Recent Ficlets

Jonas Part 104: That Freak

2008-08-29T22:39:07Z

“Explain what?” I asked, annoyed with him.

“Why you are still with me, when you CLEARLY like him,” Tom retorted.

“What the heck are you talking about, you crazy person?” I asked, confused and angry.

“I DON ’T EVEN KNOW ANY MORE ! Okay? It’s over,” He said, storming off to the boys’ bathroom.

I was more angry than upset. Why the heck did he think I liked my best friend? Overemotional freak.

I turned back to Nick, who had a sympathetic look on his face.

“He’s mean,” Nick said, “You’ll be okay, you don’t need him.”

I sighed. “I know. Agh, I’ll be over it soon. It’s cool.”

I smiled at him, & he started to laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“I just kinda thought you would be the one to break up with that freak,” he replied, cracking up harder.

“That’s not that funny,” I replied, holding back a laugh of my own.

“Yeah, it is. LIKE HE IS EVER GONNA GET ANOTHER GIRLFRIEND !” Nick almost fell over laughing, and I joined in.

We were trying to catch our breath when the bell rang & all the classes emerged into the halls.

PR Challenge

2008-08-29T22:30:17Z

Public radio. You either love it or you hate it.
I myself am on the affectionate end of the spectrum, but I want to see where you, my fellow ficleteers, stand.
So I issue this challenge: Write a ficlet involving either your love or hate of public radio. Any genre, any POV will be fine, but try to keep it to one ficlet (But if you absolutely can’t, that’s fine. I won’t count it against you.)
Let’s see, deadline… Ah! September 6th. Good a day as any.
Good luck, godspeed, Force be with you, feliz navidad, etc, etc, etc…

Distress Call

2008-08-29T21:41:31Z

Jo had an eye for news, an ear for language, and a nose for trouble.

Specifically, she had a nose for finding it.

She was dial surfing on her HAM radio, as she usually did at night, when something caught her ear. It wasn’t unusual to hear another language on amatur radio. However, this seemed to be different; Jo couldn’t recognise it at all. But from the tone of the speaker she made it out to be a distress call.

Then the signal went dead.

Moments later, a deafaning crash split the air outside the basment window. Jo thundered up the stairs to investigate.
Outside lay a smouldering pile of metal, trailing a ditch of a scuff mark behind it. She made it out to be a sort of pod-like thing. She peered closly at it. No, she thought. It couldn’t be.
Running her hand over the smooth metal, Jo would’ve never guessed what this could lead to.

A Pearl of Wisdom from Orange Oreos

2008-08-29T20:21:00Z

Lil’ Krully felt a twinge.
“What’s up lil’ dude?” G2 asked while Lone Writer and Orange Oreos attempted not to catch her frizz of hair in duct tape.
“I dunno…” he mumbled, looking as puzzled as ever. “I just felt something weird go on in my head.”
“Weird like what?” Lone Writer asked.
“Well, like- I don’t know- like I felt something that I didn’t feel. That don’t make sense!”
“Sure it does,” Orange Oreos said. “I’ve heard about this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” was the general response from the others.
He set down the roll of duct tape, leaned against a beam, and took a deep breath. “I think,” Oreos began, “our friend here is linked with Krulltar.” A murmur rippled through the lair. “Meaning Lil’ Krully can know what Krulltar is doing and feeling at any time.” His face darkened.
“There’s more?” Fantasy asked. Oreos nodded.
“It can also work in the other direction. We have to be very, very careful now.”

In the Himalayas…

Krulltar felt a twinge.
“Crap,” he muttered. “They know.”

Set In Stone

2008-08-29T19:37:40Z

My chest clenched as I realized that I was looking down at a graveyard.

I let myself sit down on the rim of the roof, trying to tear my eyes away from the tombstones.

I looked at my wings; a few of my feathers were already turning gray – that in itself scared me worse than any concept of death.

I drew my precious wings close to my body, cocooning them against my sides.

The boy stopped before a particular gravestone that seemed to have importance to him. I could see tears glistening in the parent’s eyes as he held his child by the hand.

