I sold a story! Woot! Yes, my first publication. It will be out in September. I'm so excited. And as if that wasn't enough an acquaintance of mine is starting her own publishing group and wants Thomas as her first manuscript. I am giving it some serious thought. It might be a good opportunity, might not. The jury is still out on it in my mind.

Anywho.

The web site is a little e-zine called BURST Literary e-zine.

 http://www.terra-media.us/burst/index.html 

They are really really really small. In size. Tiny. Their shtick is they are flash fiction web sight specializing in cellphone users. Their website is tiny, for phones to more easily surf. And they only take stories less than 1,000 words. Also I keep all of my rights, which means I can share it with you here.

So here is "Predator", weighing in at just under 500 words.

Enjoy:

PREDATOR

He rested in the concealing shadow of the garage and watched her moving in the garden. He breathed lowly, controlling his exhale so he wouldn't startle her. He had watched her for almost an hour, waiting for the right moment to come. She walked gently along and collected flowers as she went. He sniffed the air. She smelled good.

She kept her eyes to the ground as she moved, her lithe legs stepping slowly and her bare feet leaving gentle impressions in the dirt as she concentrated on her task. All the while she sang a low tune to herself, unaware she had an audience. He liked her voice. It was small and pretty, just like she was. Suddenly she spied a twig. She pulled at it, but it refused to move. She followed the length and saw the other end entangled in the weeds. She pulled harder. She was consumed by the task, focusing tightly on the twig, on her grip. He knew this was his moment.

She heard him before she saw him. His large body whisked through the grass with a sound like a scythe cutting wheat. She released her grip on the stick and turned to his racing form. She tilted her head, not understanding what she was seeing. He pressed his muscular legs for more speed as he ran to her. Her eyes widened in horror. She turned to flee and took a single step before he was on her.

He caught her under his bulk and clutched her tightly. She cried aloud, but she would cry louder before he was done. She clawed at him, and tried to hurt him in return. He was glad. He loved a good fight. She struggled in his grip, twisting and writhing as she tried to work herself free. Her small heart thumped against him, beating wildly.

She yearned for help. None came. She suddenly stopped fighting. He worried the excitement had robbed him of the kill, but felt her body shiver against his. She was too exhausted to resist any more and finally too scared to try. He lowered her to the ground and she cowered in his shadow, all of her fight now gone. He caught her under one large foot and pressed hard, and she fell still. He lowered his face and breathed deeply. She smelled good.

"Rex? Where are you boy? You getting into trouble again?" a voice called.

He stood over his kill and searched for the boy calling him. He barked loudly. The boy waved in response. He snorted as something tickled his nostril. He rolled his eyes inward and saw a feather stuck to his wet nose. Her feather. He lowered his face to her and took her broken body into his mouth. He trotted over to his master, with his gift in tow and his tail wagging.

I know I just posted a story that took me weeks to finish with, but then this one came outa no where. It's short, and therefore easily edited. In fact I have already sent it out to a flash fiction site, so keep your fingers crossed eh?

Enjoy:

Routine

She pushed the plate towards me and poked her little tongue out of her small mouth in disgust. "Why do I have to eat the peas Daddy?" she asked.

"Because, peas make little girls big and strong," I answered. I smiled softly at her and pushed her plate back in front of her. "Now eat your peas Kayla."

She looked at me in doubt and shook her little head. Her small blonde tresses bounced lightly around her chubby face. I rose from the table and left her alone with her green menace. She would eat them eventually. The peas didn't really matter to her internal workings, but she knew the act of eating them was important to me.

It was part of the routine.

Later, as I washed dishes, she asked, "What will I get for my birfday, Daddy?"

I ignored the question with a wry smile, but underneath my heart stuttered. The way she said birthday tugged at my very being. Sometimes she sounded just like Kayla.

"Please tell me now. I can't wait until tomorrow," she said. She prodded and pleaded, begged and beseeched, but I would not be moved.

"You don't want to spoil the surprise, do you?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be. It was also part of the routine.

"Yes!" she shouted and fell into hysterical giggles. We laughed for a short time before the begging started again. She clasped her tiny hands together in mock prayer, entreating me for an answer. I looked down at her hands and was suddenly struck by the sight of her small fingernails. I never noticed the details when it mattered. Why start now? The thought ruined my mood. I couldn't bear to look at her.

"No, Kayla. It's bedtime now. Go put your pee jays on. Don't make me ask again or I'll cancel your birthday," I said, only half joking.

"Yes sir," she answered. She recognized the tone of my voice, the pitch of anger, the timber of sorrow. She knew to stay out of my sight. That was part of her sub-routine.

I finished the dishes alone. It was an hour before I could face her again. I went to her room, pushed open the door and took in the site of my little girl lying in the bed.

"I'm sorry I made you mad, Daddy," she said softly.

I went to her and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'm not mad honey. I just get, sad sometimes."

"I know Daddy. I'm sorry about that too." She reached out and swept a graying hair out of my face. Then she smiled, rolled over and immediately grew still.

I sat by her side and watched her fall asleep. It was almost believable. I wanted to stay and watch her sleeping, but staring at her for too long was a mistake. It brought out the obvious differences. The stiff way she lay. The awkward timing of her breath. The soft whir and clicks underneath.

I went to my room and shut the door. It was barely nine, but I needed sleep for tomorrow's busy day. Kayla would rise early for her birthday. She always did. I closed my tired eyes at the thought of another eighth birthday. Every year we celebrated the eighth years of life enjoyed by my little girl. How many did that make now? I was almost afraid to count.

I shed my clothes, put on my night shorts and climbed into the oversized bed. It had always been too big for just me, and always too empty. After Kayla's mother left us I never took the time to find another partner to fill the empty space in the bed, or my heart. I didn't need to. My bed was only empty at night, but I had my little girl to heal my heart. And she did, for eight wonderful years. But all life must come to an end, some sooner than others. I'll always remember how the doctor seemed unmoved by the site of her lifeless body. It's odd how death becomes routine for some people.

The soft creak of a door hinge disturbed my melancholy memories.

"Daddy, I got scared. Can I sleep with you tonight?" she asked.

I smiled and patted the empty space beside of me. She clambered into the massive bed and put her head against my chest before growing still again. I drew her close and fell quiet. I cradled her in my arms, as though she were a real child. I let her sleep for a few minutes and then I gently picked her up and returned her to her own bed. It was one of my favorite routines.

I tell myself that I'm lucky to be able to afford the Kayla sleeping in my daughter's bed. But deep down I know it has nothing to do with luck or wealth. The truth is much simpler. I just couldn't let her go. Eight years was not enough. Not nearly enough. This 'Kayla' would never age, never get sick and never die. She would never leave me. And so I would always have her.

And we would always have our routine.

Finished a short story a few weeks ago. Ran it through the ringer (ie Mr Brown read it) and made some changes here and there. Finally came out with this as a finished product. Just don't know what to named the damnable thing. Mr B suggested a million names, and finally we settled on Thursday Afternoon.

Enjoy:

Thursday Afternoon

Franklin Kirtz was the unluckiest man alive. He looked slowly around his living room and sighed at the sight that confirmed this truth. His tattered couch was seated across from an empty nook, where his brand new television used to be. A book case stood to one side of the couch, the third and fourth shelves empty now that his stereo was gone. His kitchen was a patchwork of greasy outlines marking the places where his appliances used to rest.  This was the fifteenth time he had been robbed. It was the one hundred and twentieth time he had been a victim of crime. At least since he had kept count.

Frank seemed, on the surface, to be an average man. He was a medium height and medium build, with black hair, brown eyes, and a face that women forgot as soon as they saw it. He was soft spoken and easy going, both traits that should have let him play the sympathetic friend in almost any drama. But Frank didn't have friends. He had acquaintances. Everyone around Franklin knew better then to get too close to him.

Frank glanced at his watch. He had called the police nearly an hour ago, but as usual they weren't in a rush to get to his case. He didn't blame them. He knew as well as they did that the criminals would never be found. His possessions would never resurface. He hoped his renter's insurance wouldn't cancel him. Again. Frank's revelry was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door.

"Wow, that was fast," he said. Frank went to his door and peeked through the peephole. He saw the hazy outline of a woman he had never seen before. Plain clothes officer, he thought, and a new one at that. He had given statements to every footman and detective employed by the city and was on a first name basis with most of them. He also suspected many of them cringed at the sound of his name. Frank was excited to meet a new face on the force. He smiled as he worked the series of useless latches, cracked the door and peered into the hallway.

"Hello?" he called out.

The woman nodded. "Hello there," she said.

