Dead Like Me: A Talk with Rube (A Story of “Fortune”)

a fan fiction by andrew j bartlett

Goodwin Fortune always thought his name carried a twisted irony with it. He was never a very unlucky person, but things never really seemed to go his way, either. The circumstances of his death, for example; circumstances of which he was always reminded whenever the first of the month came around and he stood in front of the doors to Der Waffle Haus.

He adjusted his bowtie and went in, delaying his meeting no further.

The popular breakfast establishment was, ironically, full of life this morning, as Goodwin made his way to the usual booth. He passed by tables heavily occupied with raucous children, who had plastered the tables and the walls with their platters and completed the job with multiple condiments; every so often, he would see an elderly couple in a corner booth, looking on and remembering the days when they were young enough to get away with tearing up a place in such a fashion. Goodwin always found himself mildly jealous, when watching the young and the old alike.

He finally spotted his party: a man who looked older than him, physically, but was even older when one got to know him. The man wore an argyle sweater – he seemed to have quite the collection of those – and his curly hair was cut short. To his side was the binder that carried the information Goodwin was going to need for the next month; and in front of him were three platters, piled high with various breakfast foods – primarily pancakes.

As the man was carving into one stack of pancakes, he noticed Goodwin’s arrival. “Ah, Good!” he said. “Lovely to see you, sit down. You want anything?”

Goodwin sat down in the opposite seat and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Kiffany,” the man said, turning to the large, black waitress who had just given him his food, “get the man an orange juice, please.”

“Mmhmm,” Kiffany replied.

The man gave her a wide, warm smile. “You’re a doll,” he said, and proceeded to stuff his face with a forkful of pancake.

Goodwin watched him chew the mouthful, waiting patiently.

After swallowing the bite, the man looked at him and said, “It’s good to see you, kid.”

“Thanks, Rube,” he replied meekly. “Always nice to see you, as well.”

“Eh, you’re full of shit,” Rube said, putting down the fork and playfully waving off Goodwin’s polite response. “But that’s okay. You’re still new.”

Rube grabbed the binder, and started to unravel the twine that kept it together. “What’s it been, now,” he said, “five months?”

Goodwin nodded. “Just about.”

The twine completely unraveled, and Rube opened the binder. Inside, it was organized, with color tabs and everything in its place. Rube ran his finger down the color tabs and came to Goodwin’s: a light green tab among all of the darker tabs of Rube’s other charges. This made sense to Goodwin, considering…

“Ah, thank you, Kiffany,” Rube said as the waitress brought Goodwin his orange juice and proceeded to walk away.

“Go ahead,” he said, looking at Goodwin, then down at the glass in front of him. “Drink up. This will only take a minute.”

Goodwin wasn’t thirsty. “I’m not thirsty,” he said.

Rube only smiled, reading a page from his binder and writing things down on light blue Post-It notes. Aside from him, Goodwin was the only person who knew what Rube was writing down on those little blue notes.

A couple minutes passed, with Goodwin not saying anything and not drinking the juice, before Rube was done writing and closed the binder. He gently tore the used Post-It notes from their stack and handed them professionally to Goodwin. He looked them over, and looked back at Rube, confusion painted upon his face.

“There are only six people, here,” he said.

Rube nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Six people… for a whole month?”

Rube continued to look directly at him. “That’s what I had for you, son.”

“But,” Goodwin felt his breath catch at the top of his throat, and he could feel the anxiety starting to take bloom. He took a breath to calm himself, but it only worked a little. “That means only six people get a second chance, in a thirty-day period. I only save… twenty percent of the time.”

“Now, that’s one way to look at it,” Rube said, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. “Or, you could look at it as six people getting a second chance. A second chance that, without you, they would otherwise not have. When it comes down to it, twenty percent ain’t bad.”

Goodwin still felt the anxiety, now in his stomach. “But so many people are going to die.”

Rube unfolded his arms and leaned forward, looking at Goodwin with a concern so genuine it was unthinkable to question it. “People die all the time, son. Hell, I should know – I’ve been in the game for longer than I’d care to acknowledge. And in all that time, up until five months ago, we never had someone like you among the ranks. Never before had the system been put into question, never before had there been a mistake in the system; however, since you came along, the system’s been thrown into the spotlight, and amends need to be made. And while the powers-that-be could not put you back in the world of the living, they gave you the next best thing: the opportunity to right the system and give people the chance you were never able to have.”

“I know,” Goodwin said, looking from Rube to the blue notes in front of him.

“Now, don’t be so depressed. Shit happens. It’s not only a rule of life, it’s also a rule of death; probably the biggest one, as death is normally the ultimate shit that happens.”

Goodwin grinned. He couldn’t help it: Rube was very good at putting things into perspective. It didn’t take much, and that was probably why, he wagered to guess, Rube was in charge of not only himself but five other people.

“I am sorry we have to meet like this,” Rube said. “Cloak and dagger is not really my style, but I hope you can come to forgive the secrecy. I have a couple characters on the other side of things who would possibly shit bricks if they knew you existed.”

He had heard the stories of Rube’s other charges; Reapers, who were charged in the afterlife to help souls cross from the mortal world to whatever was meant for them in the next one. Thanks to the stories Rube had told him, he knew of the one Reaper who would definitely “shit bricks”: George Lass.

Goodwin had known of George before he had found out of her status as a Reaper. He had been there on the day she was obliterated by the zero-g toilet bowl from that famous space station. Duane, George’s Reaper, had asked him to come out for lunch, since they were both going to be in the same area around the same time. Goodwin was glad to have had that moment of camaraderie, even if the two of them were playing on opposite sides of the same team, but had been saddened to hear that Duane was no longer a Reaper; “a promotion”, Rube had told him, and left it at that.

He had saved three people from the debris of the catastrophe of that day. Their stories, while making it to the smaller, more local newspapers in Seattle were nowhere near as big as the story of George’s explosive demise. It even earned her the nickname of “Toilet Seat Girl” among the gang of undead she had met upon becoming a Reaper. And from Rube’s accounts, or at least what he was willing to divulge with Goodwin, he got the impression that George would not be happy to learn that Goodwin had not only been there on the day of her death, but also on the night of her first Reap. However, he couldn’t help but agree with the forever-18-year-old when it came down to who to save and who to let go: while she had to take the soul of an 8-year-old girl, he had to save that of the 45-year-old train conductor.

The discussion between Rube and Goodwin after that was nowhere near as explosive as the one rumored between Rube and George, but it was still firmly impressed into Goodwin’s mind that all of the ethics and morals established in one’s life were null and void when it came to Reaping and Redeeming. There was no choice, there was only the follow-through and the assurance that the job was done and it was completed to the fullest.

“I know it’s been a rough five months,” Rube said, breaking Goodwin from his moment of reverie and nibbling on a piece of bacon, “but don’t think that just because you have six names that only six people are given second chances. Hell, people get second chances all the time. We just don’t interfere. For the longest time, we haven’t had to. And, once again, because of the circumstances of your death, a few who were originally slated to die, no-questions-asked, are being given a second glance and chosen to be given a second chance.”

He shuddered and quickly said, “Ugh, I didn’t mean to rhyme, that last bit.”

Goodwin smiled wider, this time, feeling better just for being in Rube’s company and hearing what Rube had to say. He knew that, in time, he would understand and appreciate what the older man was constantly telling him about life, death, and second chances; he had learned, however, that five months was not a long enough time to have such an understanding.

Rube’s watch started to beep, and he looked at it after quickly shoving more pancake into his mouth. His eyes grew wide as he looked up at Goodwin, swallowed, and said, “I’m really sorry, son, but my other guys are about to show up. They still don’t know about you, and if they see you sitting here with me,” he waved his hands in an annoyed fashion, “they’ll start asking questions and get into more trouble than they do on a normal basis.”

Goodwin nodded. “I understand,” he said, taking the blue Post-Its and leaning over to shake Rube’s hand. “See you next month.”

“Happy Redeeming,” Rube smiled at him. “Oh, and while you’re at it, take this to Kiffany on your way out.”

Goodwin took the empty juice glass from Rube and made his way to the exit, with the taste of orange in the back of his mouth. He handed the glass to Kiffany and made his way out of Der Waffle Haus, dodging to the side to let a few people through. Two people, in particular, were fussing at each other, and the girl was punching the scrawny guy’s arm with a succinct and repetitive fashion; George Lass and another Reaper, Goodwin understood to be Mason, made their way to Rube’s booth. He greeted them as he had greeted Goodwin, with an order of food. He did not look up to see Goodwin leave.

