30 Days, 30 Stories: Walking Cemetery

Walking Cemetery 

by Melissa Stockham

Gerald Kingsly looked up at the theater before walking in. It was nestled between two other businesses in the small downtown area, built when things were just one continuous building that spread down the streets.

At the moment there was a production of Harvey going on, proudly announced on the marquee. Coming next was No No Nanette.

The owners wanted the ghost gone before “No No Nanette” opened.

He opened the door and walked into the cozy lobby, complete with red plush carpet and ornate wallpaper. They’d kept the old sconces on the walls, and the big chandelier on the ceiling, giving it a nice old fashioned feel. One could pretend they were once part of the rich and elite who could afford to go to the show.

One of the owners poked her head out of the office door and smiled at him when she saw him. “Mr. Kingsly?”

He walked to her and offered her his hand, his big beefy grip swallowed her small hand and he shook it carefully but firmly. “Jerry, please.”

“I’m Anne. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assured. And he wouldn’t. It was part of the family job, or curse. When there was a ghost, you had to go. End of story. Even if he hadn’t wanted the job, in a few days his brain would be beating him into submission and he’d be there anyway. At least this was a paying customer. 

“What’s been going on?”

She smiled, “All theaters are haunted, just ask anybody who spends any time in one. Missing keys, props, things being mislaid, just little reminders that there’s a ghost about...it’s just a part of the atmosphere.” Her face fell, “But this is worse. People have started getting hurt.”

“I see. What happened?”

“Things falling on actor’s heads, small things at first like plaster from the walls, but then a light came down and injured the two actors on stage, both needed stitches. I would have just chalked it up to being an old theater with all its quirks, except for the laughter.” She paled a little.

Jerry brought her back to him, “Male or female laughter?”

Anne blinked, “Female.”

“Any smells?” He asked.

“Yes, something awful, burning and acrid. It drove us out of rehearsal a time or two.”

He nodded, “So a mean female ghost who laughs at misfortune and smells awful.”

She hugged herself, “That about sums it up.”

“Can you show me around?”

Anne led him from the lobby to the auditorium. The seats were covered in old gold fabric and in good condition. Lights lit the floor as they walked down the aisle towards the stage.

“You've taken good care of the place.” He commented, and saw Anne smile with pleasure.

“I love it here. It hardly pays the bills, but it keeps itself running.” She looked up at the stage. It was set for Harvey, with a big portrait of a man sitting with a giant bunny prominently in the middle.

“So when did the trouble start?”

She thought for a moment, then said slowly, “Just a month or so. When we started rehearsal for our next show.”

***

Jerry opened the door to his two bedroom apartment and tossed his keys on the table. It was dim, dark, and musty. He walked to the fridge and pulled out a beer, taking a long swig of it. Alone again.

He turned the television on for some background noise and started a TV dinner in the microwave. He booted up his laptop and took another sip of beer. He started a search of the theater when his Skype pinged him.

Hi daddy.

His heart melted a little and he smiled.

Hi sweetheart. What are you up to?

Trouble. I did something bad.

He sighed, Did it involve your mother?

Yes, today's her birthday. I sent her flowers from you.

He cringed. I'm sure she loved that.

She was mad. She cussed you out something fierce. Then threw them against the wall.

She has a temper. It's something I like about her. You need to stop getting involved between me and your mother. We had a good run, we had you, and sometimes things happen to make people grow apart. It's not your fault, sweetheart.

There was silence from her then a cheery, Night daddy! I love you!

“I love you too, Lisa.” he said aloud.

***

He sat down in his usual seat in the front row and looked up at the stage. He settled in and spoke loudly but kindly, “Abigail. I know who you are now. Abigail Streets, born in 1902, and disappeared 1928.”

She appeared in the middle of the stage, looking less of a mess than usual. Her face had stopped shifting between madwoman, scorched skeleton and pretty lady. She had thankfully settled on the latter.

“You found me.” She said softly, “I was forgotten.”

“I know that’s how you feel.” He said, and pulled out the old newspapers, “Ten thousand dollars for 

your return...hundreds search for missing actress...James Sinclair vows to never stop looking for her...”  

He stood and placed them on the edge of the stage.