Tentatively, I let myself gently swoop down beside them.

The ground was cool underfoot, but it was laden with images I did not wish to see.

Visions came rushing to me, unbidden – some in this graveyard had died in a war; some peacefully, with people sitting by their bed and holding their hand.

But the one before me held significance.

It was the mother of the child, that I knew well; I understood their grief.

My problem was the name upon the gravestone.

The Writer Succumbs to Sleep

2008-08-29T18:59:42Z

Well, I talked to Emma. For some reason, it felt like ages since I had last confided in her.

Maybe it’s because of everything that’s been happening lately.

It’s like a video on fast forward, and I can’t slow it down – my life, that is.

Besides, tomorrow I’m going to look up this ‘Agent Orange’ that papa was supposedly exposed to.

It didn’t sound good, just judging by the name.

Scooter lodged himself between me and my journal, and I ended up stroking him.

I closed the journal, and put it underneath my pillow, along with my shut pen.

I hate the idea of people looking into something that keeps my most private thoughts secure – well, relatively secure.

I lay back down on the soft bed, trying not to fall asleep, although I knew that with all this fatigue, a dreamless sleep would be more than welcome.

Scooter positioned himself strategically between my arm and right side, so it’s like I have a heater against my right hip.

I love my kitty so much. I don’t know what I’d do without him…

The Writer Finishes Her Talk

2008-08-29T18:54:28Z

I wrinkled my nose at the sentence. “That wasn’t very carefully worded.”

“Nope – but seriously, he’s the complete epitome of scary bosses,” Emma said, quite earnestly. “He’s horrid! Especially if he doesn’t have coffee in the morning.”

”’You’ve been turned into a deliverer?”

Emma grunted, and then imitated a gruff voice. “You! Yeah, you, Milton!”

I laughed again at the mistake of her surname. Emma’s last name is Miller. She might be a good at phrasing, but she can’t stand up to John Milton.

“Get me a triple chocolate mint fudge machiatto with whipped cream, chocolate shavings and cookie sticks! Now!“

“Does that even exist?” I asked into the phone, where I could hear Emma growling to herself about unfair bosses.

“Well, it certainly existed yesterday morning. I did three deliveries before I got the damn thing right,” Emma puffed, and I could hear footsteps.

”’Kay, AIDS , duty – more like dictator – calls! Keep your chin up.”

“Will do. Bye, Ems,” I said, and clicked the phone shut.

The Writer Gets Her Spirits Lifted

2008-08-29T18:47:31Z

“That’s certainly a tall tale,” Emma whistled when I was done.

I sniffed, holding back a few tears. “Y-you could say that.”

“Oh, AIDS , don’t tell me you’re crying over this one feathered dodo!” Emma exclaimed into the phone, and I refused vigorously.

“Of course I’m not!” I said, dabbing fiercely at my eyes.

“Yeah, that’s why I can hear the tissue box all the way to Manhattan Island,” Emma said, her voice sarcastic.

“Very funny, Ems. You know that I’m not good with people,” I sniffed again and drew my knees to my chest.

Emma sighed. “I know you’re not good with people. That’s why Emma the reporter is here to save the day!”

I laughed lightly. “No one can keep in dark spirits around you, Ems. It’s impossible.”

“Well, I don’t see it working on my boss,” Emma grumbled, and some papers rustled over at her end.

This time I laughed out loud. “He’s not very agreeable, is he?”

“No, and he’s got a name that fits: Mr. Condor. I go to briefings every day with a media – carrion eater.”

The Writer Finds A Listener

2008-08-29T18:41:51Z

“Hey, Aidan! My sistah from another mistah!”

I would’ve laughed at her reaction at any other time. When I didn’t her voice came over the phone again.

“Hey, AIDS – is anything wrong?”

“Oh, that beastly nickname,” I grumbled into the receiver – in high school, when she learned my name was Aidan, she abbreviated it to the most familiar name she could think of.

And the first thing she thought of (being Emma) was HIV AIDS . You could say I wasn’t exactly pleased…

“Yeah, I’ve been calling you that for what…ten years, plus? So, girl, spill! I can hear it in your voice,” Emma chattered, and my heart calmed.