Frank opened the door wide and smiled wider. Not only was she a new officer, she was beautiful as well. She was tall and lean with hazel eyes and strawberry blond hair, a slender waist and flaring hips. Her black blazer was casually unbuttoned over a black blouse and matching black slacks. She carried a small clipboard in one hand and hand held recorder in the other.

"Mr. Franklin Kirtz?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered.

She glanced at her clipboard and read aloud "The same Franklin Kirtz who's parents died in on November fourteenth, nineteen eighty three?"

Frank's eyes widened as his smile fell away. "How do you know that?" he asked. His voice cracked with tension.

"I'll take that as a yes," she answered.

She suddenly lunged forward and pressed the recorder to Frank's sternum. Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously as several hundred volts raced through his system. He stood ramrod straight for a moment, as the world swam before him in a light effused kaleidoscope of colors. Then he collapsed into a writhing heap on the floor. He struggled to breathe as his muscles coiled and uncoiled, shaking off the last bit of electric fury.

The woman roughly rolled him out of the doorway, into the living room and behind the couch. She slammed the door closed and crouched next to Frank. He rolled his eyes towards her as he jawed wordlessly. Her attention was focused on the couch. He pawed at her foot with a clenched hand. She looked down at him and smiled.

"Sorry about that, but it's the only way to be sure," she said, as she wiggled the recorder in her hand. Frank now saw that it was not a handheld recorder. It was a stun gun. She returned her attention to the couch and the smile faded.

"Waa… waaa…" he stammered.

"Be quiet," she snapped. He shook his head and grunted his disapproval. She nodded as she reached inside of her blazer and pulled out another gun. A real gun. Frank obediently fell silent. The gun was a dull metal gray, with a stocky grip and a stubby snout of a barrel. In her delicate hands it seemed almost comically large. She pulled a small metal tube from another pocket and slowly screwed it to the end of the gun.

"What… the... hell?" he asked in a staggered clip.

"Silencer," she answered. "Don't want to wake the whole neighborhood. Do we?"

Frank shook his head as his body slowly returned to his control.

She held the gun to one side, aimed at the floor, and rose to her feet slowly. Frank rolled onto his knees and tried to stand, but she pushed him gently to the floor. She glanced over the couch, nodded and then quickly returned to her haunches.

"I think its out. A really strong jolt always does the trick," she said.

"What's out?" he asked softly.

She smiled. "You really have no idea do you?"

Frank shook his head.

She giggled gently. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, but it just amazes me how some people can be so naïve."

Frank blinked at the words. "Naïve? What is that supposed to mean?" he shouted.

She laid a delicate finger on his lips. "Calm down, you don't want to spook it."

"Spook what?" he whispered.

"Actually you might be better off if you don't know," she said. She stood again, the gun cradled carefully between her hands, and inched slowly around the couch. Frank remained on his knees and utterly confused.

"Wait! Where are you going? What's going on?" he whispered gruffly.

"Stay put. I need to make sure it's completely out," she said. "If it's not we might have trouble. Do you want trouble Frank?"

Frank shook his head.

"So stay here and stay calm. No need to panic, it'll all be over soon." She returned her attention to her careful and quiet pace around the couch.

But Frank knew he was going to panic. His palms grew clammy and his brow beaded with sweat. The room fell into a grave silence. Time stretched into a thin band, ready to snap at any moment. His heart thumped in his ears, and he heard every breath the young woman drew. A sudden skittering sound shattered the tension.

"No, no, no," the stranger whispered.

The skittering turned into a scrambling, and was soon accompanied by a grunting.

"Dammit!" the stranger shouted. She lunged across the living room, following the grunting noise. The bedroom door slammed closed and she fell against it with a loud thud. "Dammit!" she shouted again.

"What was that?" Frank asked as he stood.

"It went in your bedroom. That's the bedroom right?" she asked.

"You're not from the police, are you?" he asked.

Her smile returned as she shook her head. "Tell me about your luck Frank."

Frank stared at her. "My luck?"

"Your luck," she said again. The change of conversation seemed natural to her.

It completely baffled Frank. "My luck?" he repeated.

The woman turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but a loud crash from the bedroom snatched her attention away from him. She leaned against the bedroom door, pressing her ear tightly to the wood.

"Yeah your luck is bad, isn't it?" she asked without looking up from the door.

Frank stared at her with his mouth open.

"Yes? Bad luck. Started with your parent's death, I bet. Train wreck right?" she asked almost absentmindedly as she continued to prod at the door. She grabbed the handle and wiggled it while she pushed her weight against the wood. The door creaked and bowed slightly, but showed no sign of letting her through.

Frank stared at her with his mouth open and his eyes bulging. "How… what… who…" he tried to ask, all at the same time.

"Who? I'm Sarah McDaniel. How? Well that would take a long time to explain. What however," she stopped, turned to him and smiled broadly, "only one way to answer that." She suddenly grabbed the sides of the door frame and lifted both legs into the air. Then she brought them down at an angle with a massive force against the door, kicking it inward. Shattered planks and splinters of wood showered the bedroom and living room floors. For a moment all was quiet again. Frank stood still, behind the couch, unsure of what he was supposed to do next. A keening howl emerged from the darkness of the bedroom. Frank put his hands over his ears as the howl pierced the air in a seemingly endless din.

"A female huh? Boy she is pissed!" Sarah shouted over the noise.

Frank cut his eyes at the woman, confused again by her words. He was tired of being confused. He wanted to know what was going on, and he intended to find out. He stormed around the couch and towards the bedroom.

Sarah leapt in front of him. "No Frank, you really don't want to go in there!" she shouted over the howl.

"Get out of my way!" he shouted. He pushed her to one side, stepped into the bedroom and flicked on the lights. The howling came to an abrupt stop, leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake. Frank looked over his room, but saw nothing that surprised him. The room was exactly as he had left it. His dresser stood to one side of the door, a single chair to the other. A nightstand was next to the bed, on which sat a glass of water, a clock and a lamp. His bed was neatly made, with a small bundle of clothes bunched at the foot. A simple room for a simple man. No surprises. Nothing that could have made the horrible howl.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

The young woman poked her head under his arm. "Where'd she go?" she asked.

Frank crossed his arms and stepped into the room. He turned to face her as she stood in the doorway. "I don't know what kind of sick game this is, but I think you should know the police are already on their way," Frank said.

She looked past him. "Frank?" she asked.

"And how do you know my name? And about my family?" he demanded.

"Frank, do you always keep dirty clothes on the bed?" she asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Frank put his hands on his hips. Clothes on the bed indeed, he thought. Frank felt a faint breeze against his neck as Sarah's gaze wandered from the bed to the ceiling in a slow rise. He turned to see his bed was empty, the pile of clothes gone. He looked up and gasped as his mind threatened to unravel. Hovering above his bed, nearly touching the ceiling was a beast unlike anything he had ever seen.

Its haunches were covered in thick fur, with each foot ending in a series of thick, sharp talons. The fur covered most of the torso, but as it reached the chest it faded into an intricate pattern of scales. Its chest was host to a set of full and heavy breasts, like those of a human woman, pendulous but covered in scales. Its front legs flexed and folded, grasping at the space around it with vicious, scaly claws. Its wings were leathery scoops that beat the air furiously. But its face struck Frank as the vilest part. It had the face of an old woman. It looked like an aged horrific hag with stringy gray hair hanging in oily clumps over its dead eyes. Its mouth was twisted into a cruel grin.

"What in the hell is that?" Frank asked weakly.

"You got the hell part right," Sarah said.

The thing snapped its head to Sarah and a wicked recognition lit its eyes. It opened its mouth and for a moment Frank was sure it was going to eat the young woman alive. Instead the beast let out a guttural scream.  The cry was low at first, but then rose in volume as the hag's mouth grew wider, revealing row after row of sharp yellow teeth. Frank stomach rolled as he realized the scream sounded like a baby crying. The windows rattled in their sashes, some fracturing in spider webs. The lone glass danced across his nightstand and shattered as is struck the floor. Frank was torn between the urge to cup his hands over his ears to block the noise, or over his eyes to hide from the horrible sight.

Then the screaming suddenly stopped. Frank looked up to see a small black hole had bloomed in the center of the beast's forehead. The thing rolled its eyes together and towards the ceiling, desperate to see what was sprouting from its head. The hole ran with a dark fluid that oozed and gushed down its crooked nose. It tried to howl, but choked on the sound. It bobbed in half flight, spitting and clawing at the empty air, while its wings beat an unsteady rhythm. Finally it dropped down on the bed, landing with a soft plop and spilling black blood across the clean sheets in a tarry splatter.