As he walked outside and popped the collar of his jacket to fight off the slight breeze that had built while he was in the restaurant, Goodwin looked at the first of the notes. It was slated for two days from today, at the shopping mall on the other side of the city. The name on the note was “R. Lass”. Goodwin looked into the restaurant’s main window, watching Rube with his Reapers. He watched George for a moment, looked down at the Post-It and smiled.

Six people to save. It was going to be a good month for Goodwin Fortune.

Ginger and the Bears Three

a story by andrew j bartlett

That Bartleby is a slimy cur, Ginger thought and swore to herself.

She crashed through the trees of the woods behind the town of Merioc; a town whose population vehemently disapproved of Ginger’s fiery hair. The ”why” was always an unknown variable, but the “who” was everyone, except for Ginger herself. She loved her hair, as she was always reminded of carrots when she saw it.

And Ginger loved carrots.

Tears streamed down her face with the ingrained image of pointed fingers flashing before her eyes, and the ever present sound of laughter ringing in her ears.

Bartleby had started it, this time. Every day, someone in town would start it, but today it was Bartleby. One step out of her tiny, three-bedroom, two-bath cottage, and Bartleby was there to greet her with the jibes and jabs – verbal, but the ferocity was so violent, so evil, they may have been thousands of knives stabbing her all at once, all in various locations on her person.

She could not recall, exactly, what Bartleby had said to start the day’s persecutions, but it took no time for the rest of the town to join in and, ultimately, surround Ginger with their comments and their lewd gestures. The sun shimmered off of each town person’s golden hair, as heads shook and bounced with the vicious merriment they pushed her way. It blinded her, and added to the strength with which her already flowing tears poured from her eyes.

Before they could say one thing more, she began running. Through her cottage. Out the back door. Through the backyard. Into the woods. Ginger did not know how long she had been running since, but her legs began to tell her she had been running long enough.

It wasn’t until she ran, face-first, into the side of a cabin.

She picked herself up from the crumpled heap she had made of herself after the collision, and checked her face for any damage. Her hand revealed blood as red as her hair, from the side of her face. Quickly wiping off the blood with her sleeve, she walked around the cabin and studied it.

The cabin looked ancient, but had been well-kept over the years. It was big, and looked to have more rooms than her cottage in Merioc. Upon approaching the front door to the cabin, she read the plaque by the door.

“‘Da Bears’?” she said to herself, curious as to the weird accent she’d used in saying it.

The door was closed, and Ginger had her manners. She knocked three times and waited for a response. She did not hear any movement from behind the door, any noise that would give away any presence in the house, at all.

After waiting for what she felt was an appropriate amount of time, Ginger knocked once more; this time, a little slower and a little more determined. When she received no response, she shrugged to herself and walked away from the door.

“Oh well,” she said. “I may as well sit here and wait for these Bears to come home.”

She found a nice tree, a respectable distance away from the house while keeping it within her line of sight, and sat down under its leafy branches. The day was still early, and the sun had been harsh as the months had transitioned to the warmer seasons.

As she stared off into the distance, prepared to wait patiently for the Bears, she said to herself, “It’s not like I have anything better to do…”

A few hours later, Ginger broke from her daydream as she heard the noise of hearty conversation coming from her side of the woods. Branches cracked, leaves shuffled, and three large, furry creatures emerged from the woods’ depths. They had fishing rods in their hands, and only the smallest of the three carried their catch: four measly fish that would only be able to feed a third of the party, if prepared correctly.

They did not notice Ginger until they almost trampled on her head, in a fit of hysterical panic.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dear,” said the medium-sized creature in a sweet, sing-song voice. “For a moment there, I thought our woods had been set aflame… again.”

It gave the largest creature a conspiratorial glance, who shared it for a moment then turned back to Ginger. “Quite right,” its deep voice bellowed, “we’ve had several instances of things bursting into flame, thanks to those Goldilocks in Merioc. Can’t be too careful.”

“Pardon me,” Ginger cut in, “but who are the ‘Goldilocks’?”

The smallest creature studied her quickly before saying, “That’s what Papa calls the pale creatures from the town outside the woods.”

“Oh…” was all Ginger could say before the creature continued.

“But you do not have the yellow hair. Why? Is something wrong with you?”

“Baby!” the medium-sized creature scolded the smaller. “Where are your manners?”

Baby rolled its eyes and looked back at Ginger. “Sorry,” it said, lacking any genuine inflection.

“That’s better,” the medium-sized creature said. “Do pardon our Baby: he’s reached that age where everything good is bad, and bad is good. I’m sure you can remember what that was like, dear.”

Ginger nodded and smiled, not recalling a time when anything was opposite of what it really was.

The medium-sized creature grinned wide, baring clean, pointed teeth. “Wonderful. Now, where are my manners? We are the Bears.”

It placed a paw on its chest. “I am Mama Bear.”

She waved a paw toward the larger creature. “This is Papa Bear.”

Ginger nodded toward Papa Bear; Papa Bear let out a heavy breath in response.

Mama Bear then waved her paw at Baby Bear. “And you’ve already met Baby Bear.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you three,” said Ginger, giving a quick curtsy. “My name is Ginger, and I am from the town of which you speak; however, I am not one of their own.”

Papa Bear let out another heavy breath and said, “This would be quite obvious, as you do not share the color of the only fur on their bodies.” He shook his head, as if in disappointment. “The sun shines bright on it, and makes it difficult to see them clearly. This is not a natural thing.”

Ginger couldn’t help it: she smiled. She looked at what was in Baby Bear’s hand, and said, “Oh, dear. Did I interrupt you from something important?”

The three Bears all looked at what was in Baby’s hand. Mama Bear laughed. “Unfortunately, my dear, I would have to say that we may have to discard Baby’s catches of the day. They are not enough to sustain us for this evening’s meal time.”

Her furry face suddenly became grim. “It looks like another evening of porridge for the Bears.”

At the word porridge, both Mama and Baby shivered; Papa seemed to be the only one who did not mind. Ginger looked at Papa Bear, and before she could ask, he answered. “I do not mind porridge as much as these two,” he hefted a giant paw toward the smaller Bears, “because mine is always just right.”

“Not true,” said Baby, “it’s always too cold.”

“Now, don’t start, Baby,” Mama scolded, once more, “you know it’s always too hot.”

The Bears squabbled over the temperature of the porridge for quite some time. Ginger waited patiently, as she was taught was always proper. She stood with her hands behind her back, and waited until the Bears noticed her once again.

“Again,” said Mama, as she picked up the girl from under Papa’s foot, “terribly sorry.”

“It is no trouble,” Ginger said, wiping dirt and moss from her dress.

Mama gave her a sad grin. “I wish that were so, dear. As a way to make amends, why don’t you have dinner with us, this evening?”

Remembering the conversation regarding porridge, Ginger hazarded to ask, “Do you happen to have any carrots?”

Baby let out a rude noise of disgust, while Papa gave what Ginger translated to be a look of mockery. Mama, however, responded with words: “I’m afraid it’s only porridge, dear. We don’t even have any meat to add flavor to the porridge.”

At that, all three Bears sighed sadly and looked down at the ground.

Ginger did not like seeing her new friends in such distress. Here were three creatures who had spoken to her and none of their words had been to make fun of her appearance. Yes, they had almost trampled her in their frightened confusion, but that could be overlooked by the fact that they had offered to treat her to a dinner in their company. The best offer of food the people of Merioc had given her was to pour hot soup on her head on her previous birthday.

The people of Merioc…

At that moment, Ginger had an idea. “I have an idea!” she cried out, and after following the Bears into their home, she sat down at their dining room table and laid out the plan she had mentioned while they were still outside.

It took a couple hours to lay out the plan, including the question-and-answer portion, along with a quick break for refreshments or using the bathroom; at the end, however, the Bears had listened to Ginger’s words, and had agreed to the plan.

As the sun started to make its decent toward the horizon, Ginger bade the Bears a fond farewell and promised to return in a matter of time. She walked through the woods, calmer and more determined than she had been when making her way through them earlier; she was going to get back at the townspeople of Merioc.

One at a time.

The next day, she set foot out her door to find Bartleby and three other boys waiting for her. Bartleby looked at her, his arms folded across his chest, and sniffed with contempt.

