Why go there to die when you can accomplish so much more with a hostage? Tony studied her face, unable to figure out her story. “You’re not exactly a girl looking to be a bride in Miami, are you?” “The internet is a fine tool, Mr. Lazaro. At times, it can make for a perfect undercover operation.” His eyes rolled down to the gun, the up to Georgia’s face, and then back to the gun. With a careless smile, and befuddled eyes, Tony said, “In these situations, I should have a lot of questions to ask, but for whatever reason, I really don’t want to know.” “Is that a yes?” With a nod, he grabbed the butt of the gun and tried to take it, but it was clear that Georgia had the stronger grip, and used it to pull him in for a kiss. That surprised him, but it pleased him enough to play along. After the kiss, Tony smiled and remarked, “You’re pretty forward for someone I don’t even know.” “Well,” Georgia said, “we’re both risking our lives to take down Friendly Frank, so I think we’re way beyond hellos at this point.” Somehow, though the sun had been beating down on them long enough to be scorching, Tony’s body had just started to feel warm as he stared at Georgia, who was staring back with lustful suggestion. He didn’t notice before, but she had the kind of lips that were like a flower or a red fruit, wet after the evening dew. He had this sudden urge to kiss her again, and there was an inkling of an idea, in his head, to put better use to this convertible, instead of ramming it into a gangster’s car dealership. Steve Ellen Tony moved the convertible over to a cooler spot under the shade of some trees and put down it's top. Then he pulled down Georgia's top. It was an hour later before they were back on the road. In Miami, Tony found Friendly Frank's house with the help of Georgia's directions. Under his shirt, thanks to georgia, he had a very tiny wireless microphone taped to his chest. In Georgia's big black purse was the receiver and recorder. She would wait outside while he maneuvered Frank into admitting he had been responsible for the death of Tony's girlfriend. Then Tony would leave. That was the plan. The recording would be enough to arrest Friendly Frank. That was the plan. Frank answered the door and recognized Tony right away. "I've come to pay you the rest," Tony said. Frank looked around to see if Tony was alone. "Come on in." There was another man in the house, a big man with a gun. "It's alright. Victor," Frank said. "One of my customers." Frank sat down behind a desk and motioned Tony into a chair placed in front of it. "OK, let's see what you got." "You know you didn't have to kill my girl," Tony said. "I would have paid you without you doing that." "That was a mistake. I already told you that. My man got a little too eager. It should never have happened. I'm sorry it happened. So forget about it." "That's not easy to do when someone you love gets killed." "So what's the deal?" Frank said. "Did you come here to pay me or not? Because you're in my house now. You know?" "Yeah, I know," Tony said and he lunged over the desk and grabbed Frank around the throat. Their struggle knocked over a chair and Victor came in with his gun drawn. Tony pulled Frank around to block himself from the gun. Victor didn't fire as his hand holding the gun wavered, looking for a clear shot that wouldn't run the risk of hitting Frank. Georgia's voice rang out. "Drop it, Victor!" He whirled around to confront her with his gun up and her gun barked twice. Victor fell heavily to the floor. The gun tumbled from his hand and Georgia snapped it up. Frank was gasping for breath with Tony's hands locked aound his windpipe. "Tony!" Georgia said. "Let him go! Don't kill him! Let the law handle this! You promised me!" Tony stared at her, his eyes wild, but gradually his eyes quieted and he released Frank. Frank lay on his back, wheezing as his lungs struggled for air. Georgia held her gun on him. She gave Victor's gun to Tony. "Keep them covered," she said, "while I phone for help." "Thank you," Tony said. She smiled and kept her eyes on him while she talked to the dispatcher. When she hung up she said, "After they cart away these hoodlums, can you give me a ride to the garage to pick up my Corvette?" "Sure," he said. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go." * * * Mike Whitacre Gold Biters The sun beamed through the huge windows of the lobby and illuminated the long, silken-shiny brown hair that draped over Norman Burg’s shoulders as he tapped, with one finger and in one spot, impatiently upon the front desk as the secretary searched for his appointment. From his bulldozer shaped jaw to his ram’s forehead, anyone could see he was glazed with perspiration, but wasn’t about to wipe off the sweat. The secretary, a scrawny looking guy who probably would be wearing a cap on backwards and sport some bling, if he wasn’t working right now, shot his eyes a few times at Norman, who was built like a heavy weight champion. “Hot week, huh?” the secretary said, with a smile and an exhausted laugh. “I’ve lived in New York for most of my life, and it gets some pretty hot summers there, but nothing like in California. Been here for a couple years, yet I can’t seem to get used to it, yah know?” Norman didn’t answer, nor did he attempt a voiceless response. He just turned his head and kept tapping. That probably kicked the guy in the nuts, metaphorically speaking. He didn’t mean to disregard the secretary, but he couldn’t relate to anyone who was from the East Coast, making a home in the West Coast. A California summer is all kinds of heat, and if he was in a desert he’d probably be complaining, but Norman enjoyed the sun and sweat, whether he was in the North, South, Central Valley, or Sierras of California. Finally, the