Frank was stunned into silence. He turned to his left and saw Sarah holding her smoking gun.

She smiled. "That was a succubus," she said. She spoke as though the single word would explain everything.

"Aaaa… suuuu…." was all Frank could manage to say.

"Yes, a demon, and a big one at that," she said. She moved across the room and climbed onto the bed. She brought her face down to the corpse and studied it closely. Thin streams of yellow smoke rose from the body of the beast, accompanied by a soft hiss. Sarah leaned back and rummaged inside of her blazer. "So tell me about your luck Frank," she said casually.

Frank shook his head roughly, trying to make the vision of the melting form go away. "My luck? You just shot a… demon… in my bedroom and you want to know about my luck? What does that have to do with... this!" he shouted as he waved at the quickly dissolving corpse.

"Everything. Your luck was why she was here. It's why she attached herself to you in the first place," Sarah said. She held a small silver rod over the disappearing beast. The rod emitted a low hum as she passed it along the gooey remains.

Frank stared at the bed in disgust. "Attached?" he asked. He shook his head again, and then relaxed as an idea came to him. "Oh. I see. I'm going mad. That's what's happening. I have finally completely run out of luck and lost my mind. I knew it would happen one day." He crossed the room and sat in the chair by the door.

Sarah returned the rod to her jacket pocket and jumped off the bed. She came to Frank's side and took his hand into hers. "I know it's a lot to swallow, but please hear me out. That thing was a succubus. She has been attached to you for years."

"I thought a succubus drove men to sexual madness," he groaned.

Sarah laughed. "Wow that's pretty good. You must read a lot,"

Frank nodded.

"Yeah, most do the lust thing. But they can use any kind of emotion. Hate, Misery. Fear. This one was interested in your luck."

Frank looked up to the young woman and grinned. "Well that's where this whole thing falls apart because I don't have any luck. I've never had any luck. Well I do have luck, just bad luck."

"So, tell me about your luck Frank," she said again.

Frank dropped his shoulders and shut his eyes. Madness was very different from what he had imagined it would be. For one, his idea of madness didn't include a nosey beautiful young woman, or a melting demon on his bed. He looked up to Sarah and frowned. 

"I have the worst luck of anyone I know. You might think losing your car keys is bad luck, right? Well, Sarah McDaniel, I have lost an entire car. Twice," Frank said.

Sarah laughed softly. Oddly enough Frank felt like she was laughing with him, and not at him. It was as though the young lady understood exactly where he was coming from. Frank smiled with a warm feeling and pressed on with his tale.

"Have you ever been stuck in an elevator caught between floors? Well, I have. Nineteen times. They make me take the stairs at work because of it." Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "I'm constantly being robbed and mugged. If I take a vacation, it rains the whole week. If I like a television show, it gets canceled I can't even keep a bank account because every time I open one the bank folds within a month.. So like I said, no luck here." He grinned wider.

"Frank, why do you think that is?" Sarah asked. Her eyes twinkled as she matched his grin.

"I don't know. I have always been cursed. My parents died in a train wreck, and they weren't even on the train! They were parked along the side of the road, out picking flowers or something, when the train derailed and mowed them down. While I watched."

"I know. And how lucky was it that you survived?" she asked.

Frank flashed with fury. He had been asked that question before, and it always made him angry. He thought she understood, but no one understood him. "Lucky? To survive only to watch as my parents' bodies are dragged four hundred feet across a meadow? Lucky to be left an orphan, all alone in the world? You call that lucky?"

Her smile quickly faded as the typical look of pity filled her eyes.

"Save your pity for someone else," he chided.

"Were you always unlucky?" she asked.

Frank nodded. His eyes stung. It hurt to remember his parents, but he blamed the sulfur stink rising from the nearly dissolved demon for his tears.

"No Frank," Sarah said. She stared hard into his eyes. "Think back. Before the accident. How lucky were you?"

"Pretty average I guess," he lied.

She smiled and grabbed his shoulders. "Every child has a laundry list of illnesses and injuries. But not you. You never got hurt, never got sick, never suffered, until the accident. After the accident you became unlucky," she said.

Frank closed his eyes and let his mind roll back as she spoke. It was all true. As a young boy he remembered being considerably lucky. He was constantly finding thing his parents misplaced. At least once a week he found money someone else lost. He never caught a cold. He never fell. He never got hurt. He never cried. But then, on his tenth birthday, the train killed his parents and everything changed.

He remembered the accident like it was yesterday. His mother liked to pick wild flowers, so his family stopped along the side of the road. But Frank wasn't interested in flowers. He was excited by the passing train. He stared at the blur of boxes that whizzed by the meadow. But then the train jumped the track and headed towards him. He put his little hands in front of him, as though he could stop three thousand pounds of angry steel. Suddenly the whole train lurched one hundred feet to the right. He felt the hot breeze of twisted metal as the entire train passed him by. It caught his parents up instead, killing them instantly and dragging their bodies far across the field of wild flowers. Franklin survived, but his luck was never the same.

The accident marked his transformation.

"How do you know all of-" he whispered.

She cut him short. "Your change wasn't obvious at first was it? You moved into an orphanage and within a few weeks you were bumping into doorways or always loosing one thing or another. Then the orphanage burnt to the ground. No one knows why. So they sent you to another one, which also burnt to the ground."

Frank felt the tears pouring down his face, but couldn't stop them. He stared up at Sarah McDaniel as she coldly dissected his life.

"And it only got worse as you got older. Middle school. High school. I bet it was just one long social disaster for you. And you still don't have friends, do you? No, you have acquaintances, because everyone around you knows not to get involved with unlucky Frank. Am I right?"

Frank nodded as he sniffled quietly.

"Why do you think that is?" she asked again.

"I don't know," he stammered.

Sarah pointed at the black stain on his sheets. "She was feeding on you Frank. You never had any luck because she was eating it all. You must have attracted her when you survived the train wreck. Imagine how much luck you were projecting to survive a thing like that. She hit the jackpot with you Franklin Kirtz. At ten years old you were generating enough luck to push a whole train out of your path. How could she resist you?"

Frank narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you crazy? That's it isn't it? I'm not crazy, you are."

"Neither of us are crazy Frank, but sometimes I wished I was," she said. Her eyes took on a distant look as the depths of her words fell away from Frank's reach. Then she smiled again as the look faded. "But we can't dwell on that now. There's more hunting to do." She deftly flicked opened the chamber of the gun and checked the remaining ammunition before she ran from the room.

Frank sat quietly in the chair and tried to piece together what Sarah had said. This is crazy, he thought.  Feeding on my luck? How can something eat your luck? He had spent a lifetime being afraid of his bad luck. Afraid to get to close to someone else. Afraid of himself. But now he felt different. He felt brave. He felt alive. He didn't know what was going on, but he wasn't going to let this beautiful woman slip through his fingers so easily.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Frank called out behind her, but she was too fast for his words. He raced out of the bedroom and caught the tail of her jacket as she slipped out of the front door. He gently pulled her back into his apartment.

"Whoa there big boy," Sarah said with a laugh. She turned to face him and his courage fled with her smile. Frank was suddenly shy, lost in her beauty and lost for words. He rubbed his hands together.

Sarah cleared her throat. "Well I really have to go now. Lots more demons to kill," she said and waved the gun in the air before she pocketed it again.

"Of course," he said.

Sarah turned to leave and ran into a man in the doorway. Frank recognized the uniform, and the officer wearing it. Officer Turner was out of breath, and very excited.

"Mr. Kirtz, I'm so sorry it took so long for us to get back to you, but you are not going to believe this. On my way over here they radioed me and said they caught your thief," the cop said between gasps.

"What?" Frank asked. The officer was right, Frank didn't believe it.

Sarah smiled and winked at Frank.

"Apparently he blew a tire on the highway and a passing cop stopped to help him. The officer, Joe, you know Joe right?" Officer Turner asked. He paused to catch another quick breath.

Frank nodded.

"Well he got into the jerk's trunk for a spare and Joe recognized your name all over the stuff. That idiot picked the wrong guy to rob. I mean what are the odds an officer would actually know the man's name on the evidence?"

Sarah's face was a white light of toothy grin. Frank's eyes darted between her and the cop.

The officer looked between the two, the overturned living room furniture, the busted bedroom door and then smiled wryly. "Did I interrupt something? I was so excited to tell you I just sort of barged in. I'm sorry."

Sarah laughed. "No sir, I was just leaving."

Frank swallowed hard and seized the moment. "Sarah, Miss McDaniel, can I ca- ca- call you sometime?" he asked.