“Well, well, well,” he said in a bravado that Ginger felt was a tad too weak to be considered bravado, “looks like our soulless Ginger has returned from her mysterious disappearance.

“Tell me,” he unfolded his arms and made his way toward her. “Where were you, all day yesterday?”

It was Ginger’s turn to fold her arms across her chest. “I’ll tell you, Bartleby.” She leaned close to the yellow-haired boy and smiled as he backed away slightly. “But, before I do, you and your goons must round up the entire town. Only then will I tell you where I was.”

Bartleby blinked, confused about Ginger’s sudden brazenness and wondering why it was he who was cowering in front of her, as opposed to the other way around.

She leaned in a little closer, the four boys stepped back a little more.

“Boo,” she said, making the boys flee and knock on every door of every home in the town.

Within the hour, the entire town of Merioc was standing at Ginger’s doorstep, keeping a safe distance. Satisfied that everyone was there, accounted for with no absentees, she put the plan into motion.

“People of Merioc!” she proclaimed. She took a bit of comfort in the reaction of the townspeople; she had not spoken to them with such strength, and it scared them.

“Yesterday,” she continued, building strength, “your actions sent me into the woods, where I found the most amazing thing my eyes have ever beheld! A place, deep in the woods, so astounding that you must visit for yourself in order to truly understand its greatness!”

She pointed at Bartleby. “And some of you, I am sad to say, have tried to destroy this place of wonder! With flames! Flames of ignorance, I say!”

Bartleby visibly gulped, and Ginger continued, “Amends must be made! And, one by one, amends will be made!”

“How can we make amends?!” one golden-haired town person cried out, as if in built-up ecstasy. “Let us make amends!”

Ginger put on her warmest smile and said, “Thank you! Thank you, to all! You must all see this place! But, in order to see it,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “you must all play by the rules.”

“What are the rules?!” the same town person shouted.

“First!” she said loudly, holding up a hand with her index finger sticking out. “One person at a time! And I choose who goes when!”

“How will you choose?!” It was, once again, the one town person.

“Well,” she said, glaring at the town person, “interrupting me with your questions will guarantee you being one of the last to see this wondrous place!”

The town person said nothing.

“Very good! Now, I wish for you all to see this as soon as possible! So, today, I will start choosing people to go!” She saw the crowd shake as one with anticipation. “As soon as I choose you, you are free to go. But make haste! You must depart as soon as I have chosen you. And, after a period of time, I will choose another person.”

Before the crowd could start in, she concluded: “However, do not pester me with making my choices. Doing so will make certain you will not see this place as quickly as you would like. Are we clear on this?”

The volume and excitement of the crowd’s agreement made Ginger take a step back. She grinned to herself.

“Very well,” she said. “The first person to make amends and see this place of wonder will be… Bartleby!”

She pointed fiercely at the boy, whose eyes had grown wide and did not seem to notice the heavy claps on the back he was receiving. Only when the crowds shouting of “Go! Go! Go!” grew loud and unbearable did Bartleby take his leave, running through the backyard of Ginger’s neighbor and into the woods.

And so it began.

Ginger had built so much excitement within the town of Merioc that nobody seemed to notice how the population was dwindling. They were more concerned about being the next person picked than they were with what anybody else was doing. To stir things up and avoid such selfish devotion being broken, Ginger sometimes chose two or three people at one time.

The town grew quieter, and Ginger began to feel more comfortable with life in Merioc.

On one particularly quiet morning, when Ginger no longer had townspeople to send into the woods, she found a mysterious parcel on her doorstep. It was wrapped in thin paper and tied with a rope ribbon. When she went back inside and opened it, she stared at it for a long time, grinning widely. She then hung it above the mantle of her fireplace.

To this day, Ginger sees the Bears on special occasions, and they reminisce of the time when the Goldilocks stumbled into their home, eating their porridge, trying their beds, and doing other things the hand-crafted signs around the house had pushed them to do.

On nights when she stays in, she looks up from her reading or knitting, and smiles at the present Mama Bear had made, that long time ago. ”Just Right,” reads the words on the piece of wood the medium-sized creature had carved for her. “Just Right.”

And on those nights, Ginger goes back to her reading or her knitting, knowing it to be true.

Secret Santa Storytime: Carson the Casanova

For the past several years, my friends and I have participated in our own version of Secret Santa. This year, I ended up with Skippy, and along with getting gifts, I decided to write a special story. Even though I already had her name, I figured I would sent an e-Mail out to the rest of the group, to get ideas for stories I could write – not just for this particular game, but maybe down the line if I didn’t have any better gift ideas for people.

The e-Mail asked for some criteria, to help give the story a little more of a personal touch. The criteria were as follows:

Main Character (name/gender [no androgynous characters, please!]/age range)

Genre (though it’s fiction, do you want it to be funny, serious, etc.?)

General Setting (town or time period or whatever/wherever/whenever you like)

General Conflict (make it interesting!)

Random Character (just the name – I’ll make up the rest)

Anything Special (any random details or things you want to see in the story – minimum of three, maximum of five)

Skippy, who plays along with these things like a champ, gave me this:

Carson-Boy-6

Funny

No preference for Setting/Time Period

Trying to impress a girl, but keeps failing (lame, but I’m not creative. If you have a better idea, help yourself )

Billy

Platypus, a booger, Ren & Stimpy, a sailboat

I was excited, because as soon as I finished reading her e-Mail, I had the story in my head. I managed to type it all out, print it out, and set it up in a manner where it looks like a 50-page book. For Christmas, this year, Skippy received my first-ever book. And now, for your viewing pleasure, I present it to the rest of you.

Enjoy.

==============================

Carson came home from school in a tizzy. He ran into his room, shut the door with a slam, and threw his knapsack onto his bed. The bag spilled its contents onto his Spider-man bed sheets, but Carson paid no attention to the mess on his bed – he had more important things on his mind.

The six-year-old made his way to the table his mother called his “Art Desk”. On top of the desk was a pad of paper, a cup filled with various pencils and pens, and Carson’s favorite stuffed toy.

As he excitedly rummaged through the drawers of the desk, Carson looked at the toy and said, “Not now, Platts, I’m on a mission.”

“Platts”, short for “Platt E. Puss”, was a cat dressed as a platypus. The toy watched as Carson sifted through the drawer filled with the various coloring utensils. It watched as the boy placed crayons, colored pencils, and a misplaced ruler onto the desktop as he continued with his search.

The pile of random art supplies had built high enough to hide Platts’ paws when, finally, Carson shouted, “A-ha!” and put an end to his search. With one hand holding his successful find, he used the other to scoop the crayons and colored pencils back into the drawer. A few of each missed their mark, falling to the floor – a stray colored pencil rolled underneath Carson’s bed.

He placed his find, a box of markers, on the desk, next to the ruler he had separated from the crayons and colored pencils. He sat in the large chair in front of the desk and picked a sheet of paper from the pile sitting next to Platts. Flattening the sheet, he pulled a marker from the box, and sat over the blank sheet.

Carson put the back end of the marker in his mouth and gnawed on the plastic. He looked up at the platypus cat and said, “What do you think I should draw for her, Platts?”

The toy looked down its long, duckbilled snout back at him. Carson could see his room reflected back at him in its glassy blue eyes, and saw the wooden sailboat sitting on the dresser behind him. His father had helped him make the sailboat, putting the pieces together while Carson colored the sails.

It was perfect for the idea Carson had. His own eyes lit up with excitement as he said, “That’s a great idea, Platts!”

He used the ruler to draw the lines, and the markers to color in the sails and the waves of the ocean. When he was done, he showed the final product to Platts. “Whatcha think?” Carson asked.

The toy studied the drawing. It was a brown sailboat with green and red sails, riding on blue waves. The yellow sun beamed down with an orange smiley face, and a black-lined bird made its way off the side of the page. In purple lettering, “Too: ANnA” was written in the top corner.

Carson smiled wide. “Thanks!” He turned the page back toward himself and admired his work. “I think she’ll like it!”

After a few more minutes of staring at the picture, he nodded and put it safely in his knapsack. In the process, he cleaned up the mess he had made. He could pay attention to such things, now that his main goal was achieved.

Once everything had been cleaned off of his bed and stuffed into his knapsack, Carson turned to Platts and said, “I’m going to have a snack, Platts. Keep an eye on this for me.” He patted the bag for emphasis and hurried from the room.

