Oscar and Alphonse

Burdick Mysteries continue...

            “SEE YOU TOMORROW, ABBYYYYYyyyyy-” Theodore “Snacks” Mohr couldn’t hold the warbling note any longer.  “I think we should do Whisper Day tomorrow, Opera Day has really taken a toll.”

            “But you sing so well, Snacks,” Abby replied with a grin. “Oops, I have to go. Bocelli is waiting for me.” She gave Snacks’ pudgy hand a resounding high five that left him grimacing as she bounced off.

            Abby and Bocelli walked home in silence for a change. Snacks certainly had a point: Opera Day could wear a person out.

            They entered the mother ship and heard their father waging war on his Quark Heat Converter through the floor. The sounds rumbling up from the basement were impressive, and the shrieking smoke detector added contrasting high notes. As they passed the kitchen they saw their mother, wearing earmuffs, standing on a stool amidst a daunting cloud of smoke.

She slowly reached up one finger, looking a lot like E.T. Her fingertip didn’t glow, but it did disable the smoke detector, immediately lessening the din, but by no means eliminating it. It almost sounded as if their father was having his Opera Day downstairs, accompanied by mechanical pounding and whistling.

There was an incredible amount of heat pouring from the kitchen, so Abby dropped her sweater off in her room on her way to the third-floor bedroom. As she was about to close her closet and get beamed up, she saw movement. She looked closer.

On the back wall of her closet were two hairy green caterpillars. She had no idea how they had gotten there, but she was sure that they would enjoy interstellar travel as much as she did. Carefully, she cupped one hand and used the other to brush them off the wall. Within moments, she was teleported upstairs with her precious cargo.

“What do you have, Ensign?” Archie was curious.

“Sample life forms, sir,” she said. “I found them in my quarters.” She opened her hands flat. Archie approached and together he and Abby watched the caterpillars. They crawled around her palms, circling each other, touching and then parting, turning this way and that.

“They’re dancing!” Abby exclaimed. Archie leaned in closer. The caterpillars were certainly up to something. Archie squinted his eyes. The insects circled each other, touching end to end. Then they parted and rearranged with surprising quickness. Both were stretched out straight, one with its head pointing to the middle of the other. Archie’s eyes widened.

“Those are letters! Ensign, you’ve found intelligent life forms!”

            “Letters? What are they spelling?”

            “Excellent question. Hmm,” he thought. The caterpillars didn’t have enough room, and they moved so quickly it was tough to keep track of all the letters. “I have an idea!” he said with a snap of his fingers. “Go grab some paper, I’ll meet you back here.”

            Archie sped from the room at warp speed. Abby let the two insects down onto the top of the dresser and zoomed away. Within moments both Burdick kids were back in orbit over the pair of caterpillars. Unaware that their audience had left, the caterpillars continued to trace patterns, both recognizable and indecipherable across the dresser.

            Archie held a shallow dish and several tubes of paint in his arms, which he dropped on the floor. Abby had a short stack of blank white paper.

            “OK, spread those papers out. I’ll get the paint ready,” Archie said. He popped the top off a tube of purple paint and squirted a thin layer in the dish. Abby had the papers arranged in a line. Preparation complete, Archie stepped to the dresser.

            “Alright, little guys, listen up. It is clear that you are trying to communicate and I have an idea that will make things easier.”

            “I hope they understand English,” Abby said. Archie paused as if such a thing hadn’t occurred to him. The caterpillars had stopped moving, however, and Archie took this as an encouraging sign. He went into action.

            Carefully scooping them up, Archie moved over to the paint dish. He very gently held one caterpillar in between his small fingers and dipped its numerous feet in the paint. He let the paint drip off then set it down on the edge of the paper. It waited patiently while its companion received the same treatment.

            Both caterpillars stood stock still, two small vermillion lumps underlined in lilac atop a stretch of white paper.

            “Who are you?” Abby asked. Immediately, the caterpillars lurched to life. Like two miniature locomotives they chugged across the paper, leaving a trail of tiny purple footprints behind. Sloppy capital letters, strangely connected, yet legible appeared. O – S – C – A – R, a small space, then A – L – P – H – O – N – S – E.

            “Oscar and Alphonse? Nice to meet you. I’m Abby, and this is my brother Archie. Where did you come from? How did you get in my closet?”

            B – O – O – K. Abby’s face scrunched in confusion, but Archie connected the dots quicker.

            “Mr. Linden’s book! We must have missed them.”

            “I guess that’s where they learned to spell,” Abby said. As she and Archie knelt wondering if they had missed anything else, the two caterpillars began moving again. They moved so quickly they were almost a blur.

            W – A – R – N – I – N – G – V – E – I – L – F – A – L – L – I – N – G.

            “Warning, veil falling,” Archie mumbled. “What does that mean?” He looked to Abby, but she appeared just as lost. He returned his attention to the bugs. “What veil? Why is it falling? Oscar? Uh, Alphonse?” Archie realized he didn’t know which was which and glanced back and forth between the two.

            O – U – T – S – I – D – E. Archie stared at the new word, confused. It certainly didn’t answer any of his questions. The caterpillars began wiping their feet off. It was clear that they were finished.

            “They want to go outside!” Abby was confident. “They don’t belong here.” She was more right than she knew. Leaning forward, Abby laid her hand down, palm up. Oscar and Alphonse scampered up in unison. Abby rose and proceeded down the stairs and out the backdoor. Archie trailed behind. His mind was churning almost audibly. Steam was coming out his ears in thin wisps, nothing compared to the thick trunks of smoke pouring from the basement window.

            Abby wasn’t entirely certain how the caterpillars would get back to where they belonged, but she knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out “goodbye.” They moved speedily, but Abby was just able to catch the last word.

            She bent and let them off her hand. They inched into the grass. Abby and Archie watched as Oscar and Alphonse disappeared into the Jungle of Fiery Foxes. A small green stalk seemed to be almost glowing at the edge of the jungle, but neither sibling gave it a second glance as they raced back to the ship. They were eager to continue searching the universe for the bizarre and inexplicable.

Carter

 Old stuff. Based on facts, full of truthiness. Email me if you don't believe. I'll hook you up with some history. Enjoy!

James broke into a jog as the pond came into sight. He would reach the small dock moments later. This weekend’s fishing trip had been the light Virgil had been carrying in front of him since that horrid Monday. Now it was within reach and patience abandoned him.

            The warm, humid Georgian afternoon felt real, in a sticky sort of way. After being cooped up in a dry, frigid office all week, surrounded by the counterfeit reality of his coworkers, the authenticity of nature was like the light breeze he knew awaited him on the water: refreshing and sweet.

            Reaching the dock, James slowed and then stopped. He bent over the lockbox at the land end of the dock. 4…2…0…1…9…7…9 the combination lock fell open. James pulled his pole and tackle box out and kicked the lid shut.

            Four steps down the dock, James reached his canoe. He stowed his gear and hopped in. As he untied the bowline he noted with disgust his pale fingers next to the eternally tan rope that tethered his canoe. In a brief flash he imagined how weathered and rough his hands would be if were out on a boat every day rather than the odd weekend here and there. He conjured up images of wizened old fishermen and then wily, dirty pirates. With a sigh he resolved to enjoy his time on the lake and to completely ignore the dismal facts of his true life.

            With this resolution, James pushed away from the dock and picked up his paddle. With several short, powerful strokes James put himself out a good distance into the pond. Knowing how good he was with a paddle, despite the limited time he managed to get on the pond, lifted James’s spirits immensely.

            With his boat gently drifting, James dug into his box for the bait. He decided to go with the plastic centipedes figuring the bass would like something natural (in appearance, anyway). Holding the rod between his legs, James popped two centipedes onto his hook. Thus prepared, he sat back for a moment to take in the moment.

            As his canoe floated in a lazy circle he smelled the slight breeze. The faint scent of dogwood and sassafras mixed with a dank smell that James associated with toads. He loosened his belt and rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt.

            James checked the bobber on his line and looked out at the brownish-green water. He decided that the water was calm enough and cast his line. The bait disappeared into the water and the bobber floated happily on the surface some fifteen yards away.

            Satisfied with his cast and his present state, James adjusted his cap and leaned back to relax. He quite enjoyed these times on the pond when he could unwind, letting go completely of his day-to-day worries. The only interruptions were the occasional bites that resulted a few brief moments of excitement, ending with a fish in the bottom of the canoe.