Sarah nodded and scratched her number on the back of a business card. She handed it to Frank. "The hand written one is my home number. Call me anytime," she said. Frank and the cop followed Sarah into the hallway, both sets of eyes glued to her shapely body as she walked away.

"She is one foxy lady, if you don't mind me saying so sir," the officer said.

"No, I agree," Frank said.

"And she gave you her home number? Boy you are one lucky guy," the officer added.

Frank smiled. He felt like one lucky guy. And it was a feeling he could definitely get used to.

A short story I wrote with a sort of horror slant. It was originally over seven thousand words, but I shortened it to around five so it would sell better.

Enjoy:

Mrs. Trillby's Garden

Roger rode his bike in the dusk with practice eased, weaving in and out of his neighbors' front yards, following the well the worn sidewalk to its end. He stopped at the edge of the woods, peering into the unsure darkness, and then he swallowed hard as he dismounted and pushed the bike along. The sounds of the neighborhood died away as the trees swallowed him. The moonlight dimmed to a haze through the tangle of living canopy. Roger guided the bike slowly, jumping at the echoing sound of snapping twigs and the flat crunch of dry earth. He fought the urge to run back home.

He finally reached the opposite edge of the trees, and stopped to peek out of the shadows. Mrs. Trillby's house was right where Jeremy said it would be. Roger stared at the rundown hovel. Moss and ivy snaked along the outer walls and splayed the length of the badly sagging roof. The front yard was overgrown with weeds and knee high grass with a narrowly cut path that lead to the front porch. The porch was a hodge-podge of broken furniture. There was a blue couch that was torn to near shreds, a rotting rocking chair and a decaying end table held together with tape. The windows were dark with grime, masking the inside of the house like it was keeping a dirty secret.

"No wonder they think she's a witch," he whispered to himself.

"Roger? That you?" a voice suddenly said.

Roger jumped as his bike slipped through his clammy palms, hitting the ground with a loud clang. Strong hands snapped over his mouth before he could shout in surprise. Roger went limp with fear until he realized that he had recognized the voice.

"Roger, calm down it's just us," Peter said, stepping out from behind a tree.

Jeremy relaxed his grip on Roger, patting him on the back while smiling broadly down at him. It usually made Roger feel safe to know that the older boy was on his side. But tonight, in the shadows of the woods, Jeremy looked like a leering giant.

"Boy, you jumped like a jack rabbit," Jeremy said.

Peter lifted his finger to his lips, and Jeremy fell obediently silent. Peter's short blond hair glowed in the moonlight but his tanned skin melted into the shadows. His designer clothes seemed out of place in this backyard adventure. "We need to be quiet. She might hear us out here, and I don't feel like being turned into a toad," Peter joked.

"We didn't think you'd sneak out Roger," Jeremy said.

"Yeah I was sure you'd chicken out," Peter added.

Roger had surprised himself by sneaking out past his curfew. Especially with all of the danger the town was facing lately. "Well I have been thinking about it and maybe we shouldn't be doing this you guys. Let's go fishing instead," Roger said.

"You're scared," Jeremy said. His mouth slipped into a wide grin.

Roger rolled his eyes and pushed his slipping glasses up his nose. "Of course not," he lied. "I just don't see the wisdom of sneaking into some old lady's yard in the dead of night, that's all."

"Oh come on Roger, I hear she's got a great garden. It's all 'Adam and Eve' like and stuff," Peter whispered. "You know, like the garden of Even."

"Eden," Roger sharply corrected him. "And if you want to see it so badly why not come back when it's daylight. I'm sure she would love to show it off."

"Because my mom says the witch won't show it to anyone," Peter said.

"Well then how do you know it's so great?" Roger asked.

Peter fell quiet, unable to compete with Roger's logic.

"What are you so scared of Roger? You don't believe all that witch stuff do ya?"  Jeremy asked

"I know what he thinks," Peter said. "He thinks Mrs. Trillby really has those missing kids buried in her garden. Don't you?"

Roger didn't believe any of the rumors about the woman, but he was scared and he was worried. He worried about his own safety in the darkness of the woods. He worried about the missing neighborhood children. He worried what his friends would think of him if they knew he was so scared. But most of all he worried what his mother would do if she found out he had snuck out so late at night. If they were caught, no amount of black magic would compare to the fury of their parents.

"I just," he started, then paused. "I don't think-"

"That'll be a first," Jeremy said. Peter and Jeremy snickered quietly at Roger's back. Roger frowned and balled his small fists at his small hips. He hated being so small and so much younger than the other boys.

"Seriously, if you are worried about your allergies you can wait here," Peter said.

 "No, I want to come too," Roger lied.

They left their bikes hidden in the shadows of the trees as they quietly slipped over the unkempt lawn. Peter took the lead and motioned to the left side of the house. Jeremy obediently followed. Roger scurried along behind them, wondering what fascination Jeremy had with Peter. Peter with his perfect smile and expensive toys.  Things used to be different before Peter moved here.

It used to be Roger and Jeremy against the world.

As they rounded the house, Roger saw Peter come to a sudden halt, his head tilting as his eyes drifted up. Jeremy followed suit, his gaze creeping slowly upward and his eyes resting towards the sky. Roger raced to join them, and he stopped as his own head tilted back and his eyes widened in surprise.

A giant fence was butted against the dwelling, stretching all the way to the roof and reaching back to the edge of the woods. It was wooden and stained in a dark reddish color. Each slat was a seamless shunt from ground to sky, pushed together so tightly that it was hard to tell one section from another. The three of them stood and stared, as if mesmerized by the colossal barrier.

"Now with a fence like that, how does anyone know what her garden looks like?" Jeremy asked in a hushed tone.

"Because it's brand new. See, the wood isn't as old as the rest of the house," Roger whispered. He wondered to himself why anyone would want to build a fence so tall. Suddenly he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and snapped his head to the left, just in time to see Peter disappear around the back of the fence.

"Peter!" he whispered. Jeremy shrugged his shoulders at Roger and followed Peter. Roger rolled his eyes, pushed his glasses up his nose and ran after them. They came to another halt, stopping again to look at the fence, taking in the span of it. It stretched the entire length of the house. Peter suddenly reached out and ran a hand along the smooth wood.

"What are you doing?" Roger asked.

"Gate," Peter said quietly. He walked along the fence, passing his hand across the outer wall.

"What?" Roger asked.

"Every fence has a gate," Peter said and darted ahead.

Jeremy picked up his speed and soon Roger was left trailing behind, gasping for breath. He pushed himself to catch up, but his chest rattled and he wheezed with every breath. Roger stopped and rummaged in his pocket for his inhaler, watching Jeremy and Peter slip around the side of the fence and out of site. He stuffed the thing into his mouth and squeezed it tightly, deeply breathing in the medicine. He hated the inhaler. It made him feel weak.

"Guys?" he whispered.

The only answer was the thumping of his small heart, threatening to burst in his little chest. Jeremy and Peter ran off and left him all alone. He slowly crept forward, quietly. The corner of the fence teased him in the distance, reminding him that the other boys weren't afraid. Reminding him that the other boys didn't care if he joined them or not. No one seemed to want him around these days.

A sudden sound brought Roger to a standstill. It was a low and steady hum, distant but somehow at the same time right next to him. He realized the faint hum was coming from the fence. He forgot his abandonment and stepped closer to the barrier, trying to make out the strange sound muffled by the thick wood.

He pushed his body against the fence and cupped his ear to the wood, losing his sense of danger in the whirlwind of his curiosity. The sound became clearer, and reminded Roger of his little sister humming. It was strangely comforting, lilting up and down in a sing-song pattern. Roger closed his eyes and felt himself relaxing, his body slowly slumping downward. The humming grew louder, filling his ears and his soul.

"Roger!" Jeremy shouted.

Roger felt someone poking him roughly. His eyes snapped open and he shook his head from side to side. The humming was gone and the sounds of the night had returned, emanating deeply from the woods and high from the trees. He yawned and stood slowly, unsteady on his feet.

"What just happened?" Roger asked groggily.

"Peter found the gate while you were napping, come on," Jeremy said, punching Roger in the arm. Roger turned red with shame and chased after Jeremy's wide steps.

"What took you so long?" Peter asked.

"I had an…" Roger started, but stopped. He didn't like when his asthma stopped him, but admitting it was even worse. "Nothing, I just got tired."

"Yeah, so tired he spent the last half hour sleeping back there. We thought you ran home scared," Jeremy teased.

"I'm not scared. And I was only there for a few minutes," Roger said. He raised his wrist watch to his eyes and saw what the boys meant. He had been standing at the back of the fence for nearly thirty minutes, but it had only seemed like a moment.

