FanStory.com - Short Stories and Flash by michaelcahill

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.

A love story is dependent on perspective for its tone. Are they star crossed? I imagine whose eyes scrutinize the starscape would be a factor. Are the lovers put upon by circumstance, or have they made their own living hell to deservedly burn in? Innocence or guilt is in the eyes of the accusers and the accused in all matters, never more so than with love.

On to this week’s story:

After nine years in space, modesty had lost feasibility. There were no private places for, well, anything. Truthfully, very little remained private between Nan and Blake.

Suspended animation and altered body states to preserve human vitality and youth had turned out to be the fodder of science fiction. In the real world every application turned out to be fraught with danger. Perhaps if an emergency medical team equipped with the latest in medical tools could be at the ready, yes, an individual could be placed in a deep coma and safely revived. But to leave those tasks to a computer program bordered on suicide or murder depending on whose side your attorney advocated.

So, a destination five light years distant would give you a ten year round trip providing you traveled at the speed of light. Five there and five back. Of course, traveling at the speed of light also found its home in the computer games of the cyber-addicted youth of a decaying Earth. However, we could and did approach the speed of light in the vacuum of space after a few months of unimpeded acceleration. I won’t bore you with the mathematical equations, they are easily Googlepediad.

Francine Fasone turned twenty-eight three days before launch. The mother of three girls, the wife of Ambassador to The Republic of California and former Miss States of the Eastern Union, she placed the mission above all else. All else included all of the above. All knew her as Nan.

Blake Scraggs hailed from Texas. Texans didn’t care to be called citizens of the States of the Southern Union. They answered to Texans, thank you very much. Mrs. Blake Scraggs waitressed at the Scraggs Pie and Suds Diner off the 92 freeway at the Austin Boulevard turn-off. A whole lot of folk in Austin drove internal combustion engine motor vehicles, pick-up trucks to be more specific. The Scraggs family of which Blake Scraggs was patriarch owned the Texas T Black Gold Refinery, the last oil and gas company in the world. He was the Forbes Fortune 500 number two richest man in the world.

Number one continued to be Lavender Lacey, CEO of Stem Cells R Us. It was Lavenders one hundred and twenty-second year at the top. But, I digress.

Blake and Nan made a pact of celibacy before their launch even occurred. They were both happily married with children and planned to resume their respective lives upon returning approximately ten years hence. They were both faithful spouses in happy marriages, Blake for thirteen years and Nan for eighteen years. Both, however, showed a willingness to leave their beloveds behind to travel to a desolate place of uncertainty, a place they may die trying to reach, or die trying to return from. The risks were many. They would ride in a machine containing everything their life depended on. Outside of the machine, death stretched out to infinity waiting for either of them to take one breath of its essence.

Googlepedia has all the details of the launch and background for either Nan or Blake if you happen to be curious. This document is concerned with one thing only, the romance between them, when and how it started and how it ended up. Was it a tragic ending? They were both married with two expectant families awaiting their respective returns. A happy ending perhaps. How could it be considering the circumstances and the obvious pain involved? Maybe they died in the throes of passion, struck by a meteor as the monitors alarm went unnoticed--a salvo of justice from a vengeful hand of fate.

True to their word, celibacy reigned for two years aboard the Jollytime Bluebird Express. Achieving a consensus among five children leads to compromise in everything, but especially in the naming of a spaceship.

But the awareness of each other grew and grew. These were young vital individuals in shape for the ardors of space travel, healthier by far than the norm for humans. She, a former beauty queen thirty-seven years of age, he, an athletic thirty-five, still comparable to the prime of most men considering his fitness. Neither were blind and fondness for each other was genuine born of comradery and shared love for the mission. They were like minded. They were friends and were before they’d even left the solid ground of earth.

Privacy consisted of turned heads aboard the Jollytime as they called it. The toilet consisted of an alcove carved out of a wall. There was no door and there was a shower and sink there as well. Water was scarce and recycled including waste. It was safe and drinkable but they both knew what had been filtered out of it. In any case, Blake would avert his eyes as she dropped her panties to use the facilities. She would do likewise for him. Their scents were familiar to each other as the quarters were cramped and they were in close contact almost all of the time.

They pleasured themselves as quietly and discretely as possible, but there was an awareness and even mutual arousal whenever it occurred. Eventually, they engaged in the activity together. They never acknowledged each other or spoke of it though. She would face one wall and he would face the other as they lay on their tiny beds. They’d silently take care of their needs each unaware that the other thought of no one but them.

He would imagine simply rising from his bed and walking the few feet to where she was, removing her hand as he kneeled down, and running his tongue slowly up her wet mound. He’d stop and instead of a finger rhythmically stimulating her pulsating spot it would be his tongue. He imagined her sighing in relief and her hand gently brushing his hair from his forehead. He’d look up and their eyes would lock and he’d know, this is what she had dreamed about just like him.

She would imagine the same for him. Walking softly over, grabbing his wrist, sliding her tongue from top to bottom and back to the top. Then everything inside of her mouth. Slowly at first, all the way down. She’d grab his hand and bring it near her lips so he could feel himself in her mouth. He’d place his hand on her head gently trying not to apply pressure as he built to a climax. She’d pull him forward as he released himself completely. She’d look up to catch his eyes while his final bursts filed her mouth. He’d see how thrilled she was to satisfy him. He’d know that she shared his fantasy and that their dreams were the same dreams.

Month after month they lived as friends and shipmates while fantasizing so much more. But she was a lady faithful to her husband and loyal to her vows. He was a gentleman, faithful to his wife and a man true to his word and commitment. Neither would compromise their character regardless of the circumstance. Many a man and woman would find this impossible. Some would understand. Some would realize, it is possible. There are people like this.

A communication from Earth changed things forever. Blake’s wife had died. She’d been murdered in a home invasion robbery. It had to do with the family’s wealth. The details matter not and the time frame considering the speed of light and how long ago the message had been sent … it all had no bearing on anything. Blake had become a widower. He had become single. He also grieved and needed comfort. He needed a friend.

Nan was his friend. It was a good thing. They were millions of miles from home. Blake needed a friend and the only person in his world just happened to be his friend. Of course, she would become much, much more and it would happen quickly, that very evening to be exact.

-To be continued-

Author Notes

Yes, help. :))
Some sex in this. I'm mainly focusing on relationships and circumstance. Any input is appreciated.

Chapter 2
Seeking Regard

By michaelcahill

The door opens up without a sound. You can hear the rusty hinges squeal anyway. They are heavy doors but the need to get inside removes their weight. The stink of sweat and stale beer gives her a sense of relief as she feels hope finally fill a few holes within herself.

On the streets no one pays her any mind. All consider her with some level of disregard. To some a nondescript anything walking to anywhere from nowhere serves as a descriptor. To others a shuffling blight needing eradication like a lower level bug, one without cute spots or pretty wings, just a carcass and excretions, something to squash. And still others have no idea they’ve even passed her by, they’re the worst.

Her apartment smells like the bar. She keeps it tidy, but it still has the scent, it permeates the fabric of her life. Hope doesn’t find a respite there unless she brings it home with her. Sometimes she does, more often she doesn’t. She always decides, she always choses. She controls everything, no one else does.

“The usual, Trina.” She orders in the usual way. And thus a usual evening begins.