“Well…do you remember the guy I told you about?”

“Sure – the sandman? Yeah, I remember.”

“Seriously, Ems, your nicknames are priceless.”

“Continue, AIDS – don’t digress.”

I sighed, and from then on started the rant. Emma, as always, was patient and excited – she only asked a few one word questions here and there.

It felt so good to have someone to listen, once in a while.

Sangsue- part 35

2008-08-29T18:38:14Z

I was sleeping soundly next to when I felt a hand on my mouth. My eyes flew open to see a dark figure above, whispering, “Can I please talk to you?..in private.” The figure looked warily at Isaac. It was Parker, again. He removed his hand and I hissed, “Fine.” I got up and we walked into another room. I crossed my arms across my chest waiting impatiently. Parker soon began speaking quietly, “You know I still love you.”
“Oh yeah, then if you cared so damn much about me then why did you wait ten years to look for me?” I watched his mouth gape. I huffed, “I thought so. You don’t love me. You’re just like all the other Sangsue.”
“Do you really want to know what happened to me? Do you?” Parker hissed as he grabbed my arms and shook me, “As soon as you left I was arrested and shoved into an asylum. And you know what they did to me?” He let go of me and began lifting his shirt up. I gasped at what I saw. His back was covered in terrible scars, “I went through that to still love you. Now I want to see him try.”

The Writer Calls on a Friend

2008-08-29T18:37:09Z

Well…there isn’t much to say.

He kept a lot from me.

It hurt me. As it always does. I feel like I’m back in high school.

I can just see it – there goes “Flame Head”, or “look, it’s the girl with the funny accent.”

But “she wears contacts” just takes the cake in my book.

I mean, I’ve never had any close friends, other than Emma – who was particularly swamped this week – and in the same manner swamped my cellphone with messages of : “I’m sorry!”

She’s the only one who actually stuck with me through thick and thin.

Emma always was there – when mama passed away, when Scooter had his first birthday.

She’s like the sister I’ve never had.

I wonder if she’d spare a moment or two for me.

I mean, the whole ‘girl talk’ scene is set up.

I’m in my bed upstairs, writing in my journal, phone on the nightstand.

Now I know why Raine was glad that Mrs. McCarthy didn’t own a television.

Heck, it explains a lot.

I put my pencil down, and picked up the phone, punching in Emma’s number.

“Hello?”

The Writer Finds Another Day Gone

2008-08-29T18:27:10Z

“Ah, Aidan!”

Seamus had spotted me faster than a bird of prey.

“These parts have been lonely and dark without yer flamin’ hair!”

I laughed at the blatant compliment and gave the burly man and hug.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I said honestly as he returned the hug. I pulled away as he prepared to shout.

“Brigh!” Seamus yelled into the upper regions of the house, making the rafters shake.

“What is it, you big bear of a man?” Mrs. McCarthy came down the steps, her apron in disarray.

“Is it wrong to want to see my wife?” Seamus laughed, and pulled her into an embrace. “What’s for dinner?”

“Why, you inconsiderate brute!” Mrs. McCarthy huffed, her face flushed. “Fifty two years, I’ve been married to you, and you still ask about food – the first thing you talk about since you step inside!”

“I’m just jokin’ around with yer,” Seamus said, still laughing.

“Come…dinner’s ready,” Mrs. McCarthy said, and we all followed eagerly into the kitchen.

I glanced out the window.

Nightfall.

The Writer Feels Hurt

2008-08-29T18:20:50Z

He finally sobered up, and gulped down whatever nervousness he had.

“I’d get down on my knees and beg for her forgiveness.”

“Oh? You think that’d repent for it?” I said, making sure I was giving him the iciest glower I could muster.

“I would tell her about everything that I hid so she would understand what was going on.”

“Well, suppose that she didn’t want to hear it?” I asked coolly, laying back with Scooter in my lap.

“Then I’d just make her listen.”

“Really? I didn’t know you could force someone to listen,” I said sarcastically, stroking Scooter to relieve my tension.