"Doesn't matter anyways, we finally found the fence," Peter said. "It took some hunting though. The thing was made to look like the rest of the fence, like a secret entrance."

"Why would someone who lives way out here need a secret entrance? Come to think of it, why would she need a fence?" Roger asked.

"Rabbits, deer, you know forest animals," Jeremy said.

"Well okay, forest animals I can buy, but why so tall? Something isn't right here guys," Roger added.

"You have been saying that all night, but you still keep following us. You want to know what is behind this fence as much as us. Admit it," Peter said. His teeth glowed from deep within his shadowed face, like a living Jack-o- lantern.

Roger huffed in response.

"Shall we then?" Peter asked waving his hand in front of him. He placed both palms on the outside of the fence, pushed lightly and then let go. A gentle click sounded and a small door swung open. Peter's teeth flash again in the moonlight as he stepped forward and through the opening.

"This is going to be so damn fun," Jeremy said, following Peter. Roger stared at the fence one last time, then drew in a deep breath and held it as he walked through.

The first thing to strike him was the smell. It was a sickly sweet scent, drifting on a gentle breeze, slowly washing over him. Heavy perfumes and other thick scents usually triggered his allergies, which in turn upset his asthma. Roger immediately went for his inhaler, but to his surprise he didn't need it.

"I bet this is what heaven smells like," Jeremy whispered.

The boys could only nod in agreement, stunned by the beauty of the scent.

Roger struggled to see in the dark, but the moonlight was cut by a thick screen that stretched the length of the fence, capping the structure and letting in only a trace of light. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the shadows and pools of darkness surrounding him. He saw Peter step forward slowly.

Suddenly bright sparks flew across his vision as the yard filled with light. Roger closed his eyes quickly. He stood blind for a moment, blinking and reaching out for the gate that he was sure was just behind him. His hands rested on smooth wood, and he groped in wide circles. As his vision cleared he saw the opening was gone.

"Damn!" Jeremy said. "What the hell? We are so busted!"

"Shut up and get down," Peter whispered. "Maybe if we stay quiet she won't find us."

Jeremy and Peter put their heads down low, and crouched on either side of Roger. Roger covered his small face with his tiny hands and tried his best to disappear. He heard the sharp sounds of everyone's breathing, and again the hammer of his own heart. The distinct creak of a door resounded across the quiet yard, forcing his heartbeat into an impossible pace. Roger could already hear his mother's shrill voice screaming at him. The first tear streaked down his face before he knew he was crying. A small sniffle to his left told him he wasn't alone.

"Who is in my garden?" a small voice whispered. It reminded Roger of his own grandmother. "Hello, who is in my garden? Come on out, I won't hurt you," it said. Roger felt himself relaxing at the sound of the voice as his hands slid free from his face. He lifted his head to look across the yard. Standing in the beam of a powerful spotlight was the silhouette of a figure at the top of a small set of steps.

"Come on guys, she sounds friendly. Besides it might be better if we just admit we're out here, she already knows. Come on guys," Roger said.

Jeremy and Peter stared at him, confusion in their damp eyes.

"Do you think so Roger? Do you really think?" Jeremy begged.

Peter said nothing. Roger rose slowly and held his hand out to Jeremy. The big boy grabbed it roughly with a clammy hand as he stood. Roger could feel Jeremy's pulse thumping through his thumb.

"Come on out boys, I see you there. I have some lemonade and cookies, if you like. I've been expecting you," the woman said.

"See, she probably saw us cross the yard," Roger said, not sure he believed his own words.

"Busted before we even started," Peter said. He finally stood and the three slowly walked towards the blinding light. They stopped at the foot of the steps and shielded their eyes from the glare.

"Oh that light must be so bright, let me get it," the woman said. The light disappeared with a small click, and plunged the boys back into darkness. A moment later a softer light filled the yard. Roger rubbed his eyes again and looked around in wonder. Stream upon stream of little white lights crisscrossed the screen above them. The garden beneath wasn't what Roger expected to see. Flowers crept across the yard in a wild and erratic manner. Roses bloomed amidst sunflowers as tulips grew between daisies.

"Welcome to my garden boys," the woman said.

Roger turned to see a small woman, no taller than Jeremy, stooped and leaning on a cane. She was wearing a knee length blue sun dress, with thin straps that left her boney shoulders and arms bare. Every inch of her translucent skin was wrinkled and covered in a web of bluish veins. Her hair was tight in a gray bun atop her head, and her mouth was a soft set of wrinkled pink lines. Her eyes had an odd touch of youth, shining like emeralds behind a pair of golden framed glasses.

Roger smiled and dropped Jeremy's hand. He walked up and held his hand.

"Hello, Mrs. Trillby?" Roger asked. She slowly edged forward and took his small hand into hers. It felt just like his grandmother's hand. His smile stretched across his face.

"Yes, I'm Mrs. Trillby. And you are?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm Roger and these are my friends. Jeremy and Peter," Roger said, pointing at his quiet friends.

"Now that the introductions are done, let's get to the point," she said sharply. Her eyes narrowed on the boys as she clucked her tongue. "Naughty boys, sneaking around in the dark, eh? If you wanted to see the garden, why not ask me?"

Roger could only shake his head in embarrassment. The other boys stared down at their feet, with their hands in their pockets and their faces hot. The old woman smiled warmly and laughed. She placed a shaky hand on Roger's shoulder and walked down the steps. He held her weight as best as a small boy could.

"So let's see the garden then," she said. The four of them walked out into the sea of flowers that was Mrs. Trillby's garden. Roger and Jeremy helped her along as she walked slowly and pointed a shaking hand from flower to flower. She went into great detail describing the seasons of growth and the color schemes they flowed through. She described how the roses were imported from other countries but the daisies were local flowers she gathered in the wild. She told them how she allowed the whole garden to grow nearly untamed, encouraging a natural and healthy look for each variety.

"I don't believe flowers should be forced to grow the way we want. I never restrain them, never bind them. Let them ramble and they will be more beautiful than you can imagine," she said.

"It must be a lot of work for you to keep it up," Jeremy said. "I once did a garden with my dad, and all he let me do was pull weeds. It was a lot of work, even for me and I'm strong. No offense meant, mamm."

"Oh no, no offense taken young man," she said in her weak voice. "Besides, it's easy for me, I just don't allow weeds to grow," she said. She winked at Jeremy as she smiled and giggled. Roger and Jeremy laughed with her, but Peter rolled his eyes and snorted. Mrs. Trillby kept talking, pointing to blooms and buds as they walked and finally stopped at the corner of a wooden box.

The box was a few feet long, a foot deep and made of the same polished wood as the fence. Roger peered down and saw three perfect rows of small flowers, each one only a few inches tall. The stems were fat green stalks, as thick as Roger's thumb, with two teardrop shaped leaves, one on either side. A few were fully bloomed, while the rest were barely budding. The petals were paper thin and light pink in color.

"Why are those boxed in?" he asked.

"Because some flowers are more delicate than others," she answered.

Roger stared at the flowers. He reached out his hand to touch one of the buds, when Mrs. Trillby caught his wrist with the arc of her cane. He looked up at her, and saw her emerald eyes set in stern offense as her head shook gently back and forth. Roger lowered his hand slowly and the old woman withdrew her cane.

"I see my children don't interest you," Mrs. Trillby suddenly said, looking at Peter.

He shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms. "If this is a garden where are the tomatoes?" Peter asked.

"This is a flower garden, not a vegetable garden. You're not very bright are you?" she asked.

Roger opened his mouth in surprise as Peter's eyes flew wide with shock. Jeremy snorted a small laugh. Before Peter could respond Mrs. Trillby changed the subject.

"Now you boys can play here as long as you like, but first I want to get you something to drink. You must be dying of thirst." She turned and slowly walked back to her house. As soon as she was out of earshot Peter quickly turned to Roger.

"Who does that old biddy think she is? Huh? Calling me stupid, it's not like I'm Jeremy or something!" Peter shouted.

Roger looked over Peter's shoulder at Jeremy. Jeremy was on his knees looking at the flower box. He rose slowly and brought his stony face close to Peter.

"What did you say?" he asked.

Peter took a small step backwards. His heels met the side of the flower box, as he swallowed hard. "You, you know what I meant Jeremy. I didn't mean anything by it. You know, I am always just kidding. Just kidding yeah?" he said, as he raised his hands to his chest, palms outward in submission.

Jeremy's eyes took a distant and dark look, as anger clouded his face. He balled his heavy fists at his side, each knuckle cracking with a spine shivering snap. Roger squeezed his tiny body between the boys.