            Just as he was reveling in the thought of reeling in his first fish of the day James heard a rather loud splash. He scanned the pond but saw only circular ripples under a tree that leaned out a bit over the water about forty yards away. Although it could have been something falling into the water from the tree, James assumed it had been a fish coming to the surface to eat some unsuspecting insect. But it was pretty far away and James did not want to disturb the water close to him by pulling in his line and paddling closer. Let the fish come to you, his father had always said. He sat back again.

            Perspiration broke out on his brow under the bill of his cap. He felt as though he was absorbing the energy of the sun. He closed his eyes and felt wholly settled in.

            As his boat drifted on the water he drifted at the edge of consciousness. Behind his eyelids he was awake, but not thinking, merely absorbing the environment passively. The breeze cooling his moist skin, he could sense the shadows of the small clouds it was pushing across the sky above. He could hear the buzz of insects in the trees, the water lapping against the side of the canoe, and distant splashes of fish and what were probably small toads.

            A small tug on his line brought him abruptly back into a sleepy state of alertness. He sat up and saw something brown floating near his bobber. Some strange log had bumped it. James immediately slouched back into his dozing position.

            His mind free as his eyes rested, James considered the log. It was not uncommon to see sticks floating in the pond, and he had heard something fall into the water earlier. Strange that he hadn’t seen it floating on the surface right after it had fallen. But then, it had been rather oddly shaped, which probably caused it to sink a bit first. There had been a piece that had stuck up, quite ear-like. His fuzzy brain summoned up images of a crocodile stalking the surface of the water, then the wiggling ears of hippopotamus about to defend its territory. His mind, startled at the idea of such a large animal encountering his ten-pound test line, jolted his body up to check the log again.

            But it was not a log. Nor was it a crocodile or a hippopotamus. The sun was silent as the wind pushed a much larger cloud over the pond. James was gazing at a rabbit. At first he wasn’t sure; perhaps it was something else. But as his brain slowly revved back up to normal RPM he recalled the existence of swamp rabbits that could indeed swim. It was still a strange sight.

            The rabbit was headed towards his canoe. James sensed something was wrong. The creature was making a hissing noise and James saw in its open mouth nasty, pointy teeth. James began reeling in his line, thinking that maybe he should move to another part of the pond. With nostrils flared, the rabbit swam with alarming swiftness. It made a beeline for James. His line in and the rod firmly in his left hand, James snatched the paddle with his right and began splashing water at the little critter.

            What started as small, flimsy splashes quickly became frantic slaps at the water as the rabbit, eyes wide with either panic or rage, came steadily closer. WHUNK! The paddle struck the rabbit’s head. As the water calmed from this last flailing, James did not see the rabbit. It must have gone down. Satisfying though it was, James felt a bit guilty. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the poor rodent. Chances were the rabbit was escaping a predator. He had merely wanted to keep it away from himself.

            When the rabbit’s beady red eyes did not reappear above the water James began to feel truly remorseful. He was a catch and release fisherman. His heart rate began to slow back down and he realized that he had been a bit worried. It wasn’t every day that one had to fend off an amphibious rabbit assault. He dropped the paddle into the bottom of the boat, let out a big breath, and leaned back to gather his thoughts.

            James decided that he should paddle another area of the pond; all of the excitement was bound to have scared off any fish in the immediate area. Just as he was reaching down for the paddle, he heard a sound similar to that of a whale exhaling through its blowhole. He froze. The fishing rod fell from between his knees to the floor.

            The next sound his ears picked up was a scrabbling that reminded him of a puppy running full speed across a hardwood floor while trying to turn a sharp corner. Just as the puppy usually winds up smacking into a cupboard James heard a thud. He lifted his eyes from the paddle on the floor to the bow of the boat.

            Those same fiery red eyes that he had been relieved to see disappear after he had accidentally stricken the rabbit were now a mere four feet away. There was a glint in those eyes that suggested what was going to happen next would not be an accident. There was a split second that felt like an eternity for James. He thought how ridiculous it was that he was having a Western high-noon showdown with a wet, limp rabbit. He wished he had a gun in his holster rather than a paddle on the floor.

            The rabbit stared with such intensity that James wondered if it meant to destroy him with its gaze alone. James resolved to make the first move. That was how showdowns were won.

            His hand snaked down to the floor. In the same instant the rabbit sprang forward. Suddenly those four feet seemed more like twenty centimeters. It seemed as though the rabbit flew through the air, going directly for James as if its path had been drawn with a ruler. He grasped the round handle on the floor and snapped it up.

            James had the misfortune of watching the wispy end of his fishing rod whisk upwards. His aim was true, but the blow was in vain. If the rod had been more substantial it would have merely sped the rabbit along its trajectory toward James. As it was the pole snapped in two as it came in contact with the rabbit.

            If either James or the rabbit had blinked they would have missed this incident, brief as it was. But James’s eyes never left the rabbit’s. In James’s mind he knew the sequence couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, but he picked up enough details that it could’ve been minutes long.

            As the rabbit crept through the air toward James, he noticed that its eyes were locked onto his, but focused lower, on his neck. The moment he realized this fact everything snapped out of slow motion, skipped real-time and proceeded directly to warp speed.

            The rabbit sunk its big teeth into James’s jugular vein. Even as James instinctually tried desperately to dislodge the rabbit from his neck, there was a portion of his brain that was trying to convince the rest of his mind that there was no such thing as vampire bunny rabbits. Meanwhile, his eyes were watching a fountain of his own blood spray in all directions.

            The rabbit clearly had a vicious streak miles wide because it continued to chew away at James’s neck. James felt his strength sap away with disheartening speed. He felt another flash of agony, the equivalent of a shot in comparison to a shattered bone compared to the initial bite. But it registered in his head nonetheless. His fingers had gone through the razors in the rabbit’s mouth.

James felt as though he had lost his last weapon against the ferocious rabbit. He slumped to the floor of his canoe, hitting with a sticky splash. The bottom of the small vessel was quickly filling with the crimson blood that was exiting his increasingly limp body.

            James’s last thought was a consoling one. It was an ongoing joke in the office that they would all die at their desks thanks to the economic crisis. At least he had escaped that cruel fate…

Mr. Linden's Library

OK, there are going to be more of these, so I've put a link over on the right to help keep us straight.

            Archie took the turn way too fast. He would’ve rolled across the intersection if he hadn’t been driving the Ferrari Mars Beam IV. But he was, so he didn’t. The six tires screamed in protest, but they kept their grip on the asphalt as Archie flew around the corner onto Elm Street.

            “WEEEEEEE!” Abby navigated. Foreign Espionage Day had been a huge hit at school that day. Hundreds of bad guys had been dispatched with excessive panache. A surfeit of explosions and witticisms had saved the world half a dozen times by lunch and the universe once before the final bell rang.

            Archie slammed on the brakes. The screeching sound was deafening, as it usually is when you go from six hundred kilometers an hour to zero in just ten meters. He crunched into reverse, backing up ten meters into the immense cloud of smoke that was still pouring off the burning rubber that used to be tires.

            “WHOA! Are the Russians tracking us?” Abby tried to pierce the haze with her x-ray glasses. Her British accent was terrible.

            “No, we lost them when we jumped the submarine,” Archie said in a surprisingly convincing Scottish accent. “Mr. Linden’s door is open.” The rubber fog parted enough for Abby to see straight up the walkway to Mr. Linden’s house. Sure enough, the door was hanging wide open.

            “What should we do?” Abby’s accent did nothing to disguise the quaver of fear in her voice. Archie opened his door, grabbed his sword from behind his seat and stepped out of the Mars Beam IV.

“We need to close that door, lass,” his accent was thick. “We need to keep the neighborhood safe.” Abby bounced out of the sleek sports car. She waited for Archie to come around to her side then grasped his free hand in hers. Together, they stepped onto the sidewalk.

The library had only one door. It was a huge oaken thing and it was never open. An intricately ironclad doorbell was embedded in the wall next to the door, but no one ever rang it.  A plaque that read “Mr. Linden’s Library” rested just above the doorbell.

Even on Halloween, especially on Halloween, no one went to Mr. Linden’s door. Rumor had it that the house used to eat kids. Archie and Abby hoped that the building had kicked the habit as they approached.

On either side of the walkway lay a chasm thousands of meters deep. Archie paused to kick a pebble over the edge. He watched it fall, thinking about Mr. Linden. No one had ever seen him, but it was well known that he was a warlock of the highest order. While other buildings might be struck by lightning from the sky, Mr. Linden’s Library was the only one to strike the sky with lightning. Archie never heard the pebble land.