The characters are all assembled. They have the same characters in every dive bar across the land. The hard core drunks who’ve been there since the bar opened and will close it. There’s the social drinkers who are exactly the same as drunks. but deny their allegiance to them. Then there are the temporary regulars. They’ve been there for two weeks or two-months; the time doesn’t matter. They’ve had a change in their life and they’re drinking over it. Their spouse or lover left them, someone died, or something else of significance. They’ll get over it and one day they’ll be gone.

She may bring a temporary home, she may not. She won’t bring a regular home, she has to see them every day, she’s one of them. The prime pickin’s start filtering in about nine PM.

She’s attractive. She’s not beautiful, but she could be were she well to do. Her body is one that invites stares lasting a little too long followed by quick glances at objects people don’t normally consider, spots on the wall, dusty plastic plants or a particular spot on the floor. In the context of possible bar hook-ups, she is top of the line. She’s only thirty-one years old and if you look close it is how old she looks.

There’s a table with twenty-something college boys drinking pitchers of beer. They have the strength in numbers confidence making them feel bold until they leave the group, then their true nature is exposed.

There’s an older gentlemen sitting alone at a table writing something in a notebook. There’s a light attached to the book. He seems engrossed though he’s noticed her. He’s discreet and she hasn’t noticed his gaze.

There are couples and small groups of couples. It’s a busy Friday night. Someone might get lucky if she approves. She is lonely and dearly wants to approve.

The table of college boys has narrowed the first choice down to her and a heated discussion ensues. Who would be the lucky guy? The consensus focuses down to a young sophomore, a business major, most of the group considers to be a virgin or pretty damn close to it. They pick him out of a combination of charity and a little mean-spirited hope he makes a fool of himself to entertain them. With a little goading and challenge to his manliness he rises from the table.

He approaches her with what he hopes to be a swagger. It comes off as a poor impersonation of John Wayne performed by a poor John Wayne impersonator. She shows remarkable kindness and simply glances up with a half-smile.

“I’m Johnny, business major. Can I buy you a drink?” He shifts from one leg to the other awkwardly.

She lets several responses come and go in her mind, all of them crushing and life altering to Johnny. She responds, “Sure, Johnny, that would be nice.”

Johnny falls into the chair across from her and it makes a loud noise as it slides hard a couple inches from the force. “Come here often?”

Again, she contemplates several devastating remarks and kindly refrains. “Yes, I do. I live and work nearby. It’s convenient. A nice cozy place to unwind.”

“Well, I’d like to unwind in you, doll” Johnny smiles apparently considering his remark quite clever.

“I see. That doesn’t appear to be a likely occurrence, Johnny. You’re more likely to end up with a clock having no hands.” She laughs a dainty little chuckle, with purpose, but not overly mean.

“Whaddya mean? Isn’t that why you come here? I mean people come to these places to hook up right. We’re grownups. I’m a grown man and you’re for sure a grown woman. Why pretend?”

“Well, Johnny. I may wish to ‘hook-up’ as you so quaintly put it on occasion, but I chose who and I chose if. I usually steer clear of crude little boys who consider rudeness charming. Oh, and thanks for the drink.”

The man writing by himself observes this and begins to stir in his seat. He already realizes his degree of attraction for this woman and certainly this young punk won’t be the one to break his heart, not this little punk. He rises to approach her table.

She looks up to see the older gentleman approaching. Her instincts tell her to trust him. “Oh hi, I’m so glad you could make it. This is Johnny, he bought me a drink and kept me company waiting for you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Johnny.” He extends his hand and grips tightly enough to give Johnny the message to take a hike. Johnny gets the message and returns to his table in shame.

“Are you okay, miss. I apologize for my bold response, but I could see he was rude and getting out of hand. Being beautiful is no invitation for such behavior.”

“I can’t thank you enough. You are my Knight. I couldn’t believe how rude he was. You are just a prince. Won’t you join me? Let me buy you a drink. I don’t want to disturb your evening, but I must repay you in some small way for your kindness.”

He smiles and sits smoothly down. “What a wonderful treat this is for me. The loveliest woman in this place and this old fool is sharing a table with her. I’ve always said I’m impossibly lucky.”

The night wears on and the conversation never lags. Closing time nears.

“May I see you home? I won’t hear of you walking home unescorted.”

“I do live nearby. If it wouldn’t be much trouble.” In her mind, she considers him to be more than worthy of a night with her. She likes him and she has been lonely. She has done much, much worse many times. She smiles.

He gathers his few things together. His desire for her shocks him. He became aware of his attraction at the very first glimpse of her. It wasn’t an accident he approached her table. He had planned to all evening and just waited for a good time. Nonetheless, this proves to be beyond his wildest dreams. He can barely walk as they stroll home together hand in hand. He is near feverish for her.

They reach her modest apartment and stand before her door as she fumbles for her key.

He speaks. “I know this is forward and sudden. But I had the most wonderful time this evening. Your company is delightful. It’s as if I’ve always known you. Would I be out of line asking you to breakfast in the morning?”

Her heart beats rapidly as she searches for a response. She did not expect this. “Why, yes. That would be lovely. No, you are not out of line at all. I felt the same thing myself. I’m up early. Would nine be to your liking?”

“That would be perfect. I will be here at nine sharp. Until then.” He clasps her hand and brings it to his mouth and kisses it gently. He turns and walks down the street.

Her name is Joanna Constance Torrance. She works part-time as a waitress. She dreams of one day owning a flower shop. She’s very creative and is known to make the most amazing floral displays for weddings and special events. She has a date for breakfast in the morning.

Chapter 3
Hey! Two for one, only a nickle.

By michaelcahill

Hiding in Plain Sight

NEWSFLASH:

Calvin Washington remains at large, one month after a police van transporting him to the Lancaster Superior Court for sentencing was run off the road and he was freed at gunpoint. The daring rescue in broad daylight has left county sheriffs without a clue to follow. Washington has vanished without a trace for all intents and purposes.

I don't know whether to laugh or jump out the window. It's a long drop, but maybe I can fly. It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, damn, this fool prosecuted my black ass for five months. He had me on the witness stand eye to eye … he doesn't have a clue it's me. Shave the dreds, a little 'stache … cheesy island accent. Ha! I'm his right-hand man.

District Attorney Riles taped unrhythmically on his desk. "I hate copycats. All the evidence points to the original and nothing points to the perp. There is no real M.O. because the M.O. is borrowed. The motive? Who knows? Hero-worship? Some sick game? I'll need the files on the Washington murder trial, Tony. I don't know what good they'll do me, but …"

"Sure thing, boss." I could tell you everything you want to know, including how I set this fool up to take the fall. But that would spoil the fun.

--to be continued—

Flounder

It could be all baked inside a flounder. Yeah, a flounder with a universe inside, cooking away while it swims in a kettle of fish. The kettle sits on granny's stove and she is the creator. But we're inside the fish, see, so what do we know?

But, then, maybe I went fishin' with uncle Buck. We ambled down the pathway, the one everyone ambles down. We baited our poles and I caught a flounder, see? I was the one who really set it all in motion. Sure, granny destroyed the universe, assuming the universe is actually in the flounder. But I was carnivorous and she merely sustained my cravings.