"Hey Jeremy, I saw you looking closer at those flowers. They're real nice. Let's look together," Roger said. Jeremy looked down at Roger and blinked. He stepped away from Peter, stooped to his knees and looked down to the box again.

"Thanks man," Peter whispered.

"Don't mention it," Roger said.

"Why do you think she keeps these so neat? She said she didn't like to retrain them," Jeremy said.

"Restrain, she doesn't like to restrain them. I think it might be because of the variety. Maybe these need more sunshine, or plant food or something like that. We can ask her when she comes back, if you want," Roger said.

Jeremy wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "No way man, she is way too creepy for me," Jeremy said.

"What do you mean creepy? I think she's nice," Roger said.

"Well you would," Peter added. He crouched down beside the other boys. "You have been practically tripping over her since the lights came on."

"Look, I just wanted to let her know we weren't gonna trash the place or nothing like that. She might still call our parents if you don't shut up Peter," Roger said. "What about you Jeremy?" He looked back to Jeremy and his stomach jumped into his throat. Jeremy was running a finger back and forth across one of the blooms. His face had a look of serenity that Roger had never seen.

"Jeremy, I don't think she wants us to touch them," Roger said quietly.

"They're so warm," Jeremy said in a distant voice. Roger cocked his head, and once again lost his fear in the face of his curiosity. He reached out and touched a petal. It was warm and fuzzy. Roger marveled at the feel as he stroked the petal gently. It was like petting an animal. A live animal.

"It is warm," he said.

"Well, its summer you guys. What did you expect?" Peter asked.

"No Peter, this isn't like a warm from the outside. This feels warm, like it's coming from the inside," Jeremy said.

Roger nodded in agreement.

A loud creaking signaled Mrs. Trillby's return. Roger pulled his hand away, and motioned for Jeremy to do the same. Jeremy looked angry for a moment, as though Roger had interrupted something important. But then he slowly pulled his hand away.

"Here we are, nice and cold," Mrs. Trillby said.

Roger and Jeremy leapt to their feet. Mrs. Trillby pushed a trolley in front of her. On the trolley was a full pitcher of lemonade with three glasses already poured, and three plates of cookies. Roger looked nervously around, unsure if they should eat or drink anything. Even though the woman seemed nice, she was still a stranger, and he had been drilled for years to never take food from a stranger.

Jeremy, on the other hand, immediately reached out and snapped up a cookie. It disappeared with one bite and the drink soon followed. Jeremy slurped the contents down quickly, smiling as he lowered the glass back to the tray.

"Great lemonade Mrs. Trillby!" He said enthusiastically. Two more cookies disappeared down his throat, while their host poured Jeremy a second glass.

Roger shrugged his shoulders and decided it was okay after all. He raised the glass of lemonade to his lips, intent on only tasting it to be polite, but found himself draining the glass even quicker than Jeremy did. He smiled and licked his lips, holding the glass still as Mrs. Trillby refilled it.

Peter stood, glaring at the old woman.

"Aren't you thirsty young man?" she gently asked. Peter shrugged and picked up his glass. Roger watched as Peter raised it to his nose and sniffed it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Lemonade, you aren't very bright are you?" Jeremy said.

Roger joined him in laughter as Peter turned a deep shade of red.

"What's the matter Pete, afraid of a little lemonade?" Roger asked.

"Yes young man? Afraid I will poison you?" Mrs. Trillby cooed.

Finally Peter tipped the glass back and swallowed the contents in three gulps. He roughly slammed the cup onto the tray, causing the trolley to sway back and forth. Roger couldn't get over how rude Peter was acting. He grew more embarrassed that he had introduced Peter as his friend.

"Now can we go guys? It's already late and baby Roger here needs to go home," Peter said.

"Now, Roger doesn't want to rush off," the old woman said. She turned to Roger and winked. Roger smiled, feeling oddly welcome in this stranger's home.

"Roger, come on man, it's nearly ten. Your ma is gonna be mad," Peter said.

Roger felt a sudden rush of warmth come over him. He tried to open his mouth, but all he could do was shake his head. He didn't want to go anywhere. He felt like he was already home. He faced Jeremy and saw the serene look returning to the boy's face.

Roger heard a distant and familiar humming in the background.

"You see, they don't want to go. They are happy here. Happy in my garden," Mrs. Trillby said.

"What do you mean? Roger, Jeremy we have to-" Peter began but suddenly stopped. His hands flew to his throat as a sputtering sound escaped his lips. Peters face contorted into panic.

Roger didn't understand how Peter could ever want to leave.

The garden was so beautiful and wonderful. Roger felt like he belonged here. After a short lifetime of not fitting in, he finally felt like he belonged somewhere. He smiled as he listened to the gentle hum in the air. He heard the song inside. It was a beautiful song, and it made Roger feel safe. Roger dipped his head to and fro, nodding in time. Roger saw Jeremy nodding slowly and knew the boy heard the song too. Peter was not nodding. He did not hear the song. Peter was twisting and writhing, holding his ears tightly between his hands, with a look of shock and distaste on his ugly face.

"Peter, you don't feel happy in my garden. You don't belong here, not like Roger and Jeremy," Mrs. Trillby said in a strong clear tone. The hint of weakness from before was gone.

Mrs. Trillby stood to her full height and tossed her cane to one side. She held Roger by the waist and gently lifted him, as though he weighed nothing, and put him down inside the box. Jeremy soon joined him, and the boys stared at each other as they nodded rhythmically to the music of the garden.

Roger's toes reached and stretched until they burst free from his shoes and dug deep into the soil. His legs drew together and he happily let them meet and watched as they twisted and turned around each other. His arms slithered snugly around his body, his now flat hands spreading thinner, as each tapered to a teardrop shape. There was no pain in what was happening to him, only the comfort of belonging in the garden. His hair fell to the ground in great clots. In its place, a blanket of fuzzy warmth spread across his face and head. He felt himself beginning to bloom.

Mrs. Trillby was standing beside of Peter, and holding a large pair of shears. "You don't belong here Peter, your not one of my children," she said. She snapped the shears open and closed.

Roger glanced to Peter and felt sorry for him. The boy's face twisted in a silent howl of pain. He stood stiffly with his legs locked at the knees, and his arms cuffed stiffly to his sides. From the neck down he took on a dark green hue. His hands became a myriad of small leaves, protruding from his sides at odd angles. His golden hair stood on end, growing in length, until it was a firm crop of yellow atop his head. His eyes rolled back as his face melted into a dark green mass.

Roger immediately recognized what Peter had become.

"Weed!" Mrs. Trillby shouted. "I don't allow weeds in my garden young man."

The world exploded around Roger as he began to contract and shrink. Finally he stood only a few inches tall, the same height as the other flower children. He looked around and was greeted by their gentle blooms. They hummed and welcomed him as the newest edition to the garden. He belonged. He hummed along, and heard Jeremy humming beside of him. He looked and saw Jeremy's bloom was rich and full. He hoped his bloom would be that large some day. Before he closed his eyes for the last time he saw Mrs. Trillby closing the shears around Peter's legs.

He continued to hum as he heard to the first snip.

Here is a little diddy I wrote for a magazine. They rejected it, but I still think it has potential. Consider it a dialogue with an ancient God.

Enjoy:

Heiros Namos

Names can be a very powerful tool.

Sometimes they can also make you feel like just that, a tool.

Humans try their best, and they can be really creative, but sometimes, every once in a while, the name they choose for you is just garbage.  Take Hermes for instance. Now there was one angry god when he learned what the people decided to call him. I always liked the name, but he was full of fury when he found out. After all these years I can still remember word for word what he said.

"Hermes? What kind of crap is that? It sounds like a venereal disease."

He is one funny guy.

Aphrodite on the other hand has always loved her name, no pun intended. She claims it's exotic. I once asked her why she didn't use her Roman name more often. 

"Venus sounds vulgar. I don't understand how a goddess ends up with a name that will eventually rhyme with the male organ," she answered.

To this day she believes Athena is behind the Roman name. She is convinced there was subterfuge on the naming committee, and that the Romans were all bribed. Athena will only smile knowingly if you ask her about it.

What I never understood was why Ouranos never got mad about his Roman name.

Now there is a god with a legitimate beef.

Of course divinity had a name before humans dreamed the gods into existence. An ageless name, made from stardust and centuries, folded into a soundless portrait. A name that is unpronounceable, unimaginable and unknowable. The kind of name that would break your mind you the instant you even thought about thinking about it. But human beings require connection. You need to feel the earth under your feet even though you like to keep your heads in the clouds. From your earliest grunts to your later words you have insisted on labeling your universe. It was only natural that when you looked to the heavens for the first time you called out a million different names.

And you still do.