Abby kept advancing toward the waiting mouth of the house. She could hear it breathing, but the rhythm was steady, suggesting it was asleep. She took the three steps up to the porch on tiptoe. Standing before the threshold, she made no move to close the door. There was a book just inside the doorway on the floor.

“Quickly, m’dear, we must forever lock away the horrors of the warlock’s lair!” Archie’s Scottish pierced the air. Abby bent to the book, but just before her fingers touched the evergreen cover, Archie shouted, “Touch nothing the library offers. It is cursed!”

Wordless, Abby grabbed the book and stood. With a single bound over an alligator and a crocodile, Archie landed on the porch. He poked the book with his sword, twice. The book did not show its teeth. Archie shrugged and turned to the open entrance.

The door was open just wide enough that Archie could not reach the knob without putting a foot inside. He was loath to do so, but there was no other option. Foreign operatives must not hesitate to do what is necessary to protect the Motherland.

“Return the book to whence it came,” he advised his sister. Abby clutched it to her chest with both hands.

“No, it has magical powers. I might need it to help me with my homework,” she replied.

“Books are dangerous. Trust me, lass, you’re better off with a highball,” Archie’s accent seemed to have a life of it’s own. “But I can see you’ll not be swayed. I can only hope the words in that book have as little power as my own.”

“Close the door, and let’s get out of here,” Abby’s accent had completely abandoned her. She stepped off the porch and headed down the walkway, making sure to stay in the center, well away from the sheer drop on either side.

“Aye, lass,” Archie said. He planted his right foot just outside the doorway and extended his left as far as he could before gently setting his toes onto the wooden floor. He felt warmth emanating up through his shoe.

He gently shifted his balance into the house as he reached for the doorknob. It was icy cold. He tried to jerk the door shut, but his foot was in the way. He couldn’t lift it. He began to turn to Abby to ask for help, but his hand wouldn’t let go of the knob.

“Uh, Abby? I think I’m stuck?” Archie’s accent was gone.

“Who’s Abby? I’m Double Dip Daisy,” Abby’s accent was back, but confused, almost Irish.

“Get over here and help me, Double Dip Daisy. My hand is turning blue.” It was true. Archie’s hand was a pale sapphire color.

“You can call me Triple D, if you want,” Abby babbled. “Just don’t call me late to dinner.” She held the book in one hand and reached the other one out to Archie. He clung to it.

“Ok, uh, pull!” Together the Burdicks pulled. Archie didn’t budge. If anything, his hand on the doorknob felt even colder and his foot inside felt even hotter. “Use both hands! PULL!”

Abby grabbed Archie’s free hand with both of hers without putting the book down. As soon as the green book came in contact with Archie, he came free. Abby and Archie went tumbling down the porch steps. The door slammed shut with a resounding THWUMP.

Archie and Abby made eye contact then scrambled to their feet. They took off running, leaving the Mars Beam IV in the middle of the street.

That afternoon Double Dip Daisy rode a huge white dog while Archie faced off against a pair of extra womanly sphinxes. They also tamed a young sasquatch before dinner was called. Their father demonstrated his Molecular Pie Coalescinator and their mother made him clean up the mess.

            They plodded up the stairs together. It occurred to Archie that he hadn’t seen the book since they had escaped the library.

“Hey, what happened to that book from Mr. Linden’s?” asked Archie before he went into his room.

“It’s in my room. Why?” Abby stood with her hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t read it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Bad feeling,” Archie shrugged.

“OK. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Archie went into his room, Abby to hers. She didn’t want to argue with her brother, but she had every intention of at least seeing what the book was about. No need to worry him though.

Abby changed into her pajamas, turned on her bedside lamp, and slid under the covers. The green book looked innocent enough. She flipped through it, stopping randomly in the middle.

At a glance, everything appeared normal. Then Abby noticed that not all the words were in English. Some looked like Spanish, but most of them were indecipherable. There was no way she would be able to read it, so she began to close the book. That’s when the words began to move.

Abby’s eyes widened. She waited, hoping they would arrange themselves in a way that she could read them. Her brain felt like it was moving around in her skull. She felt dizzy. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Maybe this was why Archie didn’t want her to read the book. He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. Abby’s eyelids drooped shut and she lost consciousness.

Thin green tendrils grew from the crease of the open book. Leaves sprouted on the squirming stems. They spread in all directions, slowly at first, but rapidly picked up speed. A white lotus flower popped up in full bloom.

As the plant grew to the size of a lazy cat lying in the sun, other things began to emerge. A pair of caterpillars inched off toward the foot of the bed. Three roly poly bugs rolled off the sheet straight to the floor. The sound of wings purred in the air as several hummingbirds thrummed out.

A glowing seedpod bounced out and under the bed. The pages of the book rustled faintly then spit out a double-headed snake with four-inch fangs. First one skinny leg poked out and then another, followed by an explosion of pink. The flamingo gracefully stepped away. The animals kept coming as if they were finally free from being cooped up in Noah’s Ark.

Sounds were emanating from the book. The chirrup of jungle bugs, the distant crashing of waves, the crackle of someone tuning a radio. A car horn blared over the background of whales singing while a lion roared its displeasure at a beeping alarm clock.

Archie burst through the door just in time to see an elephant’s trunk exploring its way out of the book. His jaw rested on the floor while he watched a toad jump out of the end of the trunk and land on the floor with a SPLOP.

Unsure of what to do, Archie picked up the bottom of his mouth and held it closed. He took a step toward the bed and froze when he saw his sister.

All he could see of Abby were her bulbous pink toes protruding from the mussed covers (probably thanks to a beaver that was rolling around), and a fluff of blonde hair. A mass a writhing green vines wrapped the rest of her body in a pulsing cocoon.

Archie rushed out of the room, making sure to close the door behind him. Seconds later he crashed back in. He was wearing a dusty brown cowboy hat and held a whip in one hand. In the other gleamed a machete.

He cracked the whip several times on his way to the bed to keep the hyenas at bay. With a short hop, he was on the bed and began hacking away at the plant. White lotus petals flew through the air as he chopped entire vines away. Thick green arms reached out for his arm, but Archie was too fast. Sap splayed off his well-honed blade.

Abby’s head was free in moments. Archie kicked the piles of inert plant mass into the void of the book’s open crease. The tome was bigger than Archie remembered it being.

A condor chick fluffed itself up when the beaver looked to defend its newfound territory. The ruffled feathers tickled Abby’s toes and her eyes snapped open.

“Archie, I’m sorry! I read the book. I tried—”

“No time, we have to get everything back into the book!” He cracked the whip in the face of an upset looking jaguar. Abby pried the rest of the plant off of her legs and scrabbled to her knees. She yanked a crab off of the lampshade, tossed it into the book-pit and took up the lamp in both hands.

Together, Archie and Abby corralled, prodded, carried, and chased the various creatures back into the book. A strange beast with tentacles like a squid and beak like a duck clung to the ceiling. Abby stood on Archie’s back while he bent over on the bed. A few whacks with the lamp on its giant snail-like shell finally knocked it free.

Whooping came from the closet. A troop of macaques spilled out when Abby opened the door. She and Archie wrestled them into the book and swept the roly polys up. As they did, a beam of light blasted up from the book. Steam flowed up. They could hear a train whistle in the distance. It sounded like it was coming closer.

They quickly scanned the room. It was clear. No, not quite.

“Abby, the toad!” It squatted, apparently content, in the corner. She dropped the lamp and ran over, picked it up and screamed. The amphibian dropped back to the floor.

“It peed on me! Ewww!” Abby wiped her hands on her pajamas in disgust.

“Abby, hurry!” The whistle shrieked its imminent approach. The light beamed a growing circle on the ceiling.

She bent over, grasped the slimy toad in both hands and chucked it to Archie. A trail of water (hopefully) traced its path through the air. With a whack of the flat of the machete blade, Archie knocked it into the spotlight.

As soon as it disappeared into the hollow of the book, Archie flicked the cover shut. Abby rushed over and placed the lamp on top of the book. The split second after, the book jumped violently into the air, shaking as if in anger. The lamp bounced onto the messy bed and the book fell to the floor.

“We need to put that where no one else can try to read it,” Abby said, eyes wide.

“We’ll bury it, right now,” Archie nodded. Abby got down on her knees and carefully picked up the book. She spied the seedpod that had bounced out earlier. It still glowed faintly. “We’ll bury that, too.”

“Yeah, no way I’m opening the book to put it back in,” Abby agreed.