But then, was I born a murderous demon or was I taught the delicate nuances by a mentor … was I a beloved protégé? Hell, how do I know? I may be racked with guilt, and all I did was have fish on Friday in honour of some cultish religious practice. But then, the flounder could be the supreme being at rest on the seventh-day and I just took advantage of it and consumed it. Of course, by consuming the supreme being, that would make the supreme being something within me. And there ya go.

Well, rocket science is rocket science after all, and I've got a job to do. Does the fate of the universe depend on me? I'd have you ask the flounder, but I don't think what's left of it is going to offer much insight. On the other hand, there are probably worse conversations to engage in.

Hmm … a knock on the door.

"You ordered the fish?"

--to be continued--

Chapter 4
The Least of Us

By michaelcahill

I couldn't leave that bird there.

I scooped her up. I dipped my finger in my coffee putting it to her beak. She took the liquid in. She wanted to live.

She gained strength on water and Quaker oats. Her wing healed.

I took her outside and she flew like an eagle. “Thank you” I whispered, “You saved my life.”

I took the pistol from my nightstand, holstered it and returned it to the safe.

Author Notes

75 words exactly.

Chapter 5
Kennedy's Second Term

By michaelcahill

November 22, 1963 Dateline: Dallas, Texas
This is Walter Cronkite, ABC News, Special Report. The President has been shot. President John F. Kennedy was shot today as his motorcade turned down Main Street in Dallas Texas. It is reported that the President was wounded in the wrist by one of three shots fired from the Texas Book Depository Building. Governor John Connolly was struck in the chest and is in serious condition. They were both rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital. The President was treated and released. Governor Connolly remains in stable but serious condition. He is expected to recover. No arrests have been made at this time as the investigation continues.

The attempted assassination of President Kennedy boosted his approval rating considerably. It had been lagging. His reluctance to commit to the Vietnam War had not sat well with the hawkish Republican crowd who backed Nixon, and still loved Eisenhower. The lack of victory in the Korean conflict didn't sit well with veterans, or anyone really. The United States won wars. We didn't tie, or reach uneasy stalemates.

To many, Vietnam was a chance to beat down communism and do it decisively. Nixon, himself, had pushed for an agreement, and achieved It, to guarantee protection for the South Vietnamese Government should they face aggression from the North.

Kennedy knew that North Vietnam was in actuality Russia and China. He saw Vietnam as a costly endeavor that couldn't be won without drastic measures. Drastic measures in his eyes meant war with Russia, real war, not the evil eyes and bluffs of what had come to be called “The Cold War”.

Kennedy's reluctance to engage in Vietnam was exploited as weakness on the right. The left embraced it fully as a commitment to peace, and they would add love and togetherness to the mix as well. Kennedy was not weak, he was practical. Vietnam was bad policy and bad legacy; he wanted neither.

The '64 election loomed and the hawks in the GOP gained power in the party. This was Heaven sent to Kennedy. He had long yearned to advance social programs and civil rights. If Barry Goldwater, the darling of the far right, could secure the Republican nomination, then he could pursue his agenda and set politics aside. It would be a true campaign of ideology. Kennedy was betting on the American ideal, and Goldwater was betting on patriotism and nationalism. For once, two candidates would campaign on their beliefs, unswayed by polls or pundits.

Kennedy felt assured of victory. Goldwater felt equally assured his message was compelling and the country would be swayed. All in the business of prognostication agreed with Kennedy.

The '64 election ended in a landslide of historic proportions. Goldwater managed to eek out a victory in his home state of Arizona. All other states went for Kennedy, several by double digits.

Kennedy's coattails were long. His victory had the feel of a coup. The Senate and the House fell to the Democrats by clear margins. Not since the early days of FDR had so much social legislation passed through Congress and into implementation. The Peace Corp, landmark civil rights bills and the expansion of the space program led the way. Camelot had seemingly become a reality.

From the Inauguration Speech January 20, 1965:
“This is the dawn of a new commitment to the ideals of democracy where all men are truly created equal. I call on every American to show their own profile in courage, to be a hero to their friends, their neighbors and to their posterity. The world will shield its eyes from the light shown from this great nation, this beacon of hope for all mankind. I am but a messenger. These men and women who occupy these halls, messengers sent out to do your bidding. It is you who send the good news to all the world, we are free and we stand for freedom for all people.”

The country heard and responded. The mood was one of optimism and idealism. Prosperity was at hand, and even an uneasy peace held sway throughout most of the world. Kennedy was beloved worldwide, as was America.

Of course, a landslide victory still leaves over forty percent of the populace unhappy, and even bitter. Any misstep can raise that figure quickly. Popularity is fickle in the political arena.

Despite Kennedy's negotiations behind the scenes, Vietnam remained an unstable area and one under scrutiny by the Republicans. The old “Domino Theory” still held credence for a great many post World War II and Korea remembering Americans. Korea, in fact, continued to be the Domino Theory in action. The conflict remained at truce with no resolution. It was a continuous stalemate. Two fighting units, poised for battle, eyeing each other across the so-called demilitarized zone.

Vietnam was “Just like Korea”, the Republicans pleaded. The pressure for an armed response in Vietnam never let up and Kennedy never stopped resisting it. The Republicans pointed to treaties forged during the Eisenhower administration, negotiated by then Vice-President Nixon. “Do we not stand behind our agreements?” “Is our word no good?” “The world is watching.” So went the arguments.

Indeed, the world, especially the Communist world, was watching. Yes, they were watching and encroaching, despite their word to the United States they wouldn't. Kennedy was incensed and the threats behind the scenes were dire.

Kennedy quietly sent advisers to Vietnam, and the U.N. did likewise. Troops were sent as well, under the guise as non-combat instructors. In essence, we were there, though Kennedy still claimed we weren't.

Armed conflict was inevitable and Kennedy knew it. Many in his own party supported it. The Republicans openly and vociferously called for it. Those committed to peace were equally vociferous, and Kennedy publicly sided with them. In private, his support was not as strong.

Kennedy considered the Domino Theory to be a viable possibility. Indeed, if the United States pulled out of Korea, it would go Communist. If it abandoned Vietnam, it would as well. Then, why not Laos, Cambodia … the entire far east? Kennedy didn't have an acceptable answer.

Still, the cost of conflict in Korea would pale compared to Vietnam. The supply line to Vietnam would be endless and close at hand. The battlefield would be one familiar to the enemy and completely foreign to our troops. Kennedy saw no short term victory and was hard pressed to see a long term win either. He did not want to commit American troops to Vietnam, anything but.

Kennedy's assassination on May 12, 1967 remains unsolved to this day. The facts are well-known, the family yacht, full of Kennedys and close friends, blown to smithereens as it motored down Nantucket Sound, fourteen deed, The President and First Lady, his two brothers and nine others, many well-known. To this day, not a single indictment or arrest. The theories could fill a library.

The result was two-fold, Kennedy's dreams of space exploration, civil rights and programs for the disenfranchised of the country, passed in numb tribute. His social agenda, one he couldn't dream of achieving in total, all became the law of the land.

The Vietnam conflict he so steadfastly avoided though, became a reality under now President Lyndon Johnson, a hawkish Democrat, and political opportunist. He believed in the Domino Theory, and it was difficult to say he was wrong. His championing of Kennedy's social programs kept him in good graces with all wings of the Democrat party, and his commitment to the Vietnam conflict endeared him to a good number of Republicans as well.