Zeus once told me, at a party, that he hand picked his own name. He claims he sent one of his priests a dream bearing the name on golden wing, and the rest, as they say, is history. He got angry when I pointed out to him that it was dangerous to mess around with the human mind.

"What good is being a god if I can't have a little control?" he asked.

I could only nod my head and agree.

When it comes to most immortals, their names suit them. Hermaphrodite, Narcissus, Echo and Arachnid all stand as excellent examples of how a name fits the owner. But to be fair the words you now use to portray most of them actually originate from their own names.

Dionysus is probably the exception to the rule, but then again he was always the exception to every rule. The name Bacchus, a pseudonym for his work with the Romans, brought about the word Bacchanal, meaning one hell of a party. But the young god is more than just a drunk; he has so much depth to him, and so much fire. Let's just say that he is a great guy to party with but he is one god you do not want to make angry. Not unless when you say "Let's get tore up!" you really mean it.

Dionysus brings new meaning to the word 'wasted'.

What so few humans realize is that a name not only defines, it also delineates. A name can change the way you guys think about each other, and names most definitely changed the way you related to us. The names you assigned us gave us personalities, they gave us life, and importantly they humanized us. In one word divinity shattered from some unknowable cosmic power into aspects you could actually address. With that our whole relationship shifted. We became divine parents, celestial siblings and sacred lovers. You also changed somewhere along the way. You became bolder, stronger and self sufficient. Then the inevitable happened. One day you were sending your desires skyward on the smoke of a slaughtered lamb, and the next day you realized the sun would rise with or without the rituals.

You didn't need us anymore.

Hephaestus always had my sympathy. Poor god was strapped with a bum leg and a face that would stop a sun dial. Then to top it all off you burdened him with a mouthful of a name. Where did that one come from? Even worse, ask the average human today who Hephaestus is and they will only give you a puzzled look. Being pushed into obscurity is a hard row to hoe, but Hephaestus always took these kinds of things well. Even in the height of his popularity he had a hard time with the name. I can still remember him trying to explain the proper pronunciation to Psyche when she first joined us.

"Ha-fess-tuss? Your name sounds like a donkey farting," she said.

The laughter that followed shook Olympus to the very core of the mountain. Hephaestus just smiled and shook his head; he was used to that kind of treatment. He also knew Psyche never was very bright as a human, and things didn't improve when she moved upstairs. Then again Eros didn't marry her for her brain, if you get my meaning.

I hear that the folks down on the Delta have some great names. Out of the ones I am familiar with I have always been partial to the name Set. I suppose I just like names that are short and to the point. Trust me when I say Hephaestus would have traded his good leg for a name like Set.

I don't consider myself a pantheon-ist, but I am ashamed to say I don't know much more about the other gods of the world. We do meet occasionally on vacations and conferences, but you will find most pantheons stick together, few cross over that fine line. Again Dionysus is the exception to the rule. Search any pantheon and there he will be, the slain and risen son of a god, bringing enlightenment to the masses. In fact he has a pretty big aspect going right now. The kid has a good gig, servicing a multitude of hungry souls.

We are proud of him.

So some of our names are obviously better than others, and some we could have done without all together, but over all you did a fairly good job. The majority of us here in Greece are pleased, even with the shift to our Roman titles. We are also happy with how our names have graced everything, from geography to architecture. It seems like every day someone is naming something after a god of some sort. You might not need our divine guidance any more, but somewhere deep inside you still need to connect to us. You keep saying our names, using our names, and redefining our names in the human mind. As a result we are never truly forgotten.

My own name is not important, but I thank you for it all the same.

Here is the prologue from The Temptation of Thomas. Its a book about the nature of evil. It features Satan as a main character, and he is not the bad guy.

(please forgive the insane way that myspace blog ruins formatting. sorry!)

Enjoy:

The night was a blur of noise and lights as reds and blues danced in dangerous patterns across the wet asphalt. The air cracked with the slap of slick shoes tramping through steep puddles of rain water and the harsh barks of commands. A helicopter puttered in the distance, measuring its approach, and awaiting its need. Vehicles lined the highway behind the flashing blues, as people milled along the stalled traffic. People watching, people waiting, and people worrying.

Thomas Matter stood among a multitude of strangers, at the edge of the yellow caution tape, with his attention tightly focused on a twisted heap of metal.

The heap was all that remained of a four door sedan. Bright red and black, or white depending on which part you were looking at, it had been faithful transportation for its owner for many years. But now it lay in wet ruin, folded and crumpled like a forgotten love note. In and over, it was doubled onto itself until the rear bumper could just about introduce itself to the front. Rescue workers toyed and pried at the car, trying to break apart the puzzle box it had become. Scraps and shards of plastic, glass and metal lay discarded around the vehicle, all offerings to an angry collision god. It had been nearly an hour and only a few pieces of the vehicle had been dismantled.

All while the man trapped inside clung to dear life.

The crowd couldn't see the victim clearly, but they could catch occasional glimpses of his suffering. Glimpses that made mothers hug children tightly, and lovers intertwine fingers in an attempt to never let go. Glimpses that reminded one how grateful they were to be alive. A blood splattered hand pressed against the spider webbed windshield, the awkward angles of lower limbs as he dangled a few feet from the ground, and the loll of a head as the constant rescue attempt shook the vehicle around him.

Thomas shuddered at the thought of the poor man's suffering.

 It was a miracle that any human could have survived the wreck. On first inspection they left the contorted and bleeding body for dead, as two shaken truck drivers walked away without a scratch. Disappointed paramedics shifted the rescue mission into a clean up routine, but as they began to remove the trucks on either end of the victim's car, they heard a loud moaning. Ears pricked up, seeking the source of the noise, and the emergency response crew leapt into action just as the moaning abruptly stopped. The man turned out to be alive, and had been for the hour since he was first sandwiched between transfer trucks.

It was going on two hours now.

A loud snap of metal was followed by a murmur across the crowd. The man was finally free. Now the crowd held a collective breath, as they waited to see if their object of attention was still alive. A pair of rescue workers shuffled and crab walked across the road, holding the crumpled body between them as delicate as a new born babe. With the last ounce of energy left in their weary arms, they lifted the man onto a waiting stretcher and stood back in exhaustion. Paramedics hungrily descended on the limp form as a ring of emergency workers tightened around the stretcher, blocking the onlookers. The crowd grew tense. They helplessly awaited the final verdict as each second crawled towards the next. A smiling police officer suddenly broke free from the circle, turned to the silent crowd and stuck his large thumb upwards into the air.

The stranger had survived, so far.

The crowd burst into cheers. Back were patted. Hands were clapped. Faces streamed with tears of joy, all for the stranger and his remarkable suffering. Everyone seemed relived. Everyone was relieved. Finished with the burden of feasting on one mans torture, done with making a meal of his sorrow. The sea of faces parted and ebbed, as people wandering back to cars, muttering, laughing and feeling good about bearing witness to this miracle and these heroes.

Everyone except for Thomas.

He stood with his jaw slack and his eyes bulging. His blood ran to ice in his veins. The sound of the crowd narrowed to a thin rush behind the thump of his heart beat. His vision tunneled onto the man lying limp across the stretcher. The man from the wreckage. The man who was just wrenched free from a death trap of metal and glass, as Thomas stood and watched. Thomas Matter recognized the person underneath the blood and grease. He knew the familiar face beyond the lacerations and bruises. He recalled the exact shape of the now broken nose, was aware of the color of the closed and puffy eyes, and intimately knew the cut of the now swollen jib.

The man on the stretcher was Thomas Matter.

I've been writing a lot lately. I've had a crazy idea that I can make some kind of meager career of it. Nothing fancy pants, mind you. Just a nice portfolio that I can be proud of.

I know I said I don't do blogs, but I am considering blogging my short stories and maybe chapters from the books I have written. (two so far!)

Let me start with this short story called "Where's John?" that I wrote a few weeks ago. I do warn you though, it's a bit depressing. I've sent it to a few places and am crossing my fingers that someonewill accept it for publication.

Enjoy.

Where's John?

The question dropped in the thick air, weighted by years of repetition, and sinking from years of explanation. Grace pretended not to hear him. Instead she hid behind her fork, her eyes glued to her plate as she pushed egg whites around in yolky circles. Donald suddenly grew quiet, the click of his fork against his plate coming to a stop. Grace looked up to find him staring into the distance. His eyes narrowed as his brow furrowed, and for a fleeting moment Grace thought he might remember. Then a familiar look of confusion swept his face and with it Grace frowned. She didn't need to look behind her to know what he was staring at. It was the same square of wallpaper he stared at every morning. When she put the paper up she hoped the change in surroundings would help Donald, but now she regretted the mistake. She was warned against changing his environment, but she was always headstrong.