She walked towards them and sat down, her ghostly fingers swiped through them. “James was always so kind to me.”

“He was your lover?”

She smiled, “No, James loved only the theater. But we were his children, and he treated us like such. 

Sometimes an overbearing father, and a strict one, but we all knew he loved us as much as he did this place.” She sighed.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked. He backed away and returned to his chair, he’d found most ghosts were long winded when it came to regaling their demise.

“Arturo Gutierez killed me.” She said softly.

Jerry frowned, “I never found anything about him.”

“You wouldn’t. He was a shy timid little mouse of a man, who stayed out of everyone’s way and worked behind the scenes to make everything run flawlessly. He had six children...and was a hard worker. He could fix anything, make anything. He was an artist in his own right.

“I had stayed late one night to practice my singing number for our next production. I hadn’t even changed out of my costume from Jane Eyre...” she fluttered the long arms of her Bertha Mason nightgown.

“Arturo was here, working up on the catwalk with the lights. A bulb had gone out during that night’s performance. He was up there, working away while I sang my little heart out. I’m not sure what happened next, I think that a piece of the catwalk was just old and rusty. He leaned against the railing and it came off. The long heavy bar came down on my head and snapped my neck in two. I was dead before I hit the ground.

“Arturo panicked. I can’t say I blame him too much...he had a family to feed and didn’t speak much English. He came down and tried to revive me, frantically speaking in English and Italian. He slapped my face a few times, and I remember him crying. But a dead actress found with a immigrant didn’t look good, no matter what had really happened.

“He towed my body downstairs to the giant coal furnace. It was already burning hot. James made a huge fire at night before we left to try and keep the building warm. Arturo stuffed me inside. It smelled awful. I remember watching him in horror as he broke my bones to make me fit.

“He didn’t leave until I was well charred. He moved the bones around to the back of the furnace, and took it upon himself to be there first thing every morning to start the fires. He did it every day until the theater got electricity, and the furnace was retired.”

Jerry was quiet for a moment, watching her. “You thought you’d been forgotten.”

She nodded, “Everyone moved on. You know the old adage...’The show must go on!’ I didn’t know, about all this.” She pointed down to the newspapers. “I just saw what went on here. Getting madder and angrier every year. Then when that little girl was singing my song, the one that I’d been working on so hard to get right when I’d died. I went a little crazy.”

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Go, go where?”

“You can’t stay here. It’s not good for you.”

“Where else is there?” She threw her arms out to encompass the theater, “This is all I’ve ever known.”

“Don’t you have family? Friends? I’m sure they are missing you.”

“Then why didn’t they come and get me here.” Her face morphed into that of the madwoman.

“Because you were lost.” He said simply, coming to his feet. “There’s a reason we’ve been burying our dead and putting them in a well marked place for thousands of years. It’s not just so the living can pay their respects. It is so the dead can find each other as well.”

He walked towards the basement, and made his way down the rickety stairs.

She appeared in front of him, and made him jump little when he passed through her freezing form.

“Sorry.” she said, “But what are you doing?”

“Taking care of you.”

He walked to the old furnace and stared at it a moment, trying to figure out the best way to open it.

“You want my body!” She screamed.

“Just a piece. For a burial. Trust me on this.”

“You are a sick man.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He wrestled the door open and looked in at the ashes and dust. He looked down at his good suit and sighed before crawling inside.

He didn’t fit very well, his large barrel chest made it very hard to search very far inside. His fingers scraped through the piles of debris, not finding anything solid.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Get out of there.” She demanded.

He pulled out, coughing and brushing off his clothes. He heard rustling in the furnace and then a small blackened bone fell to the ground at his feet.

“I think it’s my finger,” she said.

He chuckled, “Thank you.” He bent down and picked it up, taking great care to wrap it in a clean white handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“What happens next?” she asked.

“I find you a nice spot to rest in.”

He shut up the furnace and walked up the stairs to the lobby. He poked his head into the open office 

door and knocked on the doorjamb. “All done.”

Anne looked up from her desk and smiled, “Really, that’s it? No spells or incantations or beating things with a hickory switch?”

“Uh, no. Nothing so dramatic. You’ll find the dead are just like us, and most listen to reason.” Most. 