secretary found his appointment and gave the okay for him to take an elevator ride to the thirtieth floor. Norman smacked the top desk and gave the guy a thumbs-up. Then he walked into an empty elevator. When the doors were closed and the elevator was making its way up, Norman gave himself a hard look into the mirror of the elevator. Then he smiled, but it wasn’t big and white, it was big and gold. Every tooth was crowned with the sun glistening metal, and it turned him from a long haired serious man to a rap artist in a second. Closing his mouth and keeping himself standing still as he patiently waited for the elevator to reach his intended destination, it was obvious the gold teeth weren’t a style choice or a symbol of his wealth and stature. He had the air of a man who had just woken up to a whole new life that didn’t suit him. Not too many things bugged Norman, but he was bugged by the gold mine in his mouth. There was only one person in his mind that could possibly have an explanation for this expensive surprise, and Norman intended to get to the bottom of it, one way or another. As soon as the elevator came to the seventh floor, it stopped and its doors opened to a dirty blond in a blue dress, looking at her iPhone. She lifted her eyes for a second then walked in as she continued to give the phone her complete attention. Steve Ellen Norman looked her up and down and liked what he saw. She had a figure that filled out her blue dress very nicely and her face was sweet. However, she kept chatting away on her iPhone and paid no attention to Norman. When the elevator doors opened at his floor she got out with him. And when he opened the door to Dr. Filling's office, he held it for her to walk in first. Apparently she also had a dental appointment with the good dentist. Norman sat close enough to her that he could easily start up a conversation. When she hung up her iPhone Norman was ready. "Have you been to Dr. Filling before?" he asked. "Yes, he's my regular doctor." "Does he do gold crowns?" "I suppose so. I wouldn't know. I don't have any crowns." A dental assistant appeared and ushered Norman in to one of the side rooms to sit in a dental chair. As soon as Dr. Filling walked into the room Norman opened his mouth wide and pointed at his mouth full of gold crowns. "Look at this!" Norman said. "Look at this!" "Yes?" Dr. Filling said. "You have a problem with one of your crowns?" "Doc! A week ago I didn't have any gold crowns! Someone drugged me and did this while I was passed out from the drugs." Dr. Filling looked surprised. "Really? Why would anyone do that?" "I don't know, Doc. That's why I am here. You tell me." "Are you accusing ME of doing it?" "No, but you're a dentist. Take a look at my teeth. Tell me who you think might have done it." Dr. Filling put up his hands. "How can I do that? How would I know? What do you think I am? Some kind of tooth detective? It could be anybody who did your crowns." "At least take a look, Doc." "Fine, I will look, but I don't expect to see anything that would solve your problem. Let me adjust the chair." Norman tilted his head back and Dr. Filling moved the high-intensity light to shine into Norman's mouth. Then a careful examination began. After a few moments Dr. Filling said, "Hmmm... this is interesting." Norman said, as best as he could with Dr. Filling's fingers in his mouth, "What is it, Doc? Did you find something?" Mike Whitacre “Well,” said the dentist, coughing into a handkerchief as he put the tools away, “it seems some left a small, carved inscription under each of our buck teeth. A capital letter for each, in fact, but that’s not the oddest part: the letters are very clear when looking at them with the mirror tool.”“What’re the initials?” “The initials are Z.O. Does that mean anything to you?” Norman’s face was plain and focused. He seemed to be thinking of something, but if he was thinking of something it must’ve only lasted a second because he shrugged and said, “Can’t say it does, Doc. Is it okay to scram?” “Sure, I guess. Sorry I couldn’t this mystery of yours.” Standing up, Norman patted the Dr. Filling’s shoulder and said, “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure it’ll all be revealed in time… I’ll pay the bill when you send it to me, Doc.” He then left the side room and entered the main office, where the woman, who was still chatting away at her iPhone as she was sitting down, shot a quick glance at him then stared back at the smart phone. It might’ve just been him, but he felt as if that glance was a bit suspicious. Norman decided to play it cool and walk out of the office without saying a word, while keeping her in his periphery, but as he passed her, she grabbed his hand. He felt a small piece of paper pressing against his palm. Then she said, in just above a whisper, “Go straight to the elevator and wait for me there. If I’m not there within three minutes, take the elevator and take a taxi to the address on the paper. Please, don’t ask questions yet.” Not knowing what else to do, he placed the paper into his pocket and exited the office. As he made his way to the elevator, he thought about how convenient this was, having that woman giving him orders as if she were some sort of spy or cop… probably a cop. Anyway, it was really convenient after figuring out who was behind his gold crowns. It was unfortunate that he had to lie to Dr. Filling about not knowing the initials, Z.O. Those initials did mean something to him, alright, meant something really bad, too. Anyway, he’d have to solve that problem when he was more able to, for now he had to wait for this elevator to open so that lady and him could get out of here, whatever the damn hurry was. As he waited, Norman tapped his feet impatiently. In