"The wallpaper is new Donald. We put it up over a year ago. You picked out the pattern yourself," she said.

Donald nodded his head slowly, a stray curl of graying hair falling across his wrinkled forehead, over the fading crescent scar. Grace watched him take in the wallpaper for the first of hundreds of times and smiled weakly as she returned to her ovine pursuit.  The dining room fell quiet again, the click and tap of cutlery on china desperately trying to fill the void between them. Grace hoped that Donald would forget the question he had already asked. She hoped that he would loose the idea with his renewed fascination with the wallpaper. But as the gears of Donald's broken mind ticked away the question surfaced again.

"Where's John?" he asked, gently.

Grace sighed and lowered her head. "John is gone dear, just eat your eggs," she answered. She spoke into her plate, not wanting to face him, but she could feel Donald's eyes on her. She raised her head to see his confusion had returned. "He's just gone. It's not important. Just eat your eggs."

"What do you mean it's not important? Where could a ten year old boy get off to this early in the morning?" he demanded.

"You know how boys are Donald," she said. Again the look from her husband demanded more. She quickly pulled an answer out of the dozens in her mind and lied to him. "He spent a night at a friend's house, he will be back later."

Donald shook his head again slowly and accepted the answer, but she knew it would only be temporary. They returned to their breakfast. The dishes were lined neatly on the shelves before he asked again about the wallpaper. Grace rolled her aging eyes and wondered if she could find the old pattern they used to have. She wondered if putting it back up would stop his questions, and if his silence would be any better than him not remembering at all.

It was noon before Donald remembered John.

"Honey? Where's John?" he asked. Grace turned from her book, looking over her glasses to find Donald standing beside of her, in his overalls, holding some complex gear in his greasy hands.

"He has gone to the field to play ball," she lied. "Now get out of here you're tracking oil on my tile."

Donald shook his head again, as though he doubted her, and returned to the garage and his tools. She closed her book and stared at the puddle of oil he left behind. Grace wanted to make him come back and clean it himself, but then thought better of it. As she carefully knelt over the stain, with a paper towel in hand, she wrinkled her nose and wretched. Grace had grown to hate the smell of grease. To her it held the copper tang of fresh blood, the sting of antiseptic, the sound of a panicked phone call and the sudden realization that she may never see him alive again. She shuddered as she wiped the stain away from the floor, and the bloody memories from her mind.

It was late afternoon before Donald remembered John.

"Where's John?" he asked.

Grace jumped at the sudden intrusion of his voice. Her knife slipped against a slick potato and threateningly close to her hand. "I nearly cut off my finger Donald! Don't sneak around like that!" she shouted.

Donald picked up her hand and kissed her fingertips, slowly, one by one.

"Sorry dear, I just wondered where the boy was, that's all," he said apologetically.

She searched her bag of fabrication and came out with a new tale.

"He has gone to Samson's to have dinner. That puts us alone tonight, isn't that nice?" she asked.

Donald smiled widely and swept Grace into his arms, knocking her cutting board to the floor as he did. She giggled as he hugged her tightly, tickling her tenderly as the board clattering beneath them.

"Donald! Stop acting like a love sick teenager!" she squealed.

"We should take advantage of him being gone. Do things we can't normally do with a kid in the house," he said.

"What kind of things Donald?" she asked.

"Oh I am thinking we can do the couch first, then the bathroom, then the kitchen table…" his words tapered off into laughter as he lifted her small frame, and carried her to their bedroom. For a few rare moments Grace felt wonderful. She felt everything was wonderful.

It was just after dinner before Donald remembered John.

"Where's John?" he asked. Grace could hear the rustle of his magazine as he rested it on his lap.

"He is at the movies with his friends, he will be back late. You worry too much Donald," she said as she looked up from her yarn.

"Kids get away with anything today," he grunted and returned to his magazine.

Grace went back to her knitting, starting a new row, working the yarn slowly between her fingers and the needles. Her freshly finished project lay neatly folded on the couch next to her.

"Whatcha working on Gracey?" Donald asked suddenly.

Grace looked up at him and smiled. After so many years her heart still fluttered when he called her 'Gracey'. She remembered their first kiss at the lake, and how he nestled his face into her neck and breathed the name slowly. She remembered him holding their newborn son, calling the name with joy. She remembered his swollen lips spitting the blood splattered name into the hospital air. In some wicked part of her heart she was shamefully glad that he was able to remember the name.

She reached out and patted the folded square beside of her. "I just finished a baby blanket for a friend," she said.

"Who had a baby?" he asked.

Grace closed her eyes as the pain of the question struck her hard. She blinked, her eyes stinging and threatening to overflow. "No one you would know," she said as she cleared her throat. She could tell by Donald's face that he sensed her sorrow, and that he was equally hurt by her curt reply. "I just meant one of the girls from my bridge group. See, no one you would know," she said in a half-truth. Her deceit had become so casual.

A sharp knock at the door distracted him before he could invite her next lie.

"Who could that be this time of night?" he asked. Donald rose swiftly and went to the door. Grace breathed a sigh of relief, trying to regain her composure and hoping he would let the subject drop. She heard the door close sharply as Donald returned wearing his unmistakable mask of confusion.

"Gracey, there is young man at the door asking for you. He won't come inside, he said he wanted to see you," he said.

Grace flicked her wrist towards her and checked her watch. It was late, later than she expected. She shouldn't have let Donald answer the door, but she had lost track of time. "Donald, will you put some coffee on? I will see what he wants, probably just a salesman," she said.

"This late in the day?" he asked.

"I feel sorry for those poor souls. They will do anything for a sale." She smiled as best she could and he stood beside her, considering her fib. He finally smiled gently and leaned down to kiss her softly on the forehead. Grace closed her eyes and breathed in his trust.

She watched him disappear into the kitchen before she gathered the blanket in her arms and went to the door. She opened it slowly and peered out. A young man wiggled his fingers in greeting and she smiled. She stepped into the night and closed the door behind her. Grace daubed at her wet eyes before she threw her arms around her son.

"John," she said quietly.

"Mom," he answered just as softly. His arms slipped around her shoulders and he pulled her tightly to him for what Grace wanted to be an eternity.

Neither of them wanted Donald to hear.

Neither of them wanted to confuse an already confused man.

"He looks good," John said, breaking the embrace.

"I am so glad you could drop by. I know you… I know it's hard for you to see him. But I wanted to give you this," she said, spreading the blanket across the back of her weathered rocking chair.

"Oh ma, that's great, thanks," John said. "Actually I'm glad you called me, because I really did want to come by. I wanted to bring you this," he said. He held up three thick brown paper tubes. "I think it matches the old pattern. I found it on clearance and thought you would want it as soon as possible, considering, you know…" John let the words trail off, unable to finish the thought.

"How is the baby?" she asked, holding out the bundle and taking the tubes in exchange.

 "She is beautiful of course," John said. "Maggie says 'hi'. She keeps pestering me to bring her up here but I told her you would visit next Wednesday. Is the bridge story still holding?"

"Yes, but I feel so guilty John," she said. Her frown was a dead weight around her face, pulling her mouth into an ugly shape.

"I know ma, I know," he said. In the weak porch light she could see him frowning as well. Grace marveled at how her husband had escaped death only to haunt his family with sorrow.

"I have to go, but I will be up next week. I love you," she said. Grace reached out and pulled John close again, squeezing him tightly.

"I love you to ma. Careful with the affection, he will catch us and think you're having an affair with me!" John said with a chuckle.

Grace smiled. "At least that would be something new," she said, and they both laughed quietly.

She watched her son walk to his car, and then drive away. John, the perpetual ten-year-old boy, was returning to his wife and his child. Grace entered the house, tubes in tow, quietly closing the door behind her. Donald peeked out of the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. She went to her seat, dropping the tubes on the living room floor.

"Well, are you going to tell me what that was all about?" Donald asked as he finally joined her.

"What?" she murmured, pretending not to hear him. She was buying time, trying on each lie in her mind, looking for one that fit.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Oh, it was a salesman, just like I told you. I ordered some wallpaper last week and he was bringing it around." She smiled, not convinced her story was believable.  She was relieved to see Donald smile in return.

"Service with a smile huh?" he joked. She sighed in relief as Donald stooped over the tubes. He lifted one to the light and considered it for a moment.

"He is the best salesman I have ever seen," Donald said.

"Why is that?" she asked.

"Because this is the pattern we already have," he answered with a laugh.

Grace laughed with him, trying to drown the noise of her breaking heart.