The pair wasted no time. They went downstairs and out the backdoor and started digging. Ten minutes of work yielded a hole that they decided was deep enough. Abby carefully placed the book on the bottom of the pit, making certain that it didn’t open even the slightest bit. The luminous seedpod followed, albeit with less ceremony.

Five minutes later the hole was filled back in and the siblings returned to the house.

 “Well, goodnight. Again. You ready for Monster Day tomorrow?”

“Oh, you bet.”

The Third-Story Bedroom

Part two of my interpretation on Chris Van Allsburg's Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Hats off to him for the book of ideas and the illustrations he drew.

            It was Hot Lava Day at school. Lava was everywhere, except in the classrooms. The only way to get around safely was to walk on the cracks in the pavement. Everywhere kids were walking with their arms outstretched in effort to balance on the fine lines.

            Archie walked serenely along a pencil-thin line, unperturbed by the steam rising around. Hot Lava Day was easy. Or had been, until Ronnie decided to make it more interesting. Archie’s eyes were constantly roving, monitoring for sudden movements.

            Most people moved carefully, some glacially, on Hot Lava Day. They took the utmost care too avoid a horrible and, by universal agreement, painful death. Burning alive was no walk in the park. Ronnie was different.

            “Scrawny” Ronnie was the skinniest kid in school. He weighed half as much as his backpack. Unfortunately, the day that the hurricane had hit last year, Ronnie hadn’t been wearing his backpack. His super light flyweight body was nearly blown away. Thinking quickly, Ronnie turned sideways and was saved.

            Emboldened by his experience, Scrawny Ronnie found Hot Lava Day a bit mild to his taste. So he had decided to crank the spiciness up. He had turned it into a contact sport.

            An avalanche of screams came from Archie’s left. His head whipped around in time to see Scrawny Ronnie finish clearing an entire crack like a defensive linebacker. First graders writhed in agony behind him.

Archie was shaking his head when he felt the elbow poke into his back. He went up on his toes and began waving his arms to maintain his balance. It was no use. As he felt himself reach and exceed the Point of No Return, Archie made eye contact with Scrawny Ronnie before his eyelids slammed shut. Ronnie was laughing his head off.

Archie’s hands slapped down. Intense heat seared the length of his body. With his head turned to one side, eyes still scrunched shut, Archie waited to sink into the broiling lava. Instead, nothing happened.

Archie’s eyes opened slowly. He was still alive. Looking down he could see the lava, bubbling and boiling. Archie checked his hands. By some miracle, they had landed on a crack.

Every muscle in his eight-year-old body was working to keep his body supported. Only his hands and feet were touching the ground. Everything was shaking. Sweat began to drip down his nose, whether from the extreme heat or extreme effort was impossible to know. Most likely both.

Archie did not want to die. While his body was locked in stasis, his mind was flying. He wasn’t wearing his anti-gravity boots, his Pegasus whistle was in his pocket, but his hands were a bit busy. He’d brought his jet pack today, but he wasn’t wearing it, not having anticipated needing it before recess. Archie was in a tight spot.

The sound of high heels approached and Archie collapsed. With a sigh of relief, Archie rolled onto his back. Completely uncooked, he looked up to see Miss Brownberry striding by.

“Medium rare, no! Well done!” Scrawny Ronnie was on the scene (and a crack). “Can I have your jet pack since you’re dead?”

“Ronnie, you know you can’t die when a teacher is watching. You can’t have my jet pack.” Archie rose and quickly rebalanced on a crack away from Scrawny Ronnie.

“Aw maaaan, he’s right,” Ronnie slunk away, surely biding his time.

The rest of Hot Lava Day passed without major incident, although the earthquake during lunch recess had made things interesting. Archie, thanks to his jet pack, and little Emily, thanks to her hoverboard, rode it out without difficulty, but there were many casualties.

On the way home, Archie and Abby skipped and jumped, even did a carefully measured cartwheel once. Crabwalking and bearwalking were also part of the journey. As long as they didn’t step on a crack (to save their mother’s spine, of course), everything would be fine.

They held hands when they went by the library owned by Mr. Linden. It was a known fact that Mr. Linden was a warlock. Once they were passed the library, they turned off of Elm Street and onto Maple Street. One block down they turned onto Home Street. They were home.

The galloped up the walkway and through the door. “Leave your horses in the hallway, please!” Their mother shouted from the kitchen, “How was school?”

“Normal day, Mom!” Neither of them bothered to tie up their steed after dismounting. Instead they both immediately mounted the stairs.

“Make sure you close the window!” Their mother’s voice chased them up the stairs. Archie dropped his jet pack in his room on the second floor, then followed Abby up the to third-floor bedroom. This was neutral territory.

Technically, the third-floor bedroom was a bedroom, but it was rarely used as such. It also served as a command center, or a prison tower cell, or, once, even an escape (from Earth) pod. There was a bed, a dresser, and an old radiator under the window. Other than the doves on the wallpaper, there was nothing else of note.

They only other thing on the third floor was a half bath. This term made no sense to Archie or Abby. Inside the tiny room were a toilet and a sink, but there was no bathtub, half or any other fraction of one. They ignored the bath(less)room, except for emergencies.

The third-floor bedroom was their space. The only rule was that they had to close the window when they were in there. Their mother opened it during the day to get air circulating through the house, but wanted it closed when they got home. It was harder, although not quite impossible, for aliens to kidnap them through a closed window, she said.

They battled a werewolf and trapped a troublesome poltergeist in the closet before the call for dinner brought them downstairs. Their father came up from the basement at the same time, covered in oil and brown stains. Over dinner he explained the difficulties he was having with the Quantum Pooper Scooper that he was inventing for Mrs. Steampipe.

“The alarms are functioning properly, but the catapult arm keeps missing the static black hole. The molecular generator keeps getting jammed with…stuff,” he said. Archie commiserated and regaled everyone with his close call during Hot Lava Day.

The next day was Dinosaur Day. Fourth grade velociraptors were the known danger, as was Mrs. Allosaurus Rex. A timely asteroid allowed most kids to go home alive, although some limbs didn’t make it through the day.

When the triceratops and spinosaurus burst through the door, they heard a pteranodon from the kitchen, “You two forgot to close the window yesterday. Don’t forget today.” Two small mice scampered up the staircase.

Something was off that day in the third-floor bedroom. It wasn’t immediately noticeable, but there was a change. It didn’t stop Archie and Abby from arresting three bank robbers and tight rope walking over the Grand Canyon.

The next day at school was very quiet (Invisible Day). When they arrived in the third-floor bedroom they stopped in doorway. Two of the doves from the wallpaper were missing.

They weren’t missing as if someone had cut two holes in the wallpaper. They were missing as if they’d been erased from the pattern. Archie and Abby looked at each other then went and closed the window together.

That night during dinner, after they had defeated a minotaur and lassoed the Loch Ness Monster, they mentioned the change. “The doves are disappearing! It all began when someone left the window open—”

“Someone? You mean someone like you or your sister?” Their mother raised an eyebrow.

“Right, someone. Not me.”

“Or me,” Abby added.

“So the birds are escaping…” mused their father. Today he was covered in chocolate and mustard stains.

“Escaping? Were they prisoners?” asked Abby anxiously.

“No, I mean—I don’t think so. I guess you’d have to ask them, wouldn’t you?” No one had a better idea, so the matter was settled.

Archie and Abby ran and skipped home from school the next day, keeping in the spirit of Anything But Walking Day. They did stop to open the door, but plowed straight through it instead. They did not climb the stairs, but flew up the stairwell, barely missing hitting their heads before they arrived, breathless at the third-floor bedroom.

They had done everything humanly possible to get home as quickly as possible and it had paid off. There was a dove above the dresser with one wing and its head peeled away from the wallpaper.

Eager to get closer, Archie and Abby stepped forward simultaneously into the doorway. They weren’t large kids, but neither was the doorway. They got stuck.

“Are you a prisoner?” Abby blurted. The dove turned to look at the two-headed creature stuck in the doorway. Its beak opened.

“No, I’m not a prisoner. But I do seem to be rather stuck,” it’s voice was mellifluous and sweet. A brief scuffle got the kids through the door. Archie reached up to help pry the dove from the wall. He could not budge the bird “On the count of three,” the bird suggested. Abby came up behind her brother and grabbed hold of his hips, ready to pull.

“One, two, three!” A soft PLOP, and the dove was free. It stood in Archie’s open hands and spoke, “Thank you, Archie. And Abby.” It nodded to Abby.