The resurrected Richard Nixon was no match for Johnson's popularity across the board, and Johnson won the '67 election going away.

Johnson, ever the politician, could see by the '72 election his support among the liberal wing of the Democratic party waning. In a purely political move, he tagged Massachusetts Senator George McGovern as his running mate.

Johnson won a close election that year. Oddly enough, Nelson Rockefeller was considered the more liberal of the two and lost votes because of it. Even the inclusion of conservative California senator Pete McCloskey turned out to be a failed strategy. Johnson carried California by a slim margin putting him over the top.

Two days after his inauguration, Lyndon Baines Johnson passed away, and George McGovern became President of the United States. His first act was to call the troops home from Vietnam.

Chapter 7
Man Lost

By michaelcahill

First light reveals to me a breakfast of wishes, whisked to the horizon on a floundering ship of hope. What I wouldn't give to hear the irritating clanging of an alarm clock, or receive a phone call telling me this has been an elaborate prank.

I often think, now, I could slip off this raft and sink like a rock to my merciful demise. I'm not that kind of brave though, as I continue my courageous attempt to survive.

I am not the Ancient Mariner. The stars tell me nothing, the sun merely mocks me. I'm lost at sea. I have water and there's food swimming around me in abundance. I'm no fisherman either.

I feel neither joy nor dread as a canoe approaches from an island that appeared from nowhere. There are several people on board who I once would've called primitive tribesman. As they approach, I redefine civilization.

Author Notes 150 words exactly, Microsoft Word and Fanstory Editor.

Chapter 8
State of Calif. Vs Mrs. Milquetoast

By michaelcahill

Now, Mrs. Milquetoast, it has been alleged you allow your son to roam the streets unsupervised all day into the evening. Is that correct?

Yes, that is true.

Then at night you call his name, expecting him to return home?

Yes.

You don't find that neglectful?

No.

Why?

It's 1963.

Author Notes Word, Fanstory Editor and hand count--50 words.

Chapter 9
The Great Sun Spirit

By michaelcahill

"Report."

"While the planet does feature a prominent sentient life form, the cost of eradicating the surface infestation is prohibitive. Trade prospects are negligible as the species is nomadic and without industry. We could propose transplant, as the planet is doomed, but their enviroment is entirely liquid."

"Interesting. A liquid environment. I think I would rather enjoy that. I see in your report the infestation shows sentience as well … rehabilitation was a failure?"

"Yes, sadly, they kill each other over the nature of their own rehabilitation … what to name it, who owns it, who is in charge … they're completely hopeless."

Author Notes
Hand count, 100 words.

Chapter 10
Can Someone Loan Me Five Bucks?

By michaelcahill

Prose prompt number 1
What if Superman Were a Nazi?

Write a fictional prose piece of at least 1000 words taking a famous world event and changing the outcome. What is the new outcome? How did the new outcome affect the world?

What if the Allies had LOST World War II? What if Lincoln or Kennedy had survived their assassinations? What if George Wallace had become President? What if Castro was unable to seize power in Cuba? What if the U.S. had won the Vietnam War? Korea? What if England had quelled the American Revolution? Well, the list is endless …

Prose prompt Number 2
The Story Behind the Picture cages2

Look at the provided picture and then write a fictional prose story of at least a thousand words telling the story behind the picture. Be creative, of course, but your work WILL be judged on how you've incorporated the picture into your story.

NOTE: This would be a reoccurring prompt with different pictures offered each time. The sponsor might use a famous painting like the Blue Boy OR simply one that catches the sponsors fancy. Inspired by ekphrastic poetry where a poet writes a poem based on the inspiration derived from a painting or picture.

Prose prompt Number 3
Death is Funny

Write a murder story that is humorous. The story must contain a murder. How you manage to make it funny is up to your twisted imagination. Be as creative or absurd as you wish, but, remember, a murder MUST occur. A minimum of 1000 words, prose fiction only. No stories in poems, non-fiction or anything else that isn't PROSE FICTION.

Poetry Prompt Number One
Animal History

Write a children's poem about an historical event where animals replace the main characters. If it's World War II, Hitler could be a Rat, Churchill a Great Dane, Roosevelt a Turkey etc. Or in the Kennedy/Nixon debates, Kennedy could be a puppy and Nixon a kitten. I'm sure YOUR imagination is more clever. Any form of poetry, any length. Let's limit presentation to one picture. You should list the depicted event in your author's notes, but that is NOT required.

Poetry Prompt Number Two
Shakespeare? HA! I can writeth like he.

Write a rhymed poem in your best attempt to emulate the style of William Shakespeare. DO NOT copy a single line or phrase from his work or you WILL be disqualified. Study his style and then IN YOUR OWN WORDS emulate it. The piece that sounds the most like the Bards will be the one to vote for and the one that should get the win. Presentation is up to you, but obviously, words are the focus.

Chapter 11
Secure Borders

By michaelcahill

"There's going to be hell to pay if you don't release me. I'm a damn I.C.E. agent for Christ's sake!"

"Okay, amigo, there's the border. Buenas tardes."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey! Where ya goin', hombre?"

"Those damn Mexicans kidnapped me."

"Yeah, sure, Paco, back the way ya came ... less ya wanna get shot."

Chapter 12
Eulogy

By michaelcahill

Sure, I love you. That was never the problem. But when were you here to love? Your body sitting in a chair isn't here. You, lying in bed ... indifference isn't a lover. I endured, cajoled, sacrificed, hoped, begged, and humiliated my core to the bitter end. But drunks-- can't live.

Author Notes Not exactly fiction, but generalized for all of us who "get it".

Hand count-50 words.

Chapter 13
Brylcreem, Oh What a Relief It Is

By michaelcahill

... you see, it's like the noodles in the box. You get them wet and they get soft, see?

When they're in the box, they're hard and brittle ... they snap, bad stuff.

But that's why they stay in the box where it's safe ... it's safe in the box, the noodle box.

But to really, really protect them, you take them out of the box, the noodle box and put them in the water, the hot scalding, boiling water and they get soft. Once they're soft you can eat them, and the blood is like sauce ... Franco American!

But she was mean to me and I read in a book she was all bones inside like spaghetti and stuff ... so I put her in the scalding water and ... from the land of sky blue waters ... Hammmmmmssssssssss!

... she's too big for a pot of spaghetti, so you can have her.

Would you care for a bottle of beer? I'll keep the parts in the pot ... that part is spaghetti now, and the rest of it is her, I think ... I'm not sure.

She took away my remote control. That's funny ha ha.

Uh oh, you didn't say, "Simon Sez".

But we're not playing anyway.

Author Notes
200 words, hand counted.

Chapter 14
The Golem Effect

By michaelcahill

The many who claimed to have seen it were admonished by those who claimed it didn't exist. But none could deny the effect.

The Golem would appear in broad daylight and silence the prevaricator, punish the persecutor, and avenge the innocently put upon by the predator, or so those who claimed belief alleged.

One thing the claimants lacked though, was a lick of proof. Nary a photograph, nor a scratchy sound recording of The Golem existed. Those who claimed to have seen or heard it had nothing but claims to substantiate their stories. There existed a great deal more who claimed to have witnessed the same events and saw, not a damn blessed thing. Still, the effect could not easily be explained.