The toy platypus cat never took its eyes off of the bag.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next day, Carson was grinning ear-to-ear as he walked into Miss Jacobs’s kindergarten class. His knapsack hung by one strap off of his shoulder, with the sailboat picture safe and snug inside. It had been placed in his daily binder, between the weekly agenda Miss Jacobs sent home with all the students and the practice sheet Carson used when practicing his alphabet. So far, Miss Jacobs had only taught the class to the letter “P”.

He put his knapsack and his shoes – Miss Jacobs taught the class in her socks and the class learned in theirs – into the cubby bin with his name on it. The bin was blue, his favorite color, and he pushed the bin back into the wall cubby as gently as he could, to avoid anything bad happening to the picture in the bag.

Miss Jacobs was sitting in her usual chair on the outer yellow ring of the Reading Rug, her usual spot at the beginning of the day. Carson sat opposite her on the blue ring, ready to begin the day, and looked around the room. His fellow students were busy putting their belongings in their cubby bins, playing with the blocks and toy cars in the play area, or running around playing their own form of “Tag”. From where Carson was sitting, he saw that the kid who was “It” somehow stayed that way, even though he had tagged several kids during his time as “It”.

And over in the corner, he saw Anna, standing in the corner, with one of her long dark pigtails in her mouth. She had only been in the class for a little over a week now, and she was still nervous about talking to any of the other students.

Carson thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

When Miss Jacobs was ready to begin class for the day, she called everyone over to the Reading Rug so she could start the day by reading to them. Once all the kids had gathered around, she opened the book in her lap and began to tell the first of three stories for the day. Everyone was engrossed in the tale Miss Jacobs told, except for Carson. Whether the story was about a cat in socks or a green fox with fish, he could not say – his mind was raced as he thought of the best time to give Anna the picture he’d made just for her.

He was taken from his thoughts when an abrupt, crude noise came from the back of the crowd on the Reading Rug. Even though it was in the middle of Miss Jacobs telling her story, all the kids started laughing and turned in the direction of the noise. Carson was not surprised when he turned and saw the noise had come from none other than Billy the Bully.

Billy the Bully, as Carson had quickly grown to know him, was eight years old. He had, for reasons unknown to Carson, been held back from moving to the first grade not just once, but twice. Because of this, Billy was not only much older, but much bigger than the other kids in the class. And he used this to his advantage. He was known to push around most of the kids in the class, take things that were not his, and make rude noises while Miss Jacobs was trying to teach, as he had just now displayed.

While the other children laughed at Billy the Bully, it seemed only Carson and Miss Jacobs were not amused. With a stern look on her face, the teacher stood up and directed Billy the Bully to the Time-Out area in the far corner of the classroom. There, Billy the Bully sat facing the wall, in a small chair that was meant to make the children think twice about breaking the rules. Carson figured Miss Jacobs might need a new chair, as Billy the Bully sat in it a lot and didn’t seem to learn anything from it.

Miss Jacobs was finally able to calm down the rest of the class and finish her story. By that time, Carson had figured out when he was going to give Anna her special picture – right after lunchtime, right before naptime. He didn’t want to wait that long, but it sounded like the best time, to him.

And so, having decided the proper moment for the gift-giving, he spent the next few hours playing, coloring, and learning how to properly write both forms of the letter “Q”.

* * * * * * * * * *

Lunch was a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, with potato chips and a chocolate chip cookie on the side. Carson ate the sandwich like it was the last of its kind; jam was smeared at the corners of his lips as he picked through the chips and finally ate the cookie.

He looked around the classroom and saw Anna, walking to the trash can to throw away the remnants of her own lunch. From there, she went to her pink cubby bin to take out the purple blanket her mother provided for naptime. As she walked back over to the Reading Rug and set the blanket down in her usual napping spot, Carson quickly gathered the rest of his lunch items and made a quick trip to the trashcan then his own cubby bin, where he took out his green blanket and the drawing of the sailboat.

With the blanket draped over one shoulder and the drawing held gently in his hands, Carson made his way over to the Reading Rug; however, halfway there, he encountered an obstruction – an eight-year-old obstruction, who looked down at him with a mean grin planted to his face.

“Whatcha got there, Cassie?” Billy the Bully asked as his shadow loomed over Carson. He saw that the bully’s Ren & Stimpy shirt was covered with pasta stains.

He didn’t bother to correct Billy the Bully on the name – he’d learned, early on, that Billy the Bully was getting his name wrong, on purpose. Instead, his attention was steered toward the drawing Billy the Bully had snatched out of his hand.

“Give that back, Billy!” Carson said as he tried to reach for it and had it lifted at the last second by the big kindergartener. He looked around for the teacher, but she was busy looking the other way, tending to the kid who ate crayons during lunchtime – today’s meal consisted of blue and red brick.

“Toooo An-na,” Billy the Bully said as Carson turned back around and saw he was reading the only words on the picture. He looked back at Carson and snorted. “It’s pretty. Think I might give this to her. Say it’s from me.”

Carson’s eyes widened as the bully turned toward Anna and started walking her way. He tried to follow and stop him, but Billy the Bully used his advantage of size to shove Carson to the floor. By the time he was finally back on his feet, Billy the Bully had already made it to Anna and was giving her the picture.

Carson ran over to the two of them and said to Anna, “Do you like it?”

The little girl nodded, looked up from the picture and said, with a wide grin, “Thank you, Billy.”

“But, I drew that for you,” Carson started to protest.

“No, you didn’t,” Billy the Bully shot back.

“Yes, I did,” Carson said, hoping to not get stuck in a loop.

“Your name’s not on it. And I was the one that gave it to her,” Billy the Bully said with smile that made Carson take a step back. “Nice try, Cassie.”

Anna chuckled. “Cassie. That’s funny.”

And that’s how Carson left it, with Anna and Billy the Bully laughing at the stupid nickname the latter had given him, when he set his naptime blanket on the far side of the Reading Rug and spent naptime, staring at the wall.

* * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the school day seemed to spiral out of control for Carson. Not only did Billy the Bully manage to steal his picture and give it to Anna as if it had been his own, but now Carson’s name was now “Cassie” to not just Anna and Billy the Bully, but to the rest of the class, as well. At least, when Miss Jacobs wasn’t around.

If that hadn’t been enough, the other kids in his class had taken to covering their drawings when he walked past them during Art Time.

“Draw your own cat, Cassie,” said the freckled girl who always had glue in her hair.

“Don’t make your alien green, Cassie,” said the boy whose alien looked more like a cat than anything else.

“My name is on this, so you can’t steal it,” said the kid whose name Carson couldn’t read, as it was a gigantic scribble across the top of the page.

The worst part was how Anna reacted to him. By way of apology, Carson had tried to give her a flower he had plucked from the playground when the class had recess; however, when he had given it to her, she had proceeded to throw it to the ground and stomp on it until it wasn’t a flower anymore.

“You’re a not nice person, Cassie,” she said. “I don’t like gifts from not-nice people.”

Carson deflated, slightly, at this turn of events. And, try as he might, he couldn’t help but still like the girl. Even though she had been swayed by Billy the Bully to think that Carson was the bully, he still thought the girl was cute, and wanted to get her to like him.

But how?

* * * * * * * * * *

For the rest of the day, Carson mainly kept to himself. The other children didn’t seem to mind this, and went about their normal days of playtime, school time, and everything in between.

He sat on the chair at the very end of the back row when Miss Jacobs called for the children to be seated for the day’s Music Lesson. All the other kids sat as far as they could from him, with several stragglers ending up in the chairs directly around him; though, to their credit, they made an effort of sitting on as little of the chair as physically possible, almost falling onto the floor in their efforts.

Miss Jacobs had set the music stand at the very front of the rows of chairs, and was in the process of looking through her music book to find the day’s music lessons. While he waited, Carson looked around and saw Anna sitting next to Billy the Bully, giggling over something. At one point, Billy the Bully pointed at the fat red cat on his shirt, and they laughed some more.

Carson watched as the bully leaned over and whispered something into Anna’s ear. At first, she seemed a little surprised, then laughed and nodded. The next thing he knew, Carson was watching Anna shove her finger up her nose and, a moment later, pull it out – to reveal the biggest booger Carson had ever seen.

Anna looked at Billy the Bully as she held her finger pointed to the ceiling. He nodded his head toward the music stand, gave a gap-toothed grin, and both he and Carson watched as Anna took the booger and smeared it across the top of the music stand. After making sure she got every bit of it off of her finger, Anna bounced back to her chair by Billy the Bully, where they giggled as quietly as they could.