She smiled and stood, handing him an envelope. “Your fee, I expect a refund if it didn’t help.”

“If it didn’t help, then you have another ghost, and I’ll come back for free,” he promised, pocketing his money.

She smiled, “Yes, well, what would a theater be without a ghost? Thank you, again.”

He walked towards the door and held it open, looking at Abigail who had followed him up, “Let’s go, Abigail.” He held out his hand to her. 

She walked towards him hesitantly, and reached out her ghostly hand. It slid into his and he felt the cold chill of her touch, which turned to warmth as she hitched a ride in his body.

“So are you, possessed now?” she asked as they walked down the street to his car.

“I guess so. It’s a short term arrangement, so don’t get comfortable.”

“You’re too big and bulky to be comfortable in,” she muttered.

She wondered in amazement about the car and it’s many luxuries, having him flip through the radio several times and alternate between the heater and the air conditioner.

Once they reached the cemetery, she was quiet.

“It’s pretty here,” she said at last as they exited the car and walked to the trunk. Resting inside was a wooden marker with her name that he’d carved in with a wood burner. “It’s not much. I’ll get you a proper stone one, but this will work in the meantime.” He pulled it out, along with a shovel.

“One with flowers and comedy tragedy masks on it?” she asked.

He grinned, “Sure.”

They walked onto the land and she picked out her own plot, on the side of a hill facing the river below.

He dug a hole and fitted the marker in it, burying it so that it was sturdy and solid.

He dug another hole next to it, about three feet deep, and carefully placed the handkerchief in it. He covered it back up with earth and knelt over the place. He felt her leave his body and stand next to him, 

“Now what?”

“Now you watch.”

He hated and loved this part of the job. He loved the feelings he got when they were released, and the joy that surrounded the entire area. He hated the fact that he had to cry to do it. Big manly men just don’t cry.

But tears came easily for her, for the life that was lost, and the sorrow she had felt when she thought she’d been forgotten. They fell gently onto the ground where she rested. He heard her gasp behind him, 

“Oh. Look at all the people...”

He never looked. It just felt wrong to intrude on such a private and intimate moment. He’d have his own someday. For now, he’d just bask in their presence.

He went to the cemetery the day they installed the headstone for Abigail. He was sure it was what she wanted, with a big comedy/tragedy on the left upper side. Her name was written in big letters. Just like a marquee, and she was the star.

His cell phone rang and he answered without looking.

“Hi Daddy.” His heart leaped a little as a smile came to his face.

“Hey baby.”

“Just saw you paying your respects. New client?”

“Just got her headstone done.” He started walking away from Abigail's marker and headed towards another.

“I'll bet it's awesome. Maybe you should call Mom today? She actually picked up the flowers and put them in a new vase.”

“You don't need to worry about your Mom and I,” he told her for the millionth time.

“But I do, Daddy, I worry about it a lot.”

“How about we take a walk?” He asked, “Just you and me and we'll talk about it.”

She laughed, “No, I don't think so, Daddy. I'm not ready yet.”

He knelt down by the marker with the bold letters 'Lisa Kingsly' at the top, followed by the dates that declared her to be 17 when she died.

“I'm going to find you, sweetheart.” He whispered into the phone. “You need to move on.”

There was silence, then, “Not until you and Mom are ok.” He heard an audible click, and the phone went dead.

30 Days, 30 Stories: Operation: Middle School Madness

Operation: Middle School Madness

By Melva Gifford

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother

Perfect words from an old King

Perfect for the game WASP

Perfect for a spy

Perfect until the tables are turned

Perfect until I meet a real spy.

Thomas fidgeted in his seat. All his classmates had their heads bowed in concentration. The room was as silent as a recon mission. They were taking a stupid test. Why do I have to even be here? He wondered. His WASP team video game was waiting for him, each night after school and weekends. Royce has the upgrade. He says I can come over and play tonight. He sighed. WASP is the best espionage game ever.


Thomas looked up at the clock. Thank goodness history is the last subject of the day.