There could be no doubt the world stood mired in disarray. Leaders, both political and financial, disappeared from public view without explanation, or clue. Individuals, as well, gone without a trace, other than the relief at their absence.

2019 found the world in chaos and discord. The ability of an individual to sort through mountains of conflicting data to find any kind of solid factual truth had become impossible. Technology had advanced to a point where it had rendered itself meaningless. Trust ceased to exist. Events of monumental proportions could easily be staged at the work station of any computer savvy individual with the proper equipment and lack of moral fibre. Candidates were plentiful.

The sad thing turned out to be, clever schemes and devious scenarios weren't necessary. Lies became the order of the day, and their repetition the new age hypnotism numbing the world to its own demise.

Once lying is the norm, it no longer registers as an offence.

I'll never forget the first time I saw The Golem. As a die-hard aficionado of hope and truth, and all things naïve and foolish, I maintained vigil in front of the television, watching ... watching the spiders weave asymmetrical, unwieldy webs of nothingness, still fully capable of trapping bugs ... bugs of limited guile. Senator Gil Brawlings of North Carolina was grilling someone whose name escapes me now. This was nothing new. Senator Gil was ahard-nosed, gun-tottin', Christian, family-values man, haranguing the mild-mannered Libtard who was stumping for funds to rectify some tear-inducing social injustice.

Well, Gil was playing make believe with his facts and figures, and shouting down any disputes his prey had to offer,

"Are you seriously expecting us to reach up into the sky and take cash from the clouds like some bleeding heart liberal fairytale? Why, the very notion of funding illiterate illegal immigrants who no doubt sneaked across the border toting bags of heroin to distribute to the youth of our nation ... er, uh ... the youth of ... ah ..." his voice trailed off.

This beautiful woman had appeared behind him and begun to massage his shoulders. Now, I didn't see her approach and, frankly, no one seemed to give it a second thought. It was as if only I even saw her. Gil though, he responded to her massage and the distraction became so compelling he yielded the floor to the gentleman from such and such a state.

I found this all highly amusing. I thought to myself at the time, wouldn't it be great if she'd show up and distract every liar that opened his mouth. It would be a small governing body to be sure and would be fine by me.

It turns out, others saw this lady too, but only a few. A couple Senators mentioned it after the session.

"Well, Gil was a givin' him hell and then that lady, a page I guess, came up behind him and ... well, you saw it," so spoke Senator Cartwell. But then he clammed up upon further questioning. Then, when follow ups came later in the day, Cartwell seemed to forget the matter altogether. "I, uh, don't quite know what I saw, really. Gil was done with his portion and yielded ... there may have been a page nearby, I don't recall ... the floor of the Senate is a hectic place."

A CNN news correspondent spoke of it on air as it occurred, but later became vague about it.

But then, other Senators, as pale as ghosts, spoke of some kind of monster with its claws around Senator Gil's throat about to choke him when he yielded the floor.

Senator Gladys Ortega of New Mexico was visibly shaking, "I don't know how it got in here ... past security and all. I thought it would kill the Senator on the spot. Well ... you saw it. Is the Senator okay? Sam, find out if the Senator is okay." An hour later her story changed completely. "Well, I was referring to Senator Brawling's condition. He looked to be ready to fall over to me. I was just concerned he might be ill. I don't know what you think I meant ... heh, heh, ... always trying to make a story out of nothing."

Senator Gil vanished after that incident. Nary a clue, or inkling, as to his whereabouts ever became known. The media buzz turned out to be short-lived. "Where is Senator Gil?" dominated the media for a couple days, but disappearances came so frequently that individual names ceased to be the focus. Senator Ortega barely got a mention. The disappearing itself became the story.

Talk of beautiful, massaging women or horrific, choking monsters was denied by public figures. Anyone who happened to blurt out seeing Senator Gil accosted by a lady, or a monster, quickly retracted their story, or claimed they never said such a thing in the first place.

Those of us in the private sector though, we stuck to our story. A Dade County reporter called it The Golem Effect, based on some ancient lore he'd been reading. He claimed the disgust of the good people, fed up with a steady diet of lies and self-serving leaders and bosses put out an energy of such great proportions that a force was created to eradicate the evil that tasked everyone so. The Golem took the form of whatever an individual imagined it to appear like. The force though, the force was the force regardless of the perception. People could describe The Golem any way they wished, or claim to have not seen it at all. The Golem Effect could not be dismissed; it was certainly real, whatever it was. That is, people disappeared without a trace. Whether it had to do with a supernatural force as some believed, well, that was a matter up for debate and debated it was.

In my view, it fit rather well with my belief that extra-sensory perception was merely perception we had yet to measure or fully understand. I had no doubt it was a real perception and not hocus-pocus. My own faith was based on the notion that everything living had a connection and communicated on levels we had yet to fully understand. Thus, in my view, collective thought could produce a force of sorts. The Golem didn't fall outside my realm of possibilty anymore than God, in some form, did. Well, whatever thoughts might arise in you regarding such a notion are the thoughts leading to many a heated discussion on the matter at hand.

Discussion had no bearing on events, however. Regardless of our analysis, people disappeared at alarming rates. The Golem ... or The Golem Effect... or some damn thing caused it. What it was, for all intents and purposes, was academic. To me, The Golem suited my perceptions just fine. After all, I saw it and it fit my belief parameters.

The Golem, according to lore, was some supernatural apparition that would whisk evil folk away without a trace. This was laughable to most sensible folk. To some of us, those beginning to question our sensibility, laughter didn't factor in.

As for me, I saw that lady clear as day, and I was to see her repeatedly. Senators began to disappear on a regular basis, as did other public officials. However, private individuals vanished as well. They all seemed to have something in common: they were all liars, or people of poor character, or of a vicious and unfair temperament.

You'd think a general feeling of joy and relief would begin to swell over the world. Just the opposite happened. The world became a quiet place. People lived enshrouded in fear. They dare not speak just in case it may not be the total one hundred percent truth, or The Golem would whisk them away to oblivion.

I arrived at work to find many folks missing, including the company owner, and a great many supervisors. Indeed, the highest-ranking employee, and in charge of the entire company by default, was me ... a rapid promotion from middle management to say the least. I freely admit, fairness and honesty became the standards of operating procedure at Dolan Manufacturing immediately.

However, the need for Dolan Manufacturing products, prefabricated particle board shelving, vanished. The company quickly ceased operations. A great many companies ceased operations, and quickly, too.

The nightly news began to be a video show with little commentary. It was as if the program was "Here is what is happening, draw your own conclusions".

The cessation of hostilities world wide truly astonished us all. World peace happened virtually over night, and we all watched it on television. Any hostile actor vanished. Terrorists driving bomb laden vehicles pulled over and disappeared. Many saw creatures whisk them away, or beautiful women, or ghastly ghouls with fangs dripping blood. Others saw nothing. The drivers were no longer there ... all agreed.

Fear gripped the world. But a different kind of fear slowly vanished. People no longer walked the streets in fear. The fear of accosting anyone removed the fear of being accosted. Homeless folk took up refuge wherever they could find it, supermarkets, department stores, restaurants, guest homes, hotel lobbies, or anywhere sheltering them from the weather. Food was available at any market, as long as only what they needed was taken.