A few seconds later, Miss Jacobs turned toward the class, with music in hand, and made her way toward the music stand. She let out a yelp and dropped the pieces of paper when she came upon the music stand and found the smeared booger on her otherwise black stand.  Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she set to cleaning off the mess. She looked at the children, with a scowl on her face, and said, “Who did this?”

Aside from quiet giggles and muffled snorts, the children offered no response to their teacher’s question. Carson wasn’t going to say anything, one way or the other – he was already in trouble with the children, he didn’t want to get in trouble with Miss Jacobs.

To his surprise, Billy the Bully raised his hand and said, “Miz Jacobs, I know who did it.”

Carson closed his eyes, knowing the finger was going to be pointed at him. It had been that kind of day. And worse, Anna was now in on it.

“Really, Billy?” Miss Jacobs said as she finished cleaning off the stand and threw away the dirty tissue. “Do tell.”

“Well,” said Billy the Bully, “when you were turned around, getting your music, I saw who put the booger on your stand.”

“That’s nice, Billy,” Miss Jacobs said, patiently. “Now, who was it?”

Carson had kept his eyes closed, but they shot wide open when he heard Billy the Bully say, “It was Anna, Miz Jacobs.”

He looked toward Anna and Billy the Bully, and saw the bully pointing a clean finger at the girl. The look of hurt on Anna’s face made Carson feel bad for her, even if she had stomped on his flower, earlier. The rest of the class broke out in a chorus of “Ewwwww!!!”

“Anna?” Miss Jacobs turned toward the girl and leaned down in front of her. “Is this true?”

That’s when Anna started to cry, and Carson decided to do something.

“Actually, Miss Jacobs,” he raised his hand and slowly stood up. “I put the booger on your music stand.”

The whole class, once again, broke out into rounds of “Ewwwww!!!” as Miss Jacobs turned toward Carson and directed her disappointed gaze his way.

“Why did you do it, Carson?” the teacher asked.

He saw all the kids looking at him, seeing that Billy the Bully was loving this more than pinning the blame on Anna and seeing that Anna had stopped crying enough to see in what direction this would go.

“I thought it’d be funny, Miss Jacobs,” he said.

“And why is that, Carson?” Miss Jacobs asked.

“Because it’s a booger, Miss Jacobs,” Carson answered as honestly as he could think. To help his case, a few of the other children chuckled, giggled, and snorted at the word “booger”.

“Well, it’s not funny, Carson,” said Miss Jacobs. “It’s actually very gross and I’m going to have to tell your mother about this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carson said as he sat back down.

Miss Jacobs proceeded to get the class back under control and start the day’s Music Lesson. Carson noticed the teacher had positioned the music so it wouldn’t touch the area where the booger had been, making the pages poke out and look set in a weird, amusing manner.

He also noticed Anna turning toward him at several moments during the lesson.

* * * * * * * * * *

The day was coming to a close, and the kids were gathering their things before their parents came to pick them up and take them home. Carson made his way to his cubby bin with ease, as the other children made way for him, not wanting to touch him, in case he had a booger somewhere on him.

When he made it to the cubby bin, he put his things into his bag – except for the naptime blanket, which stayed in the classroom at all times. As he was zipping up the bag, a voice behind him said, “Um, Carson?”

Having spent most of the day being called “Cassie”, he almost didn’t answer. He turned around, bag in hand, and saw Anna standing there, holding her hands uncomfortably and not seeming to know where to look – she looked at him, then the floor, then the ceiling, then the bag in his hand, then back at him again in order to start up the cycle once more.

“Um, I wanted to say sorry for being mean to you, today,” Anna said, fiddling with her hands as she made her apology.

“Thanks,” was all Carson could think to say in return.

“And thank you for, um, saying you put that booger on Miss Jacobs’s music stand. I didn’t know Billy was going to do that,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Billy’s a bully.”

She smiled and looked at him. “He is.”

Before he knew what to say next, Anna stepped toward him and gave him a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t know what to do, so he went for what came first – he put his hand on his cheek. His eyes were wide and his mouth was in the “O” shape Miss Jacobs had taught them, weeks ago.

“Do you want to sit with me during Story Time, tomorrow?” she said, with a small smile on her face.

Carson lowered the hand from his face and adjusted the strap of his bag. He put the strap on his shoulder as he said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Confusion came across Anna’s face as she said, “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, “I don’t sit with girls who pick their nose.”

He turned to the door to find his mother had come to pick him up – he didn’t turn to see the look of confusion on Anna’s face.

As they got into his mother’s car, his mother asked him, “Did you have a good day, Sweetie?”

Carson smiled, said, “Yup!” and looked out the window at the cars, trees and various other objects that flew past outside as his mother drove them home.

He couldn’t wait to tell Platts about his day.

Flashback

 a short story by andrew j bartlett

At that moment, he remembered his conversation with Jerry…

He had been eating his homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when Jerry approached him and asked if he wanted to see a movie with him, later.

“Hey Dave, want to see a movie with me, later?”

Swallowing his most recent bite of sandwich, Dave looked at Jerry and said, “What movie?”

Jerry shrugged. “That new scary movie that opened up, just last week.”

Before taking another bite of sandwich, Dave let out a disgruntled noise and rolled his eyes.

“Why the disgruntled noise?” Jerry asked while Dave chewed. “Oh, and the roll of the eyes?”

Dave put the sandwich on his plate delicately, folded his hands in front of him, and looked Jerry in the eye.

“Because,” he said slowly, “scary movies are lame.”

“… lame?”

Still looking Jerry in the eye, Dave continued: “They’re played out, no longer scary, and completely predictable. The endings are always weak; you can totally see what’s coming! They were good, way back when, but we’ve made them into a silly joke.”

“…” Jerry responded.

“‘Oh, no! The killer was the pizza guy we only saw once, who seemed innocent enough at the beginning of the story!’,” Dave continued, unfolding his hands to wave them around, mockingly. “‘Oh, no! The killer is right behind the victim, but – oh, wait! – the killer is right around the corner, in front of the victim!’ And what’s with that, anyway?!”

Before Jerry could say anything, Dave went on. “It never fails: you get your slow-moving killer, wearing some normal mask made to look creepy, and when the supposedly helpless victim seems to get ahead of the game, the killer manages to get the head of the victim! You know what I would do, if I were in the victim’s literal shoes?”

Jerry twitched.

“I’d make sure that I kept the killer in my line of sight, at a respectable distance!” Dave said, hitting a now balled-up fist on the table for emphasis. “That way there wouldn’t be any surprise right-around-the-corner killings. Though it would probably take a bit of time, I would be able to get to a crowded area, or possibly to a police station or something just like it.

“I tell you what,” Dave said, his face red with excitement, “if I were in a scary movie, I would be one of the survivors! Ha!”

Giving the silence a moment to take the room, Jerry blinked. When it looked like Dave didn’t have more to say, Jerry asked, “So… that’s a ‘no’ on the movie, then?”

“Yes, that’s a ‘no’,” Dave said, picking up his sandwich and taking another bite. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Jerry looked as though he was going to ask again, but decided against it. He walked away, leaving Dave to finish the rest of his lunch.

Hours later, Dave was walking to his car when he heard a shuffling noise from around the corner. As he inched his way toward the noise, he slowly got a glimpse of what had made it.

He grimaced. “Very funny, jackass!”

The source of the noise – a tall, brooding figure in an overcoat, wearing a mask that had been completely painted red – stood slightly out of the light of a nearby streetlight. It held in its hand a large knife that was pointed directly at Dave.

“That you, Jerry?” he asked as he walked toward the figure. “Nice try.”

The figure remained standing almost motionless, pointing the knife at Dave.

“Yeah,” Dave said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, “very nice try.”

He dialed Jerry’s number, and hit “Send”. Dave knew that, in a second or two, Jerry’s phone would go off in front of him and the joke would be over.

It was quite a surprise to Dave when not only did the phone not ring, but the figure had not moved when Jerry’s distinctive greeting of “Yo, yo!” was heard on the other end of Dave’s phone.

Dave lifted the phone to his ear, keeping his focus on the figure in front of him. “Jerry…?” he said. “Where are you?”

“Hey, man!” Jerry said. “I’m at home. Why?”