less than a minute, the elevator doors finally opened, revealing a tall man in a black trench coat, black glasses, and long black hair in a ponytail. The guy looked weird, but he also looked tough, not the kind of guy Norman would choose to pick a fight with, if he had the choice. Weirdly enough, the man smiled when he saw Norman and reached for something. Just as he saw the big knife the man had, Norman heard a woman’s voice yelled, “Get down!” Norman fell to the floor as he heard gunshots. Steve Ellen The guy in the trenchcoat fell backwards against the elevator interior with blood already staining his chest. The blonde in the blue dress held a smoking pistol in her hand. She kicked the trenchcoat guy in the side and when he didn't budge, she pressed the elevator buttons for the top floor and jumped out before the doors closed. "Come on," she said, grabbing Norman's hand. "We'll go down the stairs." "Who was that guy?" Norman asked. "Sharky Max, assassin for hire. Haha! Sounds like the title for a old school TV series, doesn't it?" He didn't laugh with her. "Is he dead?" "I hope so. But Mister Gee is going to be looking for revenge either way." "Mister Gee?" "Yeah, he's Zachariah's new Minister of Security, if you want to call it that. Chief thug? Maybe that's a better title." He looked at her. Under the dirty blonde hair was a cute face, but tough in attitude, like she had a hard childhood. There was a sprinkle of freckles across her small nose that softened the effect that her strong chin and hard green eyes made. "And how do you fit into the little world of Zachariah Obediah?" he asked. "I'm not on his side if that's what you're wondering. Let's just say I'm a freelance operative out to get what she can. Is that good enough for you?" He gestured at his mouthful of shiny gold. "You know anything about these teeth?" "Yeah, they're gold and sparkle like pirate treasure. Nice effect, glamour boy." "I mean who put them in there? You don't think I asked for these, do you?" She shrugged. "Why not? My name's Ella, by the way, Norman." "Where are we going, Ella?" They had reached the ground floor and were out on the sidewalk. She looked around. "Where's your car?" "Next block." "Can you leave it there?" Norman shook his head. "I could but I don't want to. Why don't you tell me where we are going and I'll just follow you there." She looked at him thoughtfully. "You know this is for your own good, right? You almost got knifed back there if it wasn't for me. You're not going to split on me, are you?" "No, I'm curious. I want to hear more. I want to know why Zachariah Obediah put these gold teeth in my mouth." "This is my yellow Mustang. Get in your car and come back this way because we'll be heading west toward the beach." Mike Whitacre Norman followed Ella's yellow Mustang in his black Nissan 370z all the way to the beach. The bright sun was giving the lonely sand a nice tan as the blue glimmering ocean caressed it with a gentle tide. Despite all the whack-jobs, perverts, and stupid kids that came in droves to conquer the California beaches, there were still numerous spots where you’d find nothing but a salty, whispery sea wind, the simple murmurs of the splashes and waves and seagulls, and a toasty sun. This was the California you couldn’t write in a movie script, and it was the kind of peace you’d never get from a peace sign or bumper sticker.After parking the car and switching off the ignition, he exited the car and waited for her to do the same. As soon as she was out of her car, her hair waved with the wind like clothes clipped to a string on a windy day. “Why are we here?” he asked her, speaking at a volume barely above the wind and the waves from the endless ocean. Ha, he thought, when a splash is made, several miles from the shore, it does make a sound. “To talk,” she said, walking over to him. “We won’t be interrupted by anything here. Also, my Match.com ad says I like ‘long walks on the beach,’ so I thought why not use you to see how much I’d like sharing this supposed enjoyment of mine.” “You tell a lot of jokes.” “Therapist says it’s because I have daddy issues.” “Do you?” “Does anybody have those issues, especially if they had the boring, un-cool parents growing up?” “Not everyone is that lucky.” “If they aren’t, they still shouldn’t rely on Freudian clap-trap, they have enough problems… Now, where were we?” “You were going—.” Norman tried to say something, but Ella interrupted him by sticking her tongue in his mouth as she gave him a very wet, very passionate kiss. He was a bit wide-eyed and befuddled, but he wasn’t about to pull away from it, either. After the kiss, Ella said, “That was nice.” “What was that for?” Norman asked. “I was wondering what it’d be like to kiss a man with gold teeth. Though, I have to admit, I forgot about the gold the second I did it.” “On the subject, why do I have these things?” “It’s Zachariah’s signature, a little thing he does before he kills someone.” “I know a lot about Zach, and though he’s dangerous, he does not have a signature.” “Not in the past couple years, but he has recently been contemplating a signature. He wants something catchy and edgy at the same time. If this gold teeth thing doesn’t work out, he’s planning to go a cheaper route, using a mold of the dead body to put the dead body in an aluminum shell of its own image. Seems like it’d be cool, but might be a little too creepy, don’t you think?” “You honestly can’t be for real?” Smiling, Ella said, “I’m as real as they come, Norm, and after a nice stroll on the beach, you won’t believe your eyes what we’ll do next.” © Copyright 2011 Steve Ellen, Mike Whitacre, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. 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