“I’m sure that if the secret keeper had a good reason, the writer would listen.”

My hand slightly twitched at the nickname he’d given me.

Part of me was screaming : ‘Jerk, liar, fiend!’

And the other was saying : ‘Hear him out!’

I didn’t conform to either. I could hear heavy footfalls coming up to the door, and I timed my answer with them.

“See? This is the reason the writer has no friends.”

“Brigh! I’m home!”

The Writer Gets Him in a Corner

2008-08-29T18:07:19Z

I stared at him critically for a moment before I begun.

“Hey, Raine?”

“Hm?”

“What if I told you,” I started, now turning to face him. “What if I told you a secret, long lost, great, great, great, great aunt of mine died – let’s say, by having an accident with a golf ball…”

He looked at me if I was insane.

I continued anyway.

“So, let’s say this old aunt had a big corporation,” I said, my voice now getting a little lower.

“And let’s say that I didn’t want to handle this big corporation.” My voice was sharp now.

“And I ran away,” I said, putting emphasis on the words. “And I was found by a loser who offered her hospitality and brought me into her home despite the fact that I didn’t tell her anything about myself.”

His face paled at this point.

My fists balled, and Scooter rubbed up against my side. “Let’s say she found out about it.”

I glared at him for a moment.

“Suppose she came across it by accident.”

Now our gazes were locked.

“How would you solve the problem?”

The Writer Prepares For An Interrogation of Her Own

2008-08-29T18:01:11Z

I’m pretty sure everyone in Mrs. McCarthy’s house heard me slam the door.

Scooter was jerked from a nice slumber, and Mrs. McCarthy herself popped out of the kitchen.

“Aidan, dear! How’s your father?” she asked, waddling over to me.

“He’s as well as someone in his condition could be,” I said, sighing. I put away my jacket and picked Scooter up.

“That’s relatively good to hear…Seamus has been held up at work – something went wrong and he’ll be late, but he was absolutely ecstatic when I told him you arrived,” Mrs. McCarthy said, smiling.

“Alright,” I nodded, kissing Scooter on the cheek, “it’ll be good to see him.”

“Your friend is in the living room, if you’d like to see him,” Mrs. McCarthy said, and then hustled off.

“Oh, certainly,” I grumbled, and walked into the living room.

“Hey,” Raine greeted. “How did it go?”

“Well enough,” I grated out, and sat myself down on the couch.

Alright, let’s do this my way, for a change.

The sarcastic way.

Flame of Remembrance

2008-08-29T17:56:56Z

Andrew turned to the window and pushed it slightly more open, hoping that there might be some breeze in the still summer night. The candle did not even flicker in the darkness.

He laid down the quill and stared into the lonely flame, allowing his eyes to drift out of focus as he relaxed back into the chair. The soft yellow glow filled his vision and he started to drift into a familiar reverie.

He allowed his mind to wander in the background and found himself remembering the Great Hall when he had first arrived. It had been in the very depths of Winter that he had made the journey across the county to pledge himself to the order, and he had been so keen to finally arrive after ten days in the snow and wind that he had not camped in sight of the abbey to approach in the morning. The brother that had welcomed him as an honoured guest had left him seated in the Great Hall surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of votive candles flickering in the icy drafts that cut across the space while he fetched the Abbot.

The Writer Decides She Hates Secrets

2008-08-29T17:55:21Z

I turned back to papa. “Have they been treating you well?”

I could practically feel a ‘death glare’ on my back, but I ignored it.

“Like royalty,” papa said. I was glad he was in the mood for joking. I knew I wouldn’t be joking.

“Okay…would you like me to stay?” I said, sitting down again, by the bedside.

“Nah, go ahead an go home,” papa waved his hand dismissively, as if he hadn’t been talking about death and destruction a few minutes ago. “I bet Seamus wants to see you.”

“That’s probably true,” I admitted, shouldering my jacket. “I’ll come tomorrow, okay?”

“Alright. I’ll be waiting for you,” papa, said, patting my hand again.

I smiled at him and Dr. Parks before I left the room.