Wondering when his hand had started shaking, Dave said, “Oh, no reason. Just checking.”

“You okay, ma-” Jerry had started to say, but Dave hung up the phone in mid-”man”. He placed the phone in his back pocket and started to move back, slowly.

“Well, then,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, and failing. “This has been fun, and I’d love to stay and discuss cutlery with you, but… it’s been a long day, and I have an early morning ahead of me.

“So, good luck, with the overcoat and red-maskedness, and I’ll see you in the funny pages.”

At that point, the figure started to move toward him. It was a slow shuffle, and when he saw what was happening, Dave lifted his hands in front of him.

“Look, I know your type, and you won’t get any joy out of doing anything to me. If you give me a moment, I can write down a list of nearby sororities that come highly recommended for a… person of your stature.”

The figure continued slowly moving forward, the knife pointed directly at Dave.

Dave coughed. “Okay, so maybe the sorority girl bit isn’t your thing. How about some good, old teenage debauchery? Overlook Hill is just right down the road… How about I draw up a map, and that way you can get your kicks there? You know, horny teenagers who are probably supposed to be taking care of little children, but shirk their responsibilities because of the call of their loins…?”

Still moving forward, the knife gleamed menacingly in the dim streetlights. Dave could hear a slight breathing noise from behind the mask.

“… right,” Dave said. “Well, looks like I should go. Toodles!” He turned and started to run away.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get too far, as the blade of a skillfully sharpened knife punctured his belly and made its way to his stomach.

At that moment, he remembered his conversation with Jerry.

Dave slumped to the ground, coughing and spluttering. His eyes had gone wide, and his mouth had taken on the red tinge of blood; and as he was gently lowered to the ground, Jerry leaned over him and said, “Bet you didn’t see that one coming.”

Diary

a short story by andrew j. bartlett

“What happened?” he asked.

The voice answered: “You purchased the diary…”

And he had purchased the diary. It was one of those calendar types, with the dates and the days of the week coinciding. As the purchase took place during the last quarter of the year, he had only paid a quarter of the original price.

“What happened?” he asked.

The voice answered: “You wrote in the diary…”

And he had written in the diary. A simple, fictitious entry, written on a day at the beginning of the year. He remembered the actual day: three before his twenty-third birthday, when he had done nothing but sit around and dream of another life.

“What happened?” he asked.

The voice answered: “You changed the past…”

And he had changed the past. Three days before his twenty-third birthday, instead of doing nothing but sitting around and dreaming of another life, he had spent the evening with friends. They partied until the early morning hours; in that time, he also lost his virginity.

“What happened?” he asked.

The voice answered: “You lost control…”

And he had lost control. He realized the power within his grasp, and chose to use it for his own, personal gain. He became rich, he became powerful, he became…

“What happened?” he asked.

The voice answered: “You died and gave me life…”

And he had died and given the voice life. It took to form, looking like himself, only different – darker, with a touch of menace. He watched his form stretch experimentally, then turn away. Before he could say anything more, the form disappeared, accompanied by a light thud; like that of a closing book.

Stuck

a short story by andrew j. bartlett

“What are you doing here?”

“You first.”

“Hm, well played.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

“You may as well ask the chair… unless you’re planning on sitting on my lap.”

“Yes, I was referring to the chair.”

“Good, ’cause you’ll have ended up standing.”

“Har-har. Drink?”

“Only when I’m thirsty.”

“One water with lemon, please.”

“To whom are you speaking?”

“Our waiter. He just went that way.”

“Oh, so he did.”

“So, what are you doing here?”

“There was once a man, by the name of-”

“Barney Rinzy?”

“- Barney Rinzy… How did you know that?”

“I skipped ahead.”

“Right… Anyway, there was once a man, by the name of Barney Rinzy, who-”

“- got trapped in a realm of cliche sayings?”

“- got tra- would you stop doing that?”

“Sorry. Just want to move this along.”

“Got a hot date?”

“They’re of normal temperature; though, they are rather attractive.”

“Good answer. Rinzy got trapped, performing those same, old, storybook cliches.”

“Where is he now?”

“You know that line where the person says, ‘Is that a threat?’?”

“He’s not…”

“Oh, he is. Stuck on an island of promises, as it were.”

“Ouch.”

“You got it.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Rinzy has to get himself out of a cliche loop.”

“How does he do that?”

“It’s quite simple: he has to go against the grain. Say something original.”

“Something original.”

“Nice.”

“How did he get into the loop, in the first place?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what?”

“In the first place. He was in his lab.”

“Very well. How did he get into the loop, in his lab?”

“He must have spoken a powerful cliche.”

“Yeesh, one of the powerful cliches?”

“No, one of the cliches of little importance…”

“Touche.”

“We need to make sure we continue with our originality.”

“Well, thanks for the heads up.”

“Now that’s settled, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing…”

“Ah, dammit!”

“Did I just…?”

“I’m going to kill you!”

“Is that a threat?”

Image

a short story by andrew j. bartlett

He dipped another fry into the puddle of ketchup and proceeded to eat it. Chomping on the crisp, potato goodness, Kris looked across the table at Harold; whose head was in his hands, whose fries had gone untouched.

Harold sniffled, a wet sound that gave a clue to his condition: head cold, it would seem, and a few days into it, by the looks of it. As his friend looked at him with mild concern, he threw his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. What followed was a loud sneeze that shook the table and reverberated throughout the rest of the cafeteria. From the other side of the table, Kris could only assume it was as painful as it sounded.

After a moment of sniffling, hacking, and wiping his face with the sleeve of his hand, Harold’s red, watery eyes met Kris’s clear, blue ones. “What?” he said, taking a deep sniff that contained a hefty amount of phlegm.

“Oh, nothing,” Kris replied, casually running his fingers through his short, black hair. “Except it happened again.”

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what his friend had been talking about; only a moment later did it hit him, and he quickly looked around. “Where now?”

Nodding his head in a quick quirk, Kris looked at Harold’s hand. “Your thumb and forefinger.”

“Ah!” Moving his hand out of public visibility, he looked at it and squinted. A second later, his thumb and forefinger were a healthy shade of pink: from the bright blue color they had been moments before.

“Thanks,” he said, shaking out his hand and wiggling his newly-colored fingers.

Kris shrugged. “That’s the third time, in an hour,” he chomped on another fry. “Why don’t you just go home and let this blow over?”

“I told you,” Harold replied as he pushed his platter away from him and leaned back in his chair. “I have a huge exam in Chemistry today, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to miss it.”

“Hm, so you can discount the professor and get into another verbal sparring match with him?”

Harold sneered, but the effect was wasted as he sneezed again. Three times, in full force, and when he brought his head back up, Kris marveled at the redness of his friend’s face. And the blueness of his ears.

He pointed in the direction of the miscolored body parts, but Harold put his hand up before Kris could say anything. “I know, I know,” he croaked. “I got it.”

A moment later, the ears and the face were a normal color, once more.

“I don’t get it, man,” Kris said, squeezing more ketchup onto his plate. “You could do anything you wanted. Why stick around a high school and play student?”

Harold wiped his sleeve across his face and gave a cough. “We’ve talked about this before,” he said.

“I know… but I still don’t get it.”

Leaning forward, Harold rested his arms on the table and looked at his friend. “Your kind is always prattling on about ‘being yourself’ and ‘loving who you are’, am I right?”

Kris nodded.

“Well,” Harold continued, leaning back and waving an arm in front of himself, “I’m a creature of complexity. I love a challenge. And, as we’ve discussed many times over, as contrary as it sounds, being myself is, in fact, looking like everyone else. Keeping this image is challenging, and I do it not to appease you and your kind. While I know that my true form would cause fear and panic to the masses, that’s not why I carry on like one of you – that ‘fear of discovery’ nonsense. In fact, I couldn’t care less how your kind sees me or what your kind thinks of me. What I do is none of your business, as much as what you do is none of mine.

“So, when I have a rough time maintaining the illusion, thanks to a technical malfunction or a slight head cold,” Harold waved a hand in the general area of his face, “it doesn’t bother me. Quite the opposite, really. Right now, I’m just tingling with delight, knowing that even with my senses distracted by illness, your kind is still unaware by my presence.”

Kris slowly chewed on his last fry as he took in his friend’s words. “Whatever you say, man,” he finally said. He stood up and collected both his and Harold’s platters, and proceeded to make his way toward the garbage bins. “Though, a piece of advice?”