“Where are you going?” asked Archie. He looked at the other empty spaces on the wall. “Where did the others go?”

“We must spread the word. The window has opened.”

“Oh, come on. We only forgot to close it one time. Just once!”

“You cannot close this window, Young Archie. You are the window.” Confused, Archie turned to Abby. Her blank face reflected his own. No clues there. The dove explained. “This is not the only world, Archie. There is another, very much like this one, but limitless in possibilities. It is there that I must carry my message.”

“I don’t get it,” Abby said.

“Your brother is very special, Abby. He is going to be very important in some things that will most certainly happen. He will need your help.” The dove ruffled its feathers and looked once more into the eyes of young Archie Burdick. “Good luck.”

The bird took off, flapping through the open window. Archie and Abby looked at each other and shrugged. “Should we slay the dragon and sly the princess?”

“Maybe we should save one of them.” A nod. They went to work.

            That night, lying in bed, Archie heard a muffled noise through the ceiling. He slid out of bed quietly and crept up the stairs. The door to the third-floor bedroom was closed. Holding his breath, Archie flung the door open.

            Dim moonlight illuminated a white whirlwind. Dozens of white doves spiraled through the room, swooping and diving. It was a wonder that there were no collisions. Archie entered the room.

            Although Archie could feel the wind coming off their wings, not a bird touched him as he made his way to the wind. As he moved through the swirling white storm he noticed that the walls were bare. Not a bird was left on the wallpaper.

            Once he reached the window Archie did not hesitate to throw open the window. The twirling forms of the doves poured out the window, a miniature white river emptying into the world. Or the other world.

 

Loose Tooth

There is more of Archie to come, but first, from the Squid Stories time machine, vintage 2010, a story that grew out of a dream I had in Alaska. I think I still have the original notepad that it was written on somewhere. It isn't the only story on that notepad, if memory serves...

            “Afternoon naps are probably the best thing ever. A little dangerous though, because you don’t always plan them and you don’t know when you’ll wake up. I almost didn’t make it to work just now,” Fred said as he walked up.

            “Yeah, I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” Diego said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

            Fred replied as if he hadn’t heard a word that had come out of Diego’s mouth, “But afternoon naps result in more dreams than normal nighttime sleeping it seems.”

            “I guess your stomach wakes up a bit slower than your mouth.”

            “I just had the oddest dream, almost a nightmare.”

            “I bet your ears are the last part of you to wake up. Tell me about your dream.”

            Still talking as if he hadn’t been interrupted, Fred began: “Like most dreams, I didn’t know it was a dream at first. I don’t know where I was, and I don’t recall anyone else being there. I was focused entirely on my mouth. Inside my mouth. I was feeling around with my tongue and I discovered something wrong.

            “The furthest right of my front four teeth on my bottom jaw was loose. I could feel it wobble when I pushed on it with my tongue.

            “Worried, I reached my hand up to verify this startling discovery. As I did, it came to me that I was dreaming. While dreaming, I was conscious of my unconscious state.

            “While strange, this isn’t the first time that this awareness has come to me. Each time I’ve been able to will myself back to wakefulness (every time I seem to be in an undesirable situation). It is a struggle and takes a few moments, but it works, as it did this time.

            “Immediately, upon waking I checked my tooth. I was only half-shocked to find that it was in fact loose. You know how real life creeps into the dreamworld sometimes.

            “I gave the tooth a probing touch with my tongue. I quickly went from half-shocked to completely blown away, and also fully scared, when I pushed my tooth clean out of my mouth.”

            Diego stared at Fred’s mouth. He hadn’t noticed any missing teeth.

            “Obviously, I still have all my teeth because that was when I woke up a second time, actually woke up. Unless I’m still dreaming?”

            “No, this is real,” Diego said. For the first time, Fred seemed to hear him.

            “That’s what I thought, but it’s good to have it confirmed.”

            “OK people! Time to work!” Fred and Diego turned in obedience to their boss’s command. It was such a busy evening that there was no time for further small talk. At the end of the shift the two exchanged goodbyes and left.

            “Fred! Answer the phone you lousy sonofa—Fred! What did you do to me?”

            “Diego? That you?”

            “Damn right it is! This is your fault somehow!”

            “My fault? What are you talking about?”

            “My tooth!”

            “Your tooth?”

            “Yes, my tooth! The furthest right of my front four on the bottom—just like you said, you bastard!”

            “What about your tooth?”

            “It fell out, of course! Don’t act like you don’t know. I’m not sure how you did it, but I’m going to get even.”

            “Wait, Diego, slow down. I didn’t do anything to you, or your tooth.”

            “Then how do you explain my tooth falling out just after you dreamed of that same exact tooth doing just that? It even happened when I pushed on it with my tongue. How on earth do you explain that?”

            “I have no idea, Diego. You have to believe me, man. I didn’t do this to you, I promise. But listen: it’s only a tooth, right? Easy fix.” There was a small pause while Fred took a breath. “Did it hurt?”

            “No, it didn’t. That’s weird.” Calmer now, Diego said, “I was too freaked out to notice before, but it didn’t hurt a bit.”

            “Well, there you go: it was painless, and the dentist can hook you up with a real good fake tooth. Easy peasy. Hey, you’ll even get to miss a day of work.”

            “That’s true. I’m sorry I yelled at you, Fred, but you have to admit, it is really strange. It’s like your dream predicted what was going to happen to me; like a little window into the future.”

            “Yeah, that is weird, a little scary, actually. Sometimes I have some really crazy dreams. I’m glad it was only your tooth.”

            “Whoa, no kidding. I know I’ve had some gruesome nightmares. I wonder why your dream happened to me.”

            “Yeah, and why that dream and none of the others I’ve had my whole life?”

            “It’s a fecking mystery. OK, well, sorry for the angry wakeup call, Fred. Have a good day at work, it seems I’m going to the dentist.”

            “Hey Diego. Looking good, man. That new tooth is perfect!”

            “Thanks Fred, but we need to talk.”

            “What’s up?”

            “I had a dream yesterday afternoon after I went to the dentist. I wouldn’t mention it, but it was similar to the one you had.”

            “Another loose tooth?”

            “You wish. You know how you thought you had woken up, but you were still dreaming and thought what you were dreaming was real? Well, that’s what happened to me.”

            “You think that means that your dream is going to come true too? Oh shit, does that mean it’s going to happen to me? Diego! What happened in your dream?!”

            Diego took a deep breath, looked Fred in the eyes and said: “Like you, I wasn’t aware that I was dreaming at first. Where I was wasn’t important, and no one else was around. My attention was focused on my chest. I could hear my rapid heartbeat in my ears so strongly that it was the only sound. I could feel it expanding and contracting, moving my blood. Then it stopped.

            “Then I thought that I had woken up. My heart was racing. I calmed down and relaxed, listening to my heart rate slow. Then, again, as I was listening, it stopped beating.”

            Fred’s face was ashen as he stood with his mouth agape, unable to respond. Diego looked back helplessly.

            “OK people! Time to work!” Fred’s heart began to race.

A Strange Day in July

Since Squid Stories has resurfaced, most of what I've done is polish up old material. Thanks to an extensive, yet efficient editorial process (Thanks, Jess), they are quickly ready for posting. Then I stumbled across the Mysteries of Harris Burdick buried in the depths of my poor laptop. The author and illustrator, Chris Van Allsburg, originally intended the Mysteries for children, which is probably why they speak to me so strongly. So yesterday I began to delve into the Mysteries.

            The bright sun filtered through the sheer curtains, dappling the entire bed in a stippled pattern. A light breeze kept the curtains dancing causing the light to pulse through the room. A faint crash downstairs broke the hush. Archie’s eyes snapped open. I’ve overslept! he thought.

            After a brief struggle with the sheets, Archie was up and moving, a miniature whirlwind. He absorbed a pair of pants and socks as he tore a path to the door, where he snagged the shirt that was hanging from the doorknob. Less than ten seconds elapsed from when his eyes opened to his departure from his room.

            The stairs passed in a blur. His first stop was the kitchen for supplies. The old knapsack was propped up next to the counter where he had dropped it last night. He opened the scuffed top flap and started scooping in cookies and crackers.

            “Make sure you’re back before dark,” Archie glanced at his mom. Her attention was still focused on the newspaper in front of her face. Mom Radar was a well-established fact in the Burdick family, but it still caught Archie off guard at times.

            “Can I have some trail mix?” he asked, hopeful.

            “Yes, you can.” Archie stood waiting. Then he remembered.