As soon as I stepped outside, I changed my demeanor.

Angry, pissed off Aidan was back, and she wasn’t happy. It was time that I got things straight with Mr. Smarty.

He’s been prancing about and carrying way too many secrets for my liking.

As I walked, I mused over a thought.

I hate secrets.

[Prompt] Shattered

2008-08-29T17:53:14Z

All it took was one word. One word, and everything I knew about myself was shattered, my confidence gone. Just like that, I was everything he had told me I was- stupid, ugly, dirty, poor, racist. The cruelty of his swift attack left me breathless- he came, he conquered, and I broke like my mother’s crystal vase. It was just one word.

Redneck.

All he knew was my name and the color of my skin.

The Writer Meets Another Acquaintance

2008-08-29T17:49:48Z

“Hello…Dr. Parks,” I said, stealing a glance at his nameplate. “My name is Aidan O’Callahan – I arrived only yesterday.”

Dr. Parks looked at me queerly, as if he were trying to remember something. “You don’t, by any chance, live in a big, stone house beside Mrs. McCarthy, do you?”

I was momentarily stunned before I answered the question. “As a matter of fact…I do,” I said, returning the gaze, if a bit hesitantly. “May I ask how you know that?”

“I remember you,” Dr. Parks said, brown eyes gleaming under his glasses. “You’re the one who used to climb the trees all the time.”

I gasped, taken aback at his statement.

“I used to be the boy down the street – “

“Davin Parks,” I murmured, crossing my hands over my chest. “Yeah, I remember you. Thin thing – black hair and brown eyes. You didn’t wear glasses back then, though.”

He laughed. “It’s something I’ve acquired of late.”

“Boy, it’s a really tight – knit community here.”

“You can say that again.”

Well, who would’ve expected that?

Novel Canyons and a Cross Without a Church

2008-08-29T17:44:53Z

The boy turned to his father, face aglow. For a moment I was flattered that my gift had meant so much. But his eyes held a question when they returned to me. I nodded yes.

In a flash the boy grabbed his father by the shirtsleeve and fled. The pair hastily entered a rusty, blue box on wheels which then sped away. Somehow, I felt drawn to them, tied to them somehow. On joyfully aching wings, stale from a century’s rest, I took flight and tracked the rolling contraption of conveyance.

A new city rose before me, and I soared amidst novel canyons placed there since I had begun my slumber. The box weaved in and out amongst other boxes, though most were not as rusty nor tired looking. At last it came to rest before an impressive square building with an austere exterior. Though it bore a cross, I knew this was no church. I did not feel the ancient pull at this place.

They entered, and I perched on the rooftop to stare down into the courtyard. Pain and fear rose up from within the walls to greet my soul.

The Writer Asks A Stupid Question

2008-08-29T17:40:51Z

“Papa, you know she’d be disappointed if you gave up,” I croaked, hoping that I didn’t sound as bad as I felt.

“I know…I’m so glad you’re here,” papa said, smiling. “You don’t know what it means to me.”

“And I’d just leave you? What kind of a daughter would I be? I asked, searching his withered face.

“I don’t know…sometimes…I feel like I haven’t been a good enough father.”

Anger flared in me. “That’s crap and you know it. You’re the best dad anyone could ask for!”

“That’s nice…to hear…” papa said, wheezing.

“Are you feeling alright?” I perked up, and then smiled goofily. “What a wrong question…”

“It’s alright,” papa laughed halfheartedly. “I know what you mean.”

I heard the door behind me creak open, and I turned my head – I saw a doctor, tall and lanky in his white uniform, a small notepad clasped in his hands.

“And you would be?” the doctor asked, eying me as if I was an intruder.

“She’s my daughter, Dr. Parks.”

“I see…nice to meet you.”

I stood from my seat.

The Writer Talks Over a Bedside

2008-08-29T17:35:52Z

“Oh, papa,” I groaned, lowering my forehead to his hand. Now I was crying in earnest. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I was exposed to something known as Agent Orange,” papa continued, and now he coughed. “It’s a dangerous chemical – you don’t want to know what it can do.”