Harold rubbed his eyes and looked up at Kris. “What’s that?”

“Want to look more like us? Might want to do something about the tail.”

Doctor Who: Death on the Other Side

[Author's Note: I rarely do "fan fiction", but this was an idea that came to me during the day and would simply not let up until I put it down somewhere. Well, without further ado, here is my little "fan fic" for Doctor Who. It takes place after the events of "Journey's End", in case you need a reference.]

He burst into the control room, his burgundy pinstripe suit and black trainers covered in splotches of ash; his face and hands were covered with minor burns. Running both hands through his hair, he muttered to himself, “Think, Doctor… Think, think, think!”

His eyes roamed the array of panels in the room. It looked as though he should have turned left when he had made the right into this room: every console, it seemed, had been either shot to smithereens or blown up due to the surges of power the station had been taking throughout the course of the last half-hour. Keyboards sparked, monitors smoked, and even the mouse pads smoldered slightly, after having recently been set aflame.

A nearby explosion reminded the Doctor that the situation was not yet over. He did not panic, as his gaze landed on a fully-functional console; its monitor showing the blinking cursor, the counter itself appearing as if it had been the only piece of machinery in this room to have gone untouched. Letting out a cry of victory, he launched himself over the debris that had once been pristine countertops and working computer terminals, and sat himself down in front of the still-working monitor.

“Right, then,” he said as he checked to ensure nothing was about to explode in his face. “Allons-y!”

He threw his hands over the keyboard and stopped a few centimeters from the keys; something was missing. Hands still hovering over the keyboard, explosions within the station providing constant background noise, he stared at the wall, deep in thought.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as he proceeded to remove his hands from above the keyboard and set them to work, patting down various places on his body. At last, his right hand hit pay dirt with the jacket pocket, reaching in to pull out the brainy specs he had to wear when he was being particularly clever.

Once the specs were placed firmly on his face, he gave himself a wide grin. “That’s better,” he said, and finally set to work at the keyboard.

From behind him, the Doctor heard the doors slam open once more; an explosion followed shortly after, and the doors slammed shut, muffling the sounds surrounding the room.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor said, without taking his eyes off of the monitor, “please do try to keep the noise down. I am trying to concentrate here, saving the world and all.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the girl who had just entered the room. The Doctor heard her grunting as she moved anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor in front of the doors. “I’ll try to be more considerate next time you… Wait a minute!”

The Doctor continued typing, his fingers moving without pause, as he heard Rose approach the terminal. He caught a quick glimpse of blond hair as it fluttered over his shoulder. Without warning, her voice was in his ear, near-shouting, “Is that a clothing site? Are you shopping while there’s an invasion going on?!”

“Hardly,” the Doctor replied, not once looking away from the monitor or taking his hands off of the keyboard. “These creatures are very clever. Somewhere on this site, there’s a subset of code that acts as a Master Key to the system they’re using to control the population of the city. A person buys a pair of designer pants, uses the convenient coupon code, the system gains power and more people are affected by the wave of energy that is being dispersed.

“However,” he continued without taking a breath, “like every plan of this magnitude, there has to be an ‘abort’ code; and these clever beings have placed theirs on a page of the site that would rarely get visited. That way, no accidental aborting of the mission would occur if some random rare buyer should come along and want to purchase what was on that particular page.”

Rose laughed. “They’re clever, all right. Who would ever want to buy a bow tie, these days?”

“Well, don’t knock bow ties,” the Doctor said, sympathetically. “I’ve thought about possibly trying one out. See how it looked on me.”

Again, Rose laughed. “A bow tie? You? Not in this lifetime, dear.”

The Doctor was about to protest, but an explosion in the hallway outside followed by a loud banging on the doors interrupted him. He could hear the makeshift barricade in front of the doors shift forward slightly with each impact. Tilting his head toward the doors, he said, “Take care of that, would you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Rose sneered as she made her way back to reinforce the barricade. “I’ll just take care of the alien menace while you go shoe-shopping online. Just wait ‘til my father hears about this one.”

“Speaking of which,” the Doctor said over his shoulder, “his birthday’s coming up. Want me to get him something while I’m on here?”

A random keyboard collided with the terminal next to him. Without having to guess where it came from, he said, “You’re right, we should go out and get him something. Possibly a nice power tool of some kind. Maybe of the screwdriver persuasion.”

This time, a trash bin with various computer components crashed into the console on the other side of him. “You know,” he said as he could hear the banging get louder, the explosions settling down a little, “this is exactly like that whole incident with Gordon Calhoun.”

“Which one?” Rose said from her position at the doors. “The Earthling or the Squix?”

The Doctor cringed. “You said it wrong. The ‘zed’ is silent.”

Bang! “But there’s no ‘zed’ in ‘Squix’!”

“Not when you say it like that!”

The Doctor didn’t have to worry about another barrage of thrown objects coming his way; he didn’t give Rose enough time to collect the ammunition. After a final keystroke, he let out a loud, “Ha!”

In an instant, the chaos surrounding them turned into complete and utter silence. The last functional computer terminal, the one the Doctor had used to yet again help save the world, gave out a low whine and joined its brothers. Sparks erupted from the monitor and it, too, became blank and powerless.

“Ah well,” the Doctor shrugged as he lifted himself from the chair. He turned toward Rose and made his way toward her, his arms already spread wide and ready to embrace her in a fit of victory-

His head exploded in pain. He had a feeling he was screaming, and slightly outside of the pain he could tell he had collapsed to the floor, his hands pressed tightly against his head as it split in several directions at once. Even with his eyes closed, instead of darkness he saw bright flashes of colors, of which his eyes could not escape.

The Doctor didn’t know how much longer he could take it; he was on the verge of blacking out when suddenly, mercifully, it stopped. Feeling the weakest he had ever felt, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Everything was incredibly bright, but he did not close his eyes out of reflex. A blurry image of something above his face cleared slowly to reveal the lovely blond girl who had helped him save the day.

“Rose…” he whispered, catching his breath.

She put her finger to lips and said, “Don’t speak. Recover a little before you do anything.”

“No…” he said, a little louder this time. “He’s gone, Rose… He didn’t want to go, but…”

He saw the understanding in her eyes, and knew he didn’t need to finish. Rose’s eyes watered as the corners of her lips tugged downward, ever so slightly. She closed her eyes and lowered her head; tears ran down her cheeks as she let out a quick sob.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. She looked at him and said, “Are you okay?”

He nodded gently, the remnants of the pain ebbing away with each moment that passed. “I’ll be all right,” he said, sitting up slowly.

Rose smiled softly at him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder. In turn, his arms embraced her.

They stayed that way for several moments, until Rose finally said, “He was right, you know.”

“I’m sorry, what?” he said, confused.

She pulled away slightly to look him in the eye. “He was right… I had a really great year.”

Before he could inquire as to what she was talking about, Rose kissed him passionately on the lips. It was a sensation he had not yet grown accustomed to, and doubted he ever would. He closed his eyes, taking in the moment, reflecting on the gains and the losses that had been dealt within such a short span of time.

In an alternate universe, a man died, saving countless lives without being with the ones he loved; in this world, however, a man lived, saving countless lives with the woman he loved. Though he was only human in this world, the Doctor felt sadness for the other man, who would indeed live on; for centuries if fate would allow, dying a few more times before it was all said and done.

As the last traces of pain deteriorated, he embraced Rose tighter and returned the kiss, knowing he was right where he belonged.

The Deaths of Rory Williams

Note: This was written as a bit of fun for the Bones of Brilliance. She posted four different subjects on which to write a little essay, and here is the first. Enjoy!

To correctly observe and analyze the many deaths of Rory Williams, one must look at two different time periods, from two different perspectives, encompassing one single theme: pre- and post-Big Bang Two, Amy and Rory, and guilt.

Pre-Big Bang Two, we observe Amy Pond, on the day before her wedding to Rory, running off with a man she had only seen once, twelve years prior to the eve of her wedding. A reckless and almost life-altering series of events take place that almost throw a monkey-wrench into the whole wedding brouhaha, until the Doctor makes an important discovery and takes Amy back to be reunited with Rory. From there, Amy is constantly faced with the shame of what she almost did to the man she truly loved, by having to come face-to-face with his death, more than once.