Churches, synagogues, and mosques became havens for the poor, homeless, and destitute. Many of the grandest places of worship in the world overflowed with the very needy folk spoken of in the scriptures of their Holy books.

For many, The Golem Effect, as it grew to be called, came to be the world people dreamed of. For many, many others, it meant an end to the world they had built. Money, power, wealth, and standing in general, lost all meaning under The Golem Effect. What need of money when one's needs were furnished without need for recompense. No one went hungry, or unsheltered. At the same time, no one enjoyed the solitude of endless empty rooms. Empty rooms were put to use by those who needed them. Any who dared protest ... disappeared. The Golem, if there was such a thing, moved swiftly, and left no trace.

The world that had become so small, became large and inaccessible again. If you were in California and curious about the goings on in Australia, you'd have to go there. Good luck finding reliable transport. The airlines had no schedules or any reliable maintenance plans, nor were their ships scheduled with any regularity. Without commerce, travel was a whim, an adventure.

The infrastructure remained functional. Electricity functioned, and fuel supplies had been stockpiled for the short term. There was an end in sight though, and some were concerned.

For most people, the knowledge that existence would no longer be threatened removed worry from the human equation. Luxury was surprisingly forgotten. A walk in the park, or a day at the beach became enjoyable. Hours in front of a computer terminal, well, what purpose would it serve?

Time passed, and supplies did diminish. Acts of violence would bring The Golem, so the alternatives were few. One could produce their own food or simply waste away. Many of those wasting away chose to attack others with food. It was thought to be purposeful, a deliberate act to call on the Golem to take them from the suffering they had to endure. Others found it to be a nod to human nature. In any case, the world's population quickly and steadily reduced.

By 2024, Earth had become a planet of diverse creatures, including one called Humans. Some of Humanity farmed the land and lived in villages. Most were nomadic and consisted of hunters and gatherers. All lived off the land and as part of the land. They caused little trouble and took from the Earth only what they needed to exist. They squabbled among themselves from time to time, but reasonable solutions were the norm. The Golem stood always at the ready to intervene. Humanity would maintain its place and nothing more.

I knew, in my mind, what The Golem looked like. I had seen her more than once. But others would swear, with the same conviction, they had seen The Golem too. I saw a woman of uncommon beauty, a seductress, if you will. The next person saw a fiendish ghoul ... the next an apparition made of mist and dirt, swirling like a tornado. All would agree, we saw The Golem with our own eyes. All would agree, we would not cross it.

In time, The Golem became a tale to tell by campfire light ... a ghost story designed to extract a few frightened giggles from children on a camp out. But the moral of the story was always the same, if you lie, cheat or cause harm to the innocent, The Golem will take you away ... FOREVER ... to who knows where. But WHERE is certainly not a nice place at all!

Let those who think it a legend, or a myth, be the ones to challenge it with greed, or a lie. I can't say where they end up, I can only say, with certainty, they will not be here.

Many say, The Golem came to destroy humanity, and halt progress. I say, The Golem saved humanity from itself.

Author Notes My assigned creature was "The Golem". We were told to modernize and told we could take liberties. LOL

Here's a little background:

In Jewish tradition, the golem is most widely known as an artificial creature created by magic, often to serve its creator. The word "golem" appears only once in the Bible (Psalms139:16). In Hebrew, "golem" stands for "shapeless mass." The Talmud uses the word as "unformed" or "imperfect" and according to Talmudic legend, Adam is called "golem," meaning "body without a soul" (Sanhedrin 38b) for the first 12 hours of his existence. The golem appears in other places in the Talmud as well. One legend says the prophet Jeremiah made a golem However, some mystics believe the creation of a golem has symbolic meaning only, like a spiritual experience following a religious rite.

The Sefer Yezirah ("Book of Creation"), often referred to as a guide to magical usage by some Western European Jews in the Middle Ages, contains instructions on how to make a golem. Several rabbis, in their commentaries on Sefer Yezirah have come up with different understandings of the directions on how to make a golem. Most versions include shaping the golem into a figure resembling a human being and using God's name to bring him to life, since God is the ultimate creator of life..

According to one story, to make a golem come alive, one would shape it out of soil, and then walk or dance around it saying combination of letters from the alphabet and the secret name of God. To "kill" the golem, its creators would walk in the opposite direction saying and making the order of the words backwards.

Other sources say once the golem had been physically made one needed to write the letters aleph, mem, tav, which is emet and means "truth," on the golem's forehead and the golem would come alive. Erase the aleph and you are left with mem and tav, which is met, meaning "death."

Another way to bring a golem to life was to write God's name on parchment and stick it on the golem's arm or in his mouth. One would remove it to stop the golem.

Often in Ashkenazi Hasidic lore, the golem would come to life and serve his creators by doing tasks assigned to him. The most well-known story of the golem is connected to Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, the Maharal of Prague (1513-1609). It was said that he created a golem out of clay to protect the Jewish community from Blood Libel and to help out doing physical labor, since golems are very strong. Another version says it was close to Easter, in the spring of 1580 and a Jew-hating priest was trying to incite the Christians against the Jews. So the golem protected the community during the Easter season. Both versions recall the golem running amok and threatening innocent lives, so Rabbi Loew removed the Divine Name, rendering the golem lifeless. A separate account has the golem going mad and running away. Several sources attribute the story to Rabbi Elijah of Chelm, saying Rabbi Loew, one of the most outstanding Jewish scholars of the sixteenth century who wrote numerous books on Jewish law, philosophy, and morality, would have actually opposed the creation of a golem.

The golem has been a popular figure in the arts in the past few centuries with both Jews and non-Jews. In the early 20th century, several plays, novels, movies, musicals and even a ballet were based on the golem. The most famous works where golems appear are Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Karel Capek's R.U.R. (where the word "robot" comes from), Isaac Bashevis Singer's The Golem and The X-Files. There is also a character named Golem in J.R.R. Tolkien's classic series The Lord of the Rings. Today, there is even a golem museum in the Jewish Quarter of Prague.

Sometimes, someone who is large but intellectually slow is called a golem. Other civilizations, such as the ancient Greeks, have similar concepts.

Sources: Wigoder, Geoffrey , Ed. The New Standard Jewish Encyclopedia; Encyclopedia Judaica; Bridger, David. Ed. The New Jewish Encyclopedia

Chapter 15
My Confession

By michaelcahill

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.

It was a dark and stormy night. It was the kind of dark that has an agenda and a storm born of my regret. Hell, was it even night? I could open my eyes, but they'd long since not recognized light. Day, night, an hour, a sunrise ... what did they matter to a life tossed to the maelstrom of murderous rage? Could any palette of colors conspire to draw a sunset to grace my story?

Rage provides its own cool logic. Vengeance gives prudence to justice. It all makes sense in the frenzy. I'm not sure if it's guilt I feel now or simple fear of recompense. I suppose the realization of wrong doing eats away at me. It steals my joy. Joy was the feeling. Justice, at the time, was the sense I felt. A serving of just deserts, wasn't that my mindset?

Well, I'm sure this is the ramblings of a mad man. That is what you, the many 'yous' who will weigh in with your opinion, will call it.

Dark and stormy nights started for me as a toddler barely able to walk. The thunder growling at me personally, certainly aware of my every misdeed ... then daggers from the almighty and vengeful God seeking me out in the Devil's darkness. My momma had told me all about it.