I lifted my head to see papa’s eyes glazed over with memory.

“All those poor children – they didn’t do anything wrong, and yet they suffered the repercussions of a war that had nothing to do with them.”

“Papa, you shouldn’t speak of such things – it’ll only make you more depressed.”

“Aidan, you don’t know what I’ve seen.” Now there were tears streaking his cheeks. “So much torture and illness and poverty. How can we do this to each other?”

“It’s not exactly the most appropriate time for existential questions,” I offered, trying to lighten up the mood.

“You’re so much like her,” papa said, squeezing his eyes shut. “So much…sometimes I have to remind myself she’s not here.”

I clutched his hand tighter, praying.

The Writer Cries Again

2008-08-29T17:26:23Z

Papa looked older than his age – he could have passed for being over eighty, when I knew this wasn’t the fact.

“I missed you,” he rasped, taking my hand and patting it good heartedly. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I know, papa,” I said, wiping away my tears angrily. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come sooner.”

“Now you’ll start saying that the Atlantic isn’t small enough, and that it’s its fault for you arriving only a little later,” my father laughed, sounding much like an evil witch in a Halloween commercial.

“How did this happen, papa? There’s no history of disease in our family,” I managed to say, my voice becoming thick with tears.

“I think…I think that it may have happened in Vietnam,” he said, closing his eyes.

“What? That’s over! It was so many years ago,” I said, blinking incredulously. “It would have shown itself much earlier than now!”

There was silence.

“You didn’t hide anything from me, did you?” I whispered, feeling terrified.

“At first I thought it was nothing…”

The Writer Visits Her Dad

2008-08-29T17:22:09Z

I pretty much scared the nurse at the counter with my horrific glare. Poor thing – she got me in a bad mood.

“Hello,” I said, significantly turning the glare to ‘off’. “I’m Aidan O’Callahan, and my father – Richard O’Callahan is staying at this hospital – he was admitted yesterday.”

The nurse blinked at me, and then seemed to register what I was saying. “O-oh, right…um…let’s see what we have here.”

She typed at a computer that might as well have come from the Stone Age – its speed was according to its age.

“Y-yes, Ms. O’Callahan, he’s in room five – oh – four.”

I nodded in acknowledgment, and then stalked off, leaving behind a very frazzled nurse.

After much searching and staring at a very faded hospital map, I found papa’s room and entered.

The sight was anything but welcoming.

“Papa,” I said softly, closing the door behind me. “I’m here.”

“Aidan! I knew you’d come – you’re like your mother, a true spitfire.”

I smiled, and sat down by papa’s bed, tears springing into my eyes.

The Writer Sees Red

2008-08-29T17:14:51Z

I couldn’t hear what the man was saying, and I cursed lividly.

There were subtitles floating across the screen.

I think my eyeballs practically burnt.

Raine Hirsch, son of the late Peter Hirsch, roaring business tycoon, went missing approximately a week ago.

His whereabouts remain unknown as of yet – call 555 – 6171 if you see him.

To be honest, at that moment, I felt like sinking to my knees and crying my eyes out : I don’t really know why – maybe because he lied?

Well, he didn’t technically lie. He just kept everything secret. What do you call that?

I had a good mind to go back to the house and smack that arrogant idiot senseless, but I did the opposite.

I marched in the direction of the hospital, muttering under my breath, my speech becoming colorful with a crescendo of curses.

“Bum!” I growled, clenching my fist.

“You’ll get it when I come home – you really will!”

Steeling my nerves, I opened the door of the Dunshaughlin Fever hospital and strode inside.

The Writer Delves Deeper

2008-08-29T17:08:07Z

The day went well, until the afternoon – Raine was still pretty pooped, so he stayed at Mrs. McCarthy’s while I walked to the hospital.

It was slightly chilly outside, so I had to take a small windbreaker with me. Scooter had meowed the house down when he saw me leaving, but I wanted to see papa – rain, snow or sleet.

My thoughts could be coined in a tiny phrase : swirling abyss. I didn’t know what to think.

Everything was just all too confusing.