Sixth grade is such a bore. He drummed his pencil against the edge of his desk. Another week until Christmas vacation… He probably should be glad the stupid test was today, on a Friday, instead of Monday. That way it would over with and he’d have the whole weekend to enjoy. He shifted in his seat. In his mind’s eye he envisioned a better way to enter a classroom after the lunch hour. For real, he had simply entered and sat in his assigned seat.

Now he imagined himself rushing into the room after lunch. With a toss of his hand he threw three long chop stick looking scramblers again the wall. They stuck there. Suddenly the classroom was pitched into blackness. The magnetic stems had blown the fuses throughout several rooms and hall. Screams would have filled the void had he not also thrown some skitters at various corners of the room. Fellow students passed out from the sleeping gas billowing out from the small disks. He remained unaffected. His nose filters were top of the line. Now to complete the mission, he thought. He had to steal the general’s favored board eraser.

He blinked only to face the reality of a room filled with students taking a test. He looked down at the paper pressed against the desk by his arm. Why does it have to always be pretend? He wondered. At least military history or military tactics would be more interesting rather than-

8. The ancient civilization of Fertile Crescent is responsible for many of the advancements we have today. Place in a proper timeline the date when that civilization first appeared.
( ) Assyrian ( )Babylonian ( )Phoenician ( )Sumerian
(A)3200 BC (B)1728 BC (C)1100BC (D) 1088 BC

His mind began wandering again. Lunch with Royce only made it harder to concentrate.

His friend had leaned over his lunch plate nearly smashing his peas. “They upgraded WASPS’ arsenal,” he said. “The skitters now cause 24 hour amnesia and they now have poopers.”

Thomas grinned; eyes alight with the new name. ‘Poopers?”

Royce nodded. “That’s not their real name but that’s what players are calling them.” He returned the grin. “It’s from something for real. Police usually uses a bunch of flashing lights to use against riots. The game made improvements. It’s a device that can be thrown into a room full of enemy soldiers that flashes a bunch of lights and makes all kinds of sounds. It scrambles everyone’s senses. It’s different than Tasers since it affect a bunch of people all at once. It gets mob people so confused; it makes em mess in their pants.

“Poopers.”

Royce nodded. They had a great lunchtime conversation. After that, the rest of the school day just dragged.

Wish the bell would ring already. Tap. Tap. Tap. The ticking clock was taking too long for the test. The end of period would mean the end of the school day.

WASP was the only battle computer game that Thomas’ parents would let him play. WASP (War Against Superior Powers) was a game about a special US Delta Seal team that could infiltrate any enemy base to obtain objects or people. The thing was they didn’t kill anyone. They used stems, (weapons looking like magnetic chopsticks that held an electrical charge), skitters (gas disks) knets (snake like devices that could trip the enemy up or wind them up in a net), drones (robotic machines) and now apparently poopers. WASP used anything that could incapacitate an enemy so the team could achieve their mission without the loss of life.


I should be out, rescuing POWs rather than taking a silly test.

The WASP team was feared by all because of their skill and reputation. His dad said it reminded him of the A team… whoever they were.


I want to be a Delta Ops soldier when I grow up, he told himself. He wished he could reread the book he found in the library: Journal of a Special Ops Soldier by a guy named John Doe. The name sounded familiar. Had he seen him on TV? It told all about what was required to be in Special Ops and how almost all the applicants failed the tests. It also talked about the sense of family and team work created by working with skilled fellow soldiers on the long term.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The impact of the pencil against the edge of his desk provided a great rhythm, like soldiers marching in perfect synergy. The tick of the clock drew him out of his thoughts and with a start Thomas jerked back as he saw his teacher nearly looming over him. Her hands were fisted on wide hips and she glared at him as he had continued to tap his pencil
unconsciously against his desk.

He dropped his pencil and it clattered to the floor. The class erupted into laughter.

Everyone had been watching Mrs. Senath while she waited for Thomas to notice her.

She leaned down until her gaze was nearly level to his. “Welcome back to reality, Thomas.”

He’d gotten caught at daydreaming again. He had been known to do that before. He should be paying attention. With a sigh, and a face so red he could have started a fire, Thomas returned back to his test.

8. The ancient civilization of Fertile Crescent.

************************

Thomas jumped from the school bus, feet slamming onto the hard concrete. Ignoring the cold wind, he stepped away from the bus, quickly falling into step with his best friend Royce.