"Jehovah removes the light from the wicked. He lays waste the sinning spawn of Satan. Oh, foul beast! What have you done, Piss Pot Poo Boy? Have you bespoiled your linens? Flee from the fury of the Lord! Hide from the vengeance of his thunderbolts!"

It may have simply looked ludicrously insane to an adult. To a three-year-old boy, it embodied terror incarnate. The purification wash that followed chilled even more.

"The Mighty One turned Lot's wife to stone for daring to glance at wickedness. He gives me his power, foul boy. Do you feel it? Mind the consequences if you do not repent!"

She'd wash me in the tub, paying undo, soapy attention to my genitals. The physiological response in tandem with her rantings easily convinced me of her powers ... convinced and made me subservient in my abject terror.

Although her abuse escalated, the terror did not. My cognizance of abuse increased my disgust. It magnified my hatred. It fueled my yearning for payback. But fear is attached to the unknown. By the time I was ten-years-old, I knew exactly what she was up to.

I don't buy this nonsense that children think whatever happens to them is normal for they know not the difference. Give me a break. The other kids don't wash their faces incessantly. They don't brush their teeth at every opportunity. Hell, do you remember a kid in school who carried a toothbrush in his back pocket? Was there a kid who shied away from kissing the prettiest girl in the class? I guess there wasn't one like me then. One who feared you might catch on to what went on in my bedroom in the wee hours ... in the dark. One terrified of the truth of the twisted storm that was my mother and what she found pleasure in with her young son.

I could spell out the unthinkable and unspeakable details ... but they're easy to discern. Unthinkable and unspeakable doesn't exist within the human psyche. And my mom could do them, do them and add, "I'll get you, my pretty!" in her best wicked witch voice as she approached my room.

Dad? I'd like to tell you he was in a coma, or deaf and blind. Maybe dear old Dad was a victim of a terrible storm one dark night, back in the day. But, no, Dad was a good Christian man, Brother Latimer, front and center at every altar call, cryin' and yellin' and pourin' his soul out to the Lord. I guess it wore him out for the week.

I weathered the storm as it were. I saw any number of kids living away from home and knew at one point I'd be among them. My sister had left a few years earlier. She had a kid ... she was okay. It turned out, I was too.

Well, I was a bit of a hell-raiser, I suppose. But nothing like mom and certainly nothing like dad. I liked to drink, and I guess I had a little anger stored up. I spent some time in jail, usually from mutual fisticuffs, but being the angrier, as a rule, I did the time.

The accident that took my sister and her husband couldn't be helped. A dark night, a fierce storm, a drunk driver ... an orphaned little girl. Yours truly, Mr. Dependable, drying out in county jail on a ninety-day stay over on some trumped up charge ... aren't they all?

My mom and pop made the mistake of being there. Grams and Gramps could take that little orphaned girl in, and they had the testimonials of the Foursquare Briarwood Baptist Church membership to back them up. I didn't have much credibility, you see, being a brawling, drunken fool and all.

I agonized in jail and felt fear for the first time in my life. I rationalized too. Visions of redemption danced in my head. Glory, glory, hallelujah, mom had surely come to regret her wicked ways and saw this as a chance to do the right thing. This was a second chance for her. Praise God!

When I got out 42 days later, I had to make sure. I took a sawed off shot gun along with me, just in case a coyote snuck up behind me as I spied on the house and the warm family scene I expected to find.

I walked deftly up to the window of my old room, the one where I was sure my little niece was sleeping peacefully. Maybe Mom would tuck her in and tell her a bedtime story.

"I'll get you my pretty!"

``````````````````````````

"I tell ya, Billy, he didn't raise an eyebrow. He handed the gun over like the Sunday newspaper. Not a bead of sweat ... not an expression ... nothing. His mother and father, Billy, dead as hell. Him, like a day at the office".

"Cold blooded, Earl. That little girl standing right next to him, too, drenched in blood. 'The wicked witch is dead', that's all she said. Both of 'em like a day at the ballpark. He's over there now, writing out his confession".

It was a dark and stormy night. It was the kind of dark

Author Notes I couldn't resist. SORRY about the poor editing, but ... well, insert several excuses. LOL

Chapter 16
Homeless

By michaelcahill

I can't say I've done anything to merit the life of pure comfort and joy I've been bequeathed. I admit, I've contributed nothing to my posh existence, but I like to think I've done nothing to warrant this current change of fortune either. To be cast out unceremoniously, without notice, and so discourteously, is beyond the pale, if you ask me. Of course, no one's asked.

Why wouldn't there be the slightest consideration for my feelings, or future? Is the small space I occupy, my corner of existence, of such value to them, and I of such inconsequence?

It is a given I am untrained and ill-equipped for whatever awaits me ... I'm equipped for nothing. Is this physical disregard necessary?

I gasp at my first glimpse of my new surroundings. They are raucous and overly bright, blinding to be candid. I just want to cry ...

"It's a boy!"

Author Notes 150 words, per Microsoft Word and Fanstory editor.

Chapter 17
Taking One for the Country

By michaelcahill

Kelly was adamant. "Dammit, Mr. President, it just isn't a good idea to invite Putin for a weekend of golf at Mar a Lago. Tensions between our countries have never been higher".

"Johnny, Johnny boy, I can handle him. He's just another contractor putting up some dry wall to me. Piece of cake. Anyway, he likes me ... everybody does. Once we get together, play a couple holes and he sees how cool my pad is, he'll see, I'm a neat guy to hang out with. He'll want to be friends with me, everybody does."

"But, but ... Mr. Presi ..."

"Stow it, Keely or Kiley, whatever ... Tell Preebut to book a flight."

"Priebus? You fired Priebus, Mr. President. A long time ago".

"Well, Bannon, whoever".

"You fired ... I'll get right on it, sir".

~~~~~~~~~FOUR DAYS LATER--MAR A LAGO

A shirtless Vladimir Putin rides up to the first tee at the Mar Lago golf course. "Do I have to dismount to play game?"

Trump smiles and answers, "You do, unless you have an extra-long putter".

Putin almost smiles as Trump whispers loudly to Sarah Huckabee, "That was a good one, Spicer".

Trump waggles his club and hits a drive down the fairway about eighty yards. "Wow, about two hundred fifty yards, wouldn't you say, Scamouchitochi?"

Putin glanced at the empty space Trump directed his remark to and teed up his ball. He swung and missed. He glared intently at Trump.

"Nice drive, Vlad. I think you edged me a bit in distance there. Shall we retire to dinner?" The wind seemed to blow gently through Trump's hair. It was a small fan being held by Huckabee.

~~~~~~~BY THE FIREPLACE

"Vlad, this whole Syria business. I've got to tell the American people something to shut them up ...."

Vladimir wasn't talking. He approached Trump, shirtless as always and planted a deep kiss on his lips. "This is how we handle problem in Russia".

Trump blushed a dark shade of burnt sienna, "Oh, Vlad, I told them all, you like me, you really like me".

(To show good taste and spare the faint of heart, I'll leave the details of their lovemaking to the imagination)

~~~~~~~~THE PRESS CONFERENCE

"Mr. President, Mr. President. wasn't it unusual to be playing golf with Putin while there's a crisis between our two nations?"