            “May I have some trail mix?” Without looking up, his mother set her coffee cup on the table and pointed to the cupboard under the sink. Eagerly, Archie opened the cupboard and saw a small bag of trail mix next to a bottle of dishwashing soap.

In an effort to make the trail mix last more than three hours, Archie’s mother had divided up the stash into smaller bags and hidden them around the house. Both Archie and his father were under constant surveillance when they were in the house, otherwise they would start snooping, hunting for another bag. Mom Radar and Sister Alarm had caught them scavenging several times already that summer.

            Provisions properly prepared, Archie hefted the knapsack and crossed into the hallway. “Before dark, Archie,” followed him as he approached the door. As he knelt to lace his shoes he heard the stampede.

            “Aaaarrrchiiiiiee! Wait for meeee!” only a few notches below full Sister Alarm, Abby came crashing down the stairs. Only one year separated the siblings, but Archie sometimes felt like he was a hundred years older. Somehow though, during summers at the cabin, it was okay to have her along. He allowed her to be his sidekick, but had to be careful. If he snapped at her for anything, she would quickly become an albatross around his neck. It was good to have company though, so he waited.

            “Did you get some trail mix?” she asked, breathlessly as she buckled her shoes.

            “Yup. You ready?” Abby reached up and pulled her headband from the pegboard next to the door. The keys to the boatshed were gone; their father was surely out fishing already. She pulled the headband over her head, positioned it to make sure her hair stayed away from her face then nodded.

            The pair burst out the door. July was in full bloom. The sun fell upon the jade fir trees, sparkled off the sapphire lake, imbuing everything it touched with the magic of summer.

            Archie reached the boathouse first, stopping just long enough to pick up his sword, he continued past the open, empty building and sped down the dock. Abby was only a few steps behind, also armed.

            “Blackbeard takes no prisoners!” Sword held high above his head, Archie turned back to face his sister. She was positioned with her feet squarely planted on the dock, fists on her hips, sword poking from her right hand.

            “Neither does Admiral Hook!” she retorted, giving herself a promotion. Without another word, at least none that would be recognized as such by anyone older than eight, the battle commenced. Thrusts and parries were exchanged with an impressive rapidity. Their namesakes would have been proud of the miniature pirates.

The blades swiped through the air until Abby’s sword broke with a dull crack. A piece of the stick went clattering into the lake. There was a flash of triumph in Archie’s eyes. He stood back, graciously giving the defeated foe room to grieve. “Ye must walk the plank, Lassie Hook,” he intoned seriously.

            Abby looked up at her brother, clutching the stump of her sword. Defiance radiated out from her every pore. It was not her disposition to be compliant. “Nuh-uh, I get another sword. Those are the rules.” She stamped her foot for good measure.

            Rolling his eyes, Archie gave in, “Fine, we can find you another one at the fort.” He knew it was too early in the day to not let his sister slide by on some things, although it certainly not a rule that you got a new sword if yours broke. It was clearly her fault for selecting a poor weapon.

            Without any further discussion, they both took off running. On the way to the fort they tracked dinosaurs, discussed the pros and cons of laces versus Velcro, and found a snakeskin twelve feet long. Once at the fort, they found a new sword for Abby, but united to keep a watch for outlaws in the woods. They defended the fort from ogres and giants, throwing acorn grenades and pinecone bombs.

            A short break to feast on trail mix and crackers, followed by a cookie dessert was uninterrupted by the herds of spiders surrounding the fort. A brief food coma nap was ended by the screech of an eagle, or perhaps a hungry griffin chick, or was it called a cub? They launched an investigation. Their efforts were checked short by a massive liger that the mother had left behind to guard her chicks, or cubs. The slavering monster chased them all the way down to the lake.

            Once at the shore, they convened the defense council. They had lost the liger a little ways back and they had time to call for help. All present agreed that the best course of action was to summon the kraken. The decision made, action was immediately taken. If only all committees could be so effective. Admittedly, none are better motivated.

            Quickly, both of them scooped up rocks and commenced the summoning process. It is a delicate procedure, often undertaken in ignorance, which explains the occurrence of many mysterious and tragic accidents. Thus, it was with grave dignity that the duo began skipping rocks.

            It soon became apparent that Archie was the better skipper, doubtless a result of his experience piloting his own pirate ship. Invariably, every stone that Abby chucked into the lake struck water with a plunk and sunk. She tried an offhand toss, which made a different kind of plunk sound when it struck a tree behind her. The council reconvened, tasks were reassigned.

            Abby combed the beach for the best skipping rocks and brought them back to Blackbeard. She would supervise a couple throws and then resume the hunt, expanding her search radius. Archie kept up a steady effort, never producing more than five or six skips. It wasn’t sufficient to summon the kraken, but it was just enough to keep the intimidated liger at bay. It was buying them time.

            “These are the best of the best of the best,” Abby declared. She held her hands out, palms together, open to the sky. Resting there were four stones. Two were black shards of shale, one was the shape of a flat egg, a strange mint-green color. The last one was the holy grail of skipping stones. It was perfectly circular, had a thickness that gave it heft, but not too much weight. The taupe rock fit nicely in his hand when he plucked it from his sister’s hands.

            “This is the one,” he said in awe. “Kiss it.” He held it out to Abby, who gave it a peck. For good measure he blew on it. He had seen a man do the same thing with dice in a movie once, presumably to blow off the cooties of the woman who had kissed them first. Archie saw no reason to take chances.

            With the liger roaring from the tree line, Archie drew his arm back and let loose in a beautiful sidearm throw. The stone skipped once…twice…three times…four…five…six—and then it took a sharp right turn and disappeared. Archie’s shoulders slumped. Uncertain, Abby turned to her brother.

            “Was that enough?” Archie shook his head. Now there were only three chances left. Dejected, he threw the two pieces of shale. They were both too thin and flaky. One flew a hundred feet in the air after the first skip. Impressive, but unhelpful. The second broke into three pieces on the second impact. Without a single scrap of hope remaining, Archie tossed the third stone.

“That was the third rock I picked up today. I was saving it,” Abby said meekly. It skipped five times.

“I wish I could have it back,” Archie said ruefully. “I think I could do it if I only had another chance.” Disconsolate, he started walking along the waterline, wondering what the inside of a liger would look like. Eyes downcast, he feared what it would smell like. Then he saw it.

That green color was unmistakable, as was the eggy shape. The rock that he had just thrown was sitting on the beach in front of him. He picked it up. Walking behind him, Abby only got a glimpse of it once it was in his hands.

“You didn’t throw it?” she asked, puzzled.

“No, I did.”

“Then why are you holding it?”

“I just picked it up.”

“You got it back! Just like you wanted!” Abby clapped her hands excitedly.

“I didn’t want this one back, I meant the first one. The grey one. Brown. The rocky colored one.”

“Oh, well, you should have been more specific. Mom always says so. Say what you mean.” Archie glared at her. Then he cast his gaze out to the lake. It had been a pretty normal day so far, but now something was different. The afternoon sun glinted off tiny waves. A gentle breeze moved the trees ever so slightly. The sound of liger saliva dripping into the sand crept ever closer. But there was also something strange.

Archie drew a deep breath and faced the lake square on. He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. Its roundtrip completed, the rock landed in front of his feet, innocently waiting to be thrown again. Archie looked at Abby. Abby looked at Archie. Abby smiled first.

“Was that enough skips?” A grin started to grow on Archie’s face, too.

“Oh, most definit—” The jaws of the liger clamped down, engulfing both of the Burdick children. They were rudely swallowed and landed with twin splashes in the depths of the beast.

Before they had a chance to explore, however, an enormous splat sounded above their heads. They looked up and saw light shining through ropes of liger juice. The head with the giant mouth that had gulped them up was gone. The heavy liger body crashed onto the beach, lifeless. Archie and Abby crawled to the sand in time to see the kraken. Millions of purple tentacles waved in the air above the lake, the biggest one, at least as big around as the tree their fort was built in, was wrapped tightly around the liger’s head which was frozen in a silent snarl. With fascination they watched the head that had eaten them get lowered into the waiting beak of the kraken.

“The circle of life,” Archie said sagely. Abby nodded in agreement. They took off for home, stopping only to retrieve their swords from the fort, and once more to help the man in black save his flowery princess.

During dinner they listened to their father tell of the sixty-foot, eight-ton fish that he had caught that afternoon. He would have brought it home, he said, but the small rowboat had quickly begun to take on water, and he wasn’t sure he could make all the way home before sinking to depths.