Thanks to the character referring to himself as the “Dream Lord”, Amy is forced to choose between a life with the Doctor and a life with Rory. It is only when she has to witness, right in front of her, Rory’s demise and he turns to ash, that she realizes that Rory is her true love; and a life without him is not a life worth living. This revelation leads to Amy forcing herself and the Doctor to take their own lives in that version of reality – whether or not it was a dream no longer holds any meaning to Amy.

After they awaken to find neither reality was true, with everyone – Rory included – alive and vaguely well, they move on to their next adventure; and the moment where Amy loses Rory, this time for real. Shot by a Silurian and then absorbed by the crack in the universe during his final breaths, Amy comes face-to-face with her guilt, once more. Had she not run off with the Doctor, that fateful night, Rory’s life (and very existence) would not have been on the proverbial chopping block. It also would not have had to be a constant reminder of Amy’s blindness to her ultimate adventure being in Leadworth, all that time.

Though he is obliterated from all existence, pieces of him still remain – one vital piece being the engagement ring he gave to Amy, left in the TARDIS for safe-keeping. It is when she finds the ring in the Doctor’s pocket that a whole new level of guilt is set upon her. There’s the responsibility of getting Rory entangled in this mess, his annihilation from existence because of it, and the mere fact that her conscience will not let her off that easily: she cries, mourns, though she does not know why.

Then comes the threat of the Pandorica opening and unleashing the most feared creature in all the cosmos. Amy and the Doctor run into River Song, once more, and find that she has tricked a Roman army to heel to her every whim; however, once the effect wears off, the soldiers question River’s authenticity, leaving them unsure as to whether or not to follow this strange woman into what could only be certain death. One soldier, however, rises to the challenge, offering his sword and his courage: Rory Williams!

Shortly before finding that this back-from-the-dead version of Rory is, in fact, an Auton, Amy’s memory finally brings pulls back the curtain – the memory of Rory comes rushing back, along with the memory of his death and demise, and Amy finds herself faced, one final time, with the guilt of not having faith in Rory, in the relationship between she and Rory. And as immediately as Rory is finally returned to Amy, fate takes her away from him, as he loses control and shoots her.

Thus turning the tables in who holds the guilt, as well as the time period in which the guilt is held.

It’s Rory’s turn, post-Big Bang Two.

Married, alive, and well, Amy and Rory receive a summons from a future version of the Doctor. They answer the call and, once again, embark on whatever crazy adventure the Doctor has them on, this time around. However, this adventure turns tragic, as the Doctor is shot and killed, in front of their very eyes. And after running into a younger version of the Doctor, who too was summoned, Rory faces the grueling task of being the headstrong and seemingly heartless voice of reason when Amy builds herself up to the point of warning the Doctor of his fate with the astronaut in the lake.

What Rory encounters from that point are trials of trust. Though more fortified in his faith in Amy’s complete and utter love for him, Rory encounters doubt when the Silence kidnap Amy; the only device of “communication” being the recorder the Doctor had originally put in her hand – and the communication going one-way: from Amy to whoever might be listening.

Rory finds out about Amy’s pregnancy during the time of Amy’s disappearance and overhears her comments that he believes are meant for the Doctor’s ears. He resigns himself to giving up, letting Amy run off with the Doctor, while he goes off alone; however, after the day and Amy are saved, he finds out that she was talking to him, Rory, the entire time. And though he may be relieved to find that his true love still loves her in return, he experiences the guilt of questioning her. Thus beginning what looks to be an endless series of tests for Rory, to help him diminish his guilt and jealousy, and focus more on the man he needs to be for Amy.

The deaths of Rory, at this point, should no longer be seen as twistings of the proverbial knife in Amy’s back, but more so in that of Rory’s. Amy has proven, twice, that she would die for him; a single moment of doubt later, and Rory is being taken through these visages of death, in their various, hideous incarnations, to bring light to the idea that, if Amy were pregnant, would he be around to help raise the child? Not only does this question involve the matter-of-fact death, but it also touches on the metaphorical death of Rory simply no longer being in Amy’s life. The two complement each other very well, and one needs the other in order to truly survive in the universe.

And, being companions of the Doctor, one needs what it takes to survive said universe.

It is rather big.

Writer’s Detour

I recall a conversation I had, a long time ago, with Ghost Darling; in the conversation, we debated the differences between being confident and being arrogant. Before I delve into that, though, allow me to express that both confidence and arrogance are sub-levels of ego. Being itself a sense of self, ego is one of those terms that have been dragged through the mud, to the point where if one says they have an ego, a bystander will most likely say, “Well, aren’t you just grand?”

Well, since you asked: yes. Yes, I am.

So when a person declares that they do not have an ego, ask them how they came about getting out of bed, this morning. Ego is the primary reason we do what we do, whether selfishly or selflessly – ego is that kick in the pants that helps us make the decisions. Think about it: how else would we, as individuals, feel the need to make decisions, period? Why would we feel the need to make decisions? It’s ego. Ego, in a general sense. With that, we can move on to confidence and arrogance.

From a fairly simple point of view, confidence is the sense of self that can help people gravitate in your direction, while arrogance is the sense of self that can help push people away. Being confident about a task or a problem can allow others to join in and help you in your progress; being arrogant is basically telling the world that you can do it without them because you’re awesome, so bugger off. With confidence comes teaching and allowing others to learn to your level, and with arrogance comes show-boating and gloating and other words that end in “-oating”.

That being said, I can confidently assure you that it is with confidence that I say the following: I have an amazing imagination, and I am awesome at the writing thing.

(See how that works?)

Unfortunately, because of the awesome imagination and the awesome ability to write it out, I have something of a problem on my hands. I am pretty sure I have mentioned this before in a previous post, but that was then, this is now; and since I am still dealing with it, I can safely say that it’s still relevant, so stay with me here.

This problem happens to be the ability to find a story in anything. And because of that, I find it hard to complete a piece on which I am currently working. At this point, I have several pieces that have promised an actual series, but went only two or three parts into the story before I thought of another story idea to work on. So far, I have inadvertently allowed stories like “Show & Tell”, “The Chantey of Nemo”, “Aura”, and even the grand project “Stories of Ezo” to fall by the wayside, thanks to the ideas that come to me every single day.

In fact, my current project, Andrew J Bartlett’s Zombie Story, has survived having five parts written for the series; and yet, thanks to our most recent Bible Study, another story idea has crept into my head.

The story itself was inspired by chapter ten in the book of Daniel (in the Bible, in case “Bible Study” wasn’t a clear enough indicator). In this chapter, Daniel, having already been in the presence of a heavenly entity, proceeds to pray for guidance for himself and his people. He ends up waiting for three weeks, a total of twenty-one days, before another heavenly figure presents himself to Daniel. As if to apologize for his tardiness, the figure – of whom everyone suspects is possibly Gabriel – tells Daniel that he would have answered Daniel’s prayer sooner, had he not been detained by one of the evil forces of “the prince of Persia”; until God sent Michael to assist this figure in the fight against the evil entity, he had been fighting for as long as Daniel had been praying – twenty-one days.

As we discussed this part of the story in our study, an idea of what took place during those days of battle between the figure and the evil entity came to mind. The obvious title would be “21 Days” and would have the feel of exhausting turmoil and perseverance. I could imagine the back-and-forth banter between the figure and the entity as they-

No! No, no, no! I’m working on the zombie story, and right now, I need to figure out how to get back to business. Part five, “The Promise”, steers the tone of the story rather dramatically, as we learn part of the back story to one of the characters. It’s sad and, to a point, makes you wonder where I’m going to go with the information that has been given in that lone chapter; hell, at this point, even I don’t know. I do, though, have a feeling of what I want to do…

This, right here, is an example of the agony I go through whenever these stories come about. People swoon and fawn over pieces and stories that I’ve come up with, but on the inside I am screaming, “Why is my imagination so awesome?!”

I’m not complaining, though: were I in a bystander’s shoes, I would be dreadfully jealous of the details and attributes I tend to bring to any piece I write. I mean, I’m personally jealous of anyone good at sports, good at math, good at talking to pretty girls… so I’ll put being good at writing in my own “Win” column and ride that horse until, well, it gets tired. Fortunately, it looks like my horse had plenty of Red Bull.

Oh, that’s another thing I’m jealous of: equestrians.

So it is with utter confidence – and, I’ll admit, a slight bit of arrogance – that I will conclude writing this post, hit the “Publish” button, post the links to every internet profile I own, and proceed to agonize over where to go with my zombie story. While you lucky lot just get to sit there, enjoying it.

I hope you’re happy.