The missing person sign, papa getting leukemia, Mrs. McCarthy still being there…well, the last one I was kind of expecting – Mrs. McCarthy’s the kind of person who plants her roots firmly, if you get my drift.

I walked past an electronics store with a large plasma TV turned to the news channel; the news anchor was droning behind the thick glass.

At first, I simply walked past, and then, like in the comics, I did a huge double take.

I practically pressed my face to the glass.

A picture of Raine was on the news channel!

Answers that create questions

2008-08-29T16:55:06Z

She had stared at the number, written in haste when she woke up, for almost an hour when it occurred to her what he was trying to convey.

“It’s a partial phone number.” She thought out loud. “But why didn’t he finish it? And did “he” even really write it or it this just a part of the dream?”

She paced around the room like a feral cat trapped for the first time. She had to get some answers.

On her computer, she entered what she had and added random numbers to complete the phone number, trying to find a name. Some were obviously not what she wanted and she wrote down the possibilities. After a few hours, she had a list of 12 numbers that she thought might be possibilities.

“What would I say?” She laughed to herself. The moment of picking up the phone and calling brought her back to just how crazy this all sounded.

She picked up the phone, and dialed, but not any of the numbers on her list. She needed answers and she was only getting more questions.

“I need your help, I have a story to tell you.”

The town

2008-08-29T16:50:53Z

I’m not sure why I am traveling through this town. I’m not sure why I didn’t take the backroads, like I usually do, instead of the state highway. I guess I like to freak myself out.

It’s rural. It’s ugly. This town has a few strip malls, filled with chain restaurants, and chain stores. There are exactly two gas stations, with a couple of stop signs and lights and a few fat, male, white cops slowly trailing behind the occasional bagged-pantsed, mohawked teen thrown in for good measure.

Oh, and that building…that gray bricked building which has had many, many stores in it, one or two locally owned, most not. The store turnover is so high there, it’s almost like a curse. I look at it and shudder. I don’t like to look at it, and I’m not sure why I just did. I speed past it as quickly as legally allowed, not wanting to get in a speed trap, not wanting to hear sirens.

High in the Himalayas 2

2008-08-29T16:31:55Z

“You mean Kevin Lawver’s Pen is real?” JustAnotherWriter asked.

“As real as the stains in Might Joe’s underwear” Krulltar said.

“Ugh! Gross.” Band Baby wrinkled her face.

“So how do you know they have it?” Stovo asked.

“If my krully-ganger dies, he will rise again out of the ashes, like the Phoenix. I left him behind to be found. You see, when I created him, he was imbued with my essence, so I have a mental bond with him. I know what he is doing at all times, and he’s with LW’s Posse.”

“Does that mental bond go both ways?”

“Yes, and let’s hope they don’t figure it out.”

“So how is using the pen a bad thing. We can bring Bart and the others back.”

“Because it’s an Artifact of Creation and it alters the essence of the universe. Every time something is created, something is destroyed. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That’s basic Science. Wil Wheaton accidentally used it to write a screenplay, and now St. Louis and the rest of the Midwest is a nuclear desert.”

High in the Himalayas

2008-08-29T15:51:02Z

“How much further is it, krull-turd?!?” Stovohobo’s words battled the bitterly cold winter wind that swept across the side of the mountain.

“1 minute closer than when you asked before” Krulltar attached the rope to the piton.

Band Baby pushed back the hood of her parka and stared at the awe inspiring site of the K2 summit off in the distance.

“I’ve got the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before.” she said.

“You have already. 244 times today.” Krulltar inched his way across the icy crag.

“244 times? Are you K-tarded?” Band Baby screamed at Krulltar.

“I just got a weird feeling of deja vu” Stovohobo interrupted Band Baby. “but last time he said 243 times, and you called him k-sane.”

“Deja vu is just the universe’s hiccups” Krulltar explained. “Too many, too fast and the universe will implode.”

“So what’s causing it” asked MaskbytheMoon.

Krulltar paused for a second in thought before answering. “My Krully-ganger found Kevin Lawver’s Pen, and they are bringing ficleters back.”