Their mother showed off the completed newspaper crossword puzzle. One of the hardest in human history, she said. Then Archie and Abby regaled their parents with their adventures of the day.

Once the table cleared and the dishes clean by virtue of a family effort to defeat the garbage disposal creature, they practiced walking on stilts and shooting marbles with one eye shut.  Finally, tired from another full day, everyone shambled to bed.

Basking in the moonlight that was pouring through his open window, Archie saw that the mint-green egg rock lying on his pillow.

Be Afraid of the Dark

I've been sitting on this one for a while. Halloween seems like an appropriate time to let it loose.

Harry had not been scared of the dark since he was a little kid, but being alone and watching a marathon of scary movies goes a long way in whipping the imagination into a ferocious maelstrom of horror. The walk from the TV room to his bedroom was long and lightless because Harry was trying to convince himself that he was unafraid.

He did fine until he kicked Deckard’s water bowl. Convinced he had heard a poltergeist laugh at his misstep, he completed the journey to his bedroom at warp speed. A flip of the light switch as soon as it was in reach and he whirled around to make sure nothing with fangs was behind him. Next he peered into his room to make sure no zombies were quietly waiting to rend the flesh from his bones.

Satisfied that his room was secure, Harry proceeded to use it as his home base, much as he had done as a child. Everywhere in the room was established as safe, and the bed was the safest place of all. Harry could remember some nights when he was young, skipping the teeth brushing ritual so that he wouldn’t have to go back down the dark hallway to the bathroom. He considered it; he was old enough now, he could certainly retain his composure long enough to get to the bathroom light without having to run.

As he walked, on eggshells it seemed, Harry came up with a vexatious thought: although each empty doorway he passed in the hallway presented a multitude of terrors for his imagination to torture him with, the dark doorway leading into the bathroom was somehow safe? He paused. Immediately, his mind placed a vampire in the shower and the prospect of turning on the bathroom light became an overwhelming task.

Harry took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was thirty years old, much too old to jump at shadows in his own home, and resumed his walk. He came to the doorway and without entering the room turned the light on.

Poking only his nose and eyeballs over the threshold, Harry saw that there was no vampire in the shower. Goblins were not climbing out of the toilet bowl. Harry brushed his teeth quickly, however, anxious to get to the absolute safety of his bed. He eyed the drain in the sink, half-worried that something might come poking out and reach for him.

After a rinse and a spit, Harry killed the light and abandoned his maturity. Six large bounds put him back in the safety zone. After a quick look back over his shoulder, he calmly turned on his bedside light before turning off the overhead one.

He decided to read a bit of his book to take his mind off the possibility of an axe-wielding demon clown coming through his door. Or a window. He picked up his book: Stephen King. Nevermind.

Harry sat up in bed with the light on, unable to relax. In the silence, Harry thought he could hear the house breathing. He got up and turned on some music, 1812 Overture. Not exactly relaxing bedtime music, but it did the job of dispelling the total silence that had been creeping Harry out.

In fact, listening to the familiar masterpiece was soothing enough to allow Harry to recline fully and actually breath normally. He even managed to doze off.

A groan of the floorboards yanked Harry right back into consciousness. His heart was racing before he was even aware of the reason. Another creak brought his brain up to speed with his other organs. His entire body felt tense.

What Harry heard next confirmed his worst fears. A smacking sound, like a mouth savoring a flavor about to come, dripping saliva to the floor in anticipation, reached Harry’s bedroom, just loud enough to cut through the music. The mouth sounded as though it were three feet wide. The image in Harry’s mind was replete with dagger-like teeth jutting out of the orifice.

Suddenly, another part of Harry’s brain made a connection. He had heard that sound before, often—everyday even. His imagination was so worked up that it had turned the common sound of Deckard lapping at his water bowl into the sounds of a ravenous creature from Hell.

A shiver of relief crawled down Harry’s spine. Only then did he realize that he had begun to sweat. The rational side of his mind reminded him that dogs were good for comfort. Man’s best friend and all that. He got out of bed.

Several sleep-staggered steps carried Harry down the corridor to the doorway facing the kitchen, where the dog was still sating his thirst. Harry turned on the hall light that he had ignored during his teeth-brushing mission and opened his mouth to call out to Deckard. As he looked at his dog, however, Harry found his voice had taken the liberty of making an early escape.

The lamp from the hallway indirectly lit part of the kitchen. The sickly yellow light revealed not Deckard, faithful, loving pooch, but a man. On all fours, naked, it was drinking from the dog’s water bowl.

Harry froze, not because he knew the smallest sound would condemn him to a horrific death, but because fear had robbed him of the ability to move. The man was pale, the color of ash, devoid of hair, and streaked with blood.

In the shadows beyond the nightmare, Harry saw Deckard. The macabre sight almost forced Harry’s dinner out of his body via the same route it had entered. Chunks of the dog were missing; two legs were several feet away from the rest of the body. The remains were marooned in a small sea of crimson blood.

Harry realized the lapping had stopped. In that instant, his voice returned, but served only to betray him. A faint croak leaked from his throat. Harry’s eyes felt like stones in their sockets as he looked at the lurid figure.

No part of the ghoulish creature moved except for its head, which turned as though miniature people were turning a crank to power it. The jerky movement terminated in a slight jerk and Harry got his only look at the face that killed him.

The eyes were as dark as obsidian, yet seemed to be burning. The only other feature that set the face apart from any that one might see in a morgue was the mouth. The teeth were not hidden behind pale lips because there were no lips. The bloody maw looked as raw as the wounds in Deckard’s torso. Clearly the lips had gotten in the way and become part of a vicious feast. Blood and water dripped down the chin before meeting the floor.

Blood splayed through the air as Harry’s face, right arm, and a slab of his inner left thigh joined Deckard on the floor. The rest of his body never touched the ground. Hanging from the jaws of the ghastly fiend, it was destined to become a snack for its brethren as they continued their journey across the land.

Under Control

Anyone who has ever been to an airport has experienced this.

            “This is a common sense safety announcement…” Jonathan rolled his eyes. People were dumb, but airport safety announcements were dumber. “…Please keep your luggage under control…” As if it would just walk away if you did not hold it down. “…Do not leave your luggage unattended or with a stranger at anytime. If you see suspicious luggage, please report it to airport security…” Shouldn’t they have already apprehended anything suspicious at the security checkpoint? Wasn’t that their job—their only job?

            Jonathan sighed and turned his attention back to his crossword. Alluringly plump, six letters. What a horrible clue. F and T were in the middle, but that did not help Jonathan much. Islamic genies, also six letters. This one Jonathan knew! It was on the tip of his tongue. He concentrated.

Nearby, a baby began bawling. The weatherman on the television overhead was predicting mild thunderstorms. Aerosmith blasted from the headphones of the teenager sitting next to him. Jonathan realized that he was no longer trying to remember what Islamic genies were called. Instead his mind was blank, simply absorbing everything around him.

A flight for Japan was called: Tokyo, flight number 5591. The teenager rose. Jonathan did not know how the kid had heard the announcement over his music.

A second baby broke into a wail. Jonathan had noticed that no matter where one sat in an airport, or on an airplane for that matter, one was guaranteed to be within earshot of at least half a dozen children aged three or younger.

Suddenly a shadow fell upon Jonathan. “Excuse me,” a voice like chocolate said. Jonathan looked up to see a man that matched. Skin as dark as crude oil, as smooth as melted dark chocolate, the man was striking in his impeccably sharp suit.

Jonathan had long been jealous of such men. They could wear nearly anything and the color of their skin allowed them to look suave and debonair. Someone of Jonathan’s pigmentation, dressed similarly, would be taken for a lothario.

“Sorry to be a bother, but I wonder if I might beg a favor.” The man’s voice was deep enough that it rumbled through Jonathan’s chest as well as his ears. In that moment, knowing nothing further about the man beyond the way he looked and spoke, Jonathan was filled with respect and the desire to please.

“No bother at all. I was just giving up on my puzzle.” Jonathan held up the crossword.

“Perhaps I could help you as well. Any clues in particular that have you stumped?”

“As a matter of fact, yes: Islamic genies…and alluringly plump. Both six letters. I know the word for Islamic genies, but I can’t quite come up with it.”

“Djinns, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s it!”

“Any letters for the other clue?

“Yes. F and T are the two center letters.”

“Out of six?”
            “That’s right.”

“Would you mind watching my bag for a moment? I need to visit the WC.”