"There's no crisis. I told you before. Putin likes me. What's so bad about us getting along? Isn't it better that we get along. Anyway, you don't have to worry. We came to several agreements. We'll be working very closely from here on out, very closely ... intimately you might say. Oh, and from here on out, he is to be called: Vlad the Impaler".

The End (pun intended)

Author Notes Just silliness.

Chapter 18
The Superior Male Intellect

By michaelcahill

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

Middle age crisis? Can't afford it? You're killing me, you old crow. All you do is nag.

You don't need a Porsche at your age. Ha! One hundred miles an hour, bitch. Nag that!

Yeah, I feel young again!

CURVE UP AHEAD? Now you're gonna nag me too?

SCREW YOooooooouuuuuu...........

Chapter 19
Abigail Humphrey

By michaelcahill

In her hometown, Abby was known as the five-year-old who called 911 and saved her entire family from carbon monoxide poisoning. She had been outside playing. When she came inside, she found her mom on the kitchen floor and the alarm beeping above the doorway to the hall.

Her mom had told her what that round device was for and what it meant if the alarm was to go off. Even though her mom had told her to RUN out of the house, Abby had a different idea. She took her mom's cell phone off the table and dialed 911. "The poison alarm is beeping and my mom fell down. I have to run now".

The operator told her to take the phone with her and the rest is local lore. The paramedics arrived in time to revive her mom, her father in the family room and her five brothers and sisters in their bedrooms upstairs.

"You've got to be kidding me". Abby dabbed without purpose at her cheek with blush. The light brush of reddish powder had long since been expertly blended in to the light tone Adrian Arpels make-up she favoured. "I wasn't even used to being President of the PTA ... Secretary of Education hasn't settled in at all. Now this."

Considering her new position, this high school girl's bathroom was certainly inelegant as a powder room. The dank gymnasium little better as a staging ground for decisions to be that left her numb in body as well as mind.

Her mind drifted back to her own high school, Hubert H. Humphrey High. Humphrey was big in Minnesota, a state hero to say the least. She felt great pride at being elected student body president in her junior year. It was an honour usually reserved for seniors. Indeed, Sandra Swanson would probably never get over that ginger girl, Abby Glenn, defeating her soundly in her final year as belle of the school.

But it was Sandra who stood idly by while her best friend struggled to stay above water. Lois was asthmatic and the middle of Lake George was a precarious place to have an attack. Abby didn't hesitate. She kept shouting, "Inhaler! Inhaler!" as she steadily kicked to shore with Lois in tow.

Sandra never moved a muscle. "Her purse ... get her inhaler!" She was on shore pumping her chest by the time someone got the message. A few puffs later, Lois began to recover normal breath. Abby had saved her life though she sloughed off any mention of heroics.

Come election time, people remembered. Abby never mentioned it, not then, not at any time, nor would she entertain any praise other than a bear hug from Lois.

Abby campaigned on an anti-bully platform. Sandra sought better food in the cafeteria and cushions for the benches in the senior court.

Abigail Humphrey, wife of Robert Hubert Humphrey, grandson of Hubert, walked out into the converted gymnasium. She took a seat at the head of the table and looked from person to person. All eyes were fixed upon her. Whether she wished it or not, she was the center of attention.

It wouldn't take a mind reader to glean the thoughts of the people seated at the table. Not more than three months ago, she had been a grammar school teacher and president of the PTA in her hometown of Baileyville, Minnesota. The President had been getting heat from all quarters for his appointments of wealthy businessman and hawkish generals to the plumb Cabinet posts of his administration.

He'd picked Abby from a group of finalists for Teacher of the Year. It was practically a lark and he got blistered for it by the conservative press and his own party. But, at the same time, it soothed some liberal wounds and was met with excitement in the education field. In his mind, what difference is one liberal going to make? She won't be able to pass anything anyway, not with the budget I give her.

Well, all that thinking was now academic.

She nodded towards a man in military garb, laden with medals and stripes. "I believe we need to assure the world, we are more than ready to defend our country against all contingencies. What do you suggest?"

A sigh of relief went around the table ...

"Well, Madame President, I believe we should put birds in the air and deploy the Navy in exercises on a global basis. Nothing threatening, Ma'am, just maneuvers to let the world know, we are up and running. We have not been stopped, we are functioning normally and ready to defend ourselves against all contingencies."

President Humphrey looked at the general and nodded. He left the table with phone in hand.

"I'll be addressing the nation momentarily. When I'm done, I want to know all the details of where we're at. Is the White House salvageable? How many senators and representatives are left? My message will be brief. It will be one of confidence and reassurance. When I come back, I want reasons why that is a message of truth."

By the laws of succession, the Secretary of Education was now the President of the United States. The horror of the events leading up to this happenstance did not show in the confident steps of Abigail Humphrey as she approached the bank of microphones to address the nation.

Author Notes
Errrr ... yeah, this is too long and it's too much story and not enough CHARACTER. LOL

But it's SOME character ... I got carried away. :))

Chapter 20
Echoings

By michaelcahill

The door slammed echoing down the long hall. An old lady sits on the edge of her bed lost to thought.

The hall is about one hundred and twenty feet in length. It's wide enough for a drunk to walk down without bouncing off the walls. There are somewhere between fourteen and eighteen doors, split between both sides. I assume each door leads to a room just like my own. I have time to consider such things and such things are about all there is for me to consider in my current situation.

I hear a knocking far down the hall. It must be Harold. He's come to pick up his date for the prom. lucky her. Such a handsome man ...

Oh dear, is that Monica crying? I wish I could reach her. Where is her mommy? She's skinned her knee, I bet.

"Someone! Someone must help her. Monica's skinned her knee and her mommy's nowhere to be found ... Open the door. Can't you hear her cry?"

Nearby, one or two doors down, is a widow given to long bouts of grief. She mourns the loss of her husband, he who did everything for her. He, who left her helpless against the world. How discourteous to leave her in such a state. Kindness dictates that the helpless should go first. He knew that well, but defined kindness in a cruel way.

A ballerina lives at the far end of the hall. I hear her scream in pain as she looks out the window at the seasons changing. How lovely the Spring is when it fills her window with colour. Life calls out to her, and she longs to answer. But the metronome beckons her to dance.

The door is open, again, to that room, the one with the bellicose gal who likes to pontificate. I could swat her behind if I could only get out of this room. On and on and on she goes about the future and its bright galaxy of tomorrows. And oh, the dreams spring forth like a fountain of jewels to replace the drab stars in the sky, all there to pluck like cherries from a tree. Nothing can shut the liar up. I wonder if anyone is listening? I hope not. I wish I could give them a piece of my mind … I truly do.

Maybe today, one of these people will take me for a walk down the long hall. But maybe, there's no hall at all. This room is unfamiliar. I must've had an accident, or took ill ... or took a pill. Jack and Jill went up the hill and ... The door creaks open as the mysterious stranger creeps in. She smiles nervously as though wondering what I might say. She didn't expect to find me here, I'm guessing.

"Who are you? What is this place? Did you put me here?"

"It's Monica, Mom, to visit. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, of course I do. I studied the ballet when I was younger, you know. It was hard on my toes though. I never liked it. Are you a dancer?"

One of thousands of stories, poems and books available online at FanStory.com
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author!