“No problem. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Thank you so much. And I’ll think about that clue while I’m gone.” With a wink the man turned and made his way toward the nearest restroom.

Jonathan glanced down to make sure that the bag was close enough that no one would mistakenly think it was unattended. It was a normal carry-on bag: it stood upright with two wheels and an extendable handle. It almost looked brand new, but the nametag attached to the handle was wrinkled and worn. Somehow the smooth man had managed to keep his bag in supremely good condition. Jonathan smiled. The bag was clearly under control.

Often, when seated for a long time, Jonathan’s back developed aches and sometimes even shooting pains. One such pang jolted through him and a dull ache grew in the aftermath of the strike. He had learned years before that the only way to alleviate the pain was to get his feet up. Unfortunately, he carried a backpack when flying, which was not helpful when he needed a footrest. He eyed the solid, erect bag in front of him.

A moment’s hesitation, then Jonathan slipped his shoes off and propped his feet up on the kind man’s bag. Surely he would understand when Jonathan explained. The pain began to subside almost immediately. Someday, Jonathan would have to visit a doctor and find a more permanent solution.

Looking back at his crossword, Jonathan heaved a sigh. Still stumped. The bag shifted beneath his feet. Wheels must have slipped, he thought, and slouched a bit more in his seat to accommodate the new position.

Alluringly plumped, he mused. A woman waddled by who was certainly plump, but did not qualify as alluring, at least, not in Jonathan’s mind.

The bag slammed to the floor with a resounding clack. Jonathan was slouching so far that he nearly slipped off his seat completely with the loss of his foot support. A jab of pain went up his spine.

Somewhat embarrassed, Jonathan shot a look in the direction of the restroom. The owner of the bag was not in sight. Jonathan stood. The extendable handle had popped out. He bent down and grabbed the handle to right the bag.

As soon as Jonathan’s hand grasped the grip, it slid back into place. In the process, the tips of all of Jonathan’s fingers were pinched. A gasp of disbelief was all he could manage before the handle whipped back out to its extended position.

For a moment Jonathan was sure that he had only imagined that the bag had acted strangely. His fingers began to smart. Nope, it definitely had happened. His back was also sending unhappy messages to his brain as he was still bent over.

Jonathan straightened up, bringing the bag with him. They both stood still. Jonathan stared at the bag. Now that he focused more closely on the carry-on he noticed that it was not in as mint of condition as he had first thought. The little black wheels were worn and the deep blue fabric obscured several long scratches that traversed the sides from top to bottom. The inside of the well where the handle retracted to also showed usage.

Scrutinizing the bag as hard as he was it is not surprising that Jonathan noticed the movement the exact second it began. The bag was slowly but steadily scooting away from Jonathan’s seat. He put his free hand on top of the bag and pushed down to keep it stationary. It slowed and stopped.

Breathing a bit heavily, Jonathan stared at the luggage and wondered what was happening. His eyes widened even further when it resumed sliding across the floor. He pushed down as hard as he could. The bag was as hard as a marble pillar.

Bent over with one hand on the handle and the other pressing down on top of the bag, Jonathan looked like he was merely trying to get the handle down. Not that he was worried what he looked like. The crossword lay forgotten on the floor. Jonathan had a new puzzle to occupy his mind.

The bag seemed to be gradually moving faster as Jonathan applied more pressure with his hand. On a hunch he jumped onto the luggage in the seated position. The bag kicked into high gear.

Instead of halting the progress of the carry-on, Jonathan was racing across the airport floor, riding the bag like a segway. The handle, which he gripped firmly with both hands, split his legs, which were extended out in front.

He sped past the bathroom where the owner of the bag had disappeared only moments before, and then went blazing past the food court. He tried to bring his heels down to slow his momentum, but his socks merely slid along the floor quickly creating heat. He picked his feet back up.

He blew by a couple shops and then found himself hurtling down a deserted hallway. Jonathan quickly saw that the hallway ended where there was a door that read “Airport Employees Only.”

Traveling at what felt like 40 miles per hour a mere two feet off the ground, Jonathan had only a moment after reading that sign to experience a twinge of dread that despite not being an employee he was going through that door. Unfortunately, that door also looked locked.

Without slowing even a smidge, the bag hurled Jonathan into the door. In anticipation of the collision, he leaned back, which threw his feet up to the level of the push bar. Fantastic crashes resounded down the empty hallway as Jonathan’s sock-adorned feet broke the lock and lead the way into airport employee territory.

Tears were streaming down Jonathan’s cheeks. He was not sure if they were from pain or pure terror. He wanted desperately to let go, but his fingers were curled so tightly around the handle that he did not feel that he could persuade them to let go. Plus there was a part of his brain that quite convincingly painted a picture of him sliding across the floor on the seat of his pants for a long time.

Suddenly the floor ahead seemed to drop away. Before Jonathan had time to process what caused the phenomenon of the disappearing horizon, he was jouncing down a metal staircase. His teeth clattered and he bit harshly into his tongue, which been previously flapping around his open mouth.

The unpleasant experience of riding the stairs was mercifully over quickly. Before Jonathan could be thankful, the bag took its first turn. It did not slow down in the slightest. The result was a subjective increase in speed for Jonathan. The bag rolled up onto the left wheel and careened to the right. Jonathan’s stomach shoved its way up the left wall of his body and tried to give a high five to his left lung. He simultaneously felt like he was drowning and like he had to vomit.

The right wheel thumped back onto the floor and the luggage straightened. To his horror, Jonathan saw that there was another turn ahead. He quickly discovered that underneath the normal airport, where civilians walked everyday, was a maze of corridors lined with pipes where only employees were authorized to go, although they apparently did not take advantage of the privilege because Jonathan did not see another soul.

Jonathan also developed a jealousy of NASCAR drivers. When he first entered the labyrinth of hallways he was forunate enough to take two right turns in a row. The second turn had a much lesser effect on his organs than the first. Doubtless turning in the same direction continuously caused the digestive and respiratory systems of the drivers to be predisposed to being lodged off center and therefore rendered the experience less wrenching and nauseating. Unfortunately, after that initial repetition of turn directions Jonathan was not so lucky. Every turn seemed to be seeking a different destination. Once Jonathan even felt as though he had been turned upside down.

Just as he felt as though his intestines were going to attempt to escape from the confused madness of his insides, the bag squealed to a halt. Jonathan was immediately hit by an enormous wave of dizziness and was sure that he would fall to the floor.

He heard a ding. He struggled to focus his eyes. He could just make out the elevators doors as they slid open. The bag scooted into the car. The initial rise of elevation caused Jonathan’s stomach to seek refuge with his intestines, a different, but not a more desirable effect than had been exacted on him by the maze fiasco.

The elevator came to a halt and Jonathan heard anther ding behind him. Then the worst possible thing happened. The bag immediately jumped to speed, backwards. Jonathan exited the elevator car without the contents of his stomach, which resolutely decided they were better off on the floor of the elevator than inside him. Jonathan was momentarily disgusted to find he was jealous of a pile of vomit; his jealously soon expanded to include everyone around him who had the distinct privilege to not be riding a rolling carry-on.

Wide-eyed stares followed Jonathan as he blazed across the smooth floor. Several children burst into happy laughter as they caught sight of him. Jonathan had given up being surprised by the devious new ways the luggage created to torture him when he was startled by the bag’s sudden stop. Jonathan, however, maintained his momentum.

By some miracle the bag had found its way back to Jonathan’s seat. His rear end collided into its previous position when Jonathan had been slouching. His feet found themselves atop the carry-on once again. Anyone who hadn’t seen his fantastic ride to his seat did not give Jonathan a second glance so normal was his appearance.

“Zaftig,” someone said. Dazed, Jonathan turned his head to see the sharply dressed man sitting next to him holding his crossword puzzle. Jonathan’s voice had apparently been left behind during the ride, no doubt keeping his stomach contents company in the elevator. His mouth, however, jawed open and shut.

“It seems there was an extremely literate vandal in the particular stall that I attended. Zaftig was written on door.” Jonathan stopped moving his useless mouth and just left it hanging as he stared at the man. “A mighty fine clue, I say.”

The loudspeaker rang out in a female tone. It must have been a departure announcement because the man then said, “That’s my flight. Thank you for watching my bag. Have a good day.”

Jonathan was stunned. He watched the man walk away as if the strangest thing he had witnessed that day was the result of someone with a large vocabulary and a permanent ink marker. The sounds coming out of the overhead speak became words and Jonathan listened.

“This is a common sense safety announcement. We would like to ask you to please keep your luggage under control…”