Rain drizzled around them and Thomas pulled the strap of his backpack up his shoulder, intent on their favorite topic. The two of them being avid players of the video game WASP was a great reason to be best friends.

It’s great to have something so fun to do, Thomas thought.

“They’ve made a bunch of improvements,” Royce said waving a gaming box between them

“Is it as good as it looked in the ads?” Thomas asked. With a jerk of his head, he flipped his shoulder length hair back from his face.

His friend got so excited, he was almost sprinting. Thomas increased his own pace to keep up. I should trip him up, Thomas thought. Now would be a good time to tease his friend by walking close behind him and catching the back of Royce’s shoe with toe of his shoe. He had done that before, forcing his friend to stop to put his shoe back on. But now wasn’t the time for diversions.

“Better than what we saw. It the best espionage game I’ve played so far. I keep getting killed just trying to get into the compound on the first level. But you were right, infiltrating behind enemy lines is a lot more fun than just shooting tanks and stuff.”

“Makes us use our noggins.” Thomas said.

Royce stared at him. “Our what?”

Thomas grinned. “Noggins… our brains.” Noggins was one of his mother’s favorite words.

“Right.” His friend leaned close, shoving his glasses up his thin nose. “I finally got inside the enemy post. There are more Bobbie-traps in a hall that look all innocent like.”

“Booby maps?”

“No, booby tr—“ Royce stopped to grin, realizing he had just been had. It wasn’t the first
time Thomas has tricked his friend up with a play of words.

As they continued down the walk, Thomas added. “I could check the Internet for a cheat sheet.”

“If they even have one posted yet,” Royce countered. He added, “There’s something extra. After we’ve each buy our own copy, we will have access code. That’ll give us a chance to build our own unit. and team up with others online.”

Thomas stopped. “For real?” He led them on. “That would be cool.” He sighed. “It would be cool for you and me to be unit members.” To cover each other’s backs, he thought. One of the most exciting things in a game or movie was to see a group of men, like a trained Green Beret or Delta team, sneaking through the defenses of a military post. It was one of the reasons he had wanted to read Doe’s Journal book so much.

He liked how a simple and silent hand signal from the commander giving commands to his men to advance them in the mission; thus displaying skill, team work and courage. Someday it’ll be me.

“We’ll have to see,” Royce said shrugging his shoulders. “Your dad’s already blowing a gasket with how much you play now with just the standalone version. I don’t see why. With this game—we don’t get kill anybody. All we can do is just knock them out, even though they’d kill us quick enough if we mess up. Do you think—“

Thomas shook his head. That was the problem. His dad and mom were getting to hate his military games more and more. He had mowed their lawn all summer and fall without complaining. You’d think Dad would appreciate…

“I don’t know if he’ll let me play on the web,” Thomas admitted. “We could hit the library PCs but if we got caught playing games instead of—“

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Royce countered.

They stopped walking and stood before a red brick home. Royce lived at the very end of the block. His friend studied him. “Remember when I posted our scores on the WASP web site from our playing the earlier version of the game?”

“Yeah.”

“A bunch of those guys didn’t believe your score? Once we’re on line, they’ll see how good you really are.”

Thomas grinned.

Royce looked at him, then down at his package. “They’ve done a bunch of harder things in this version… Mom’s making us go to visit Grandma this weekend…” He stared at Thomas for a long moment. “We can’t brainstorm about possible traps, until you know what’s going on.”

He stretched out the hand holding the game. “Want to borrow it?”

“You bet!” Thomas grabbed the game, looking at the glossy packaging. He’d wanted to mow neighbor’s lawns and save his money, just to be able to buy the latest version of WASP. But no one was interested. Everyone said he was too young or inexperienced. Neither his dad nor his mom was willing to lend him any money. His friend always seemed able to get it before him. “Thanks,” he said. "I'll see what tricks I can learn and then tell you."

“You are still the best player between the two of us. See you Monday.” Royce said and they waved good bye. His friend’s final challenge remained unstated.

Let’s see what you can do.

30 Days, 30 Stories: The Sound of Flowers to a Boy

The Sound of Flowers to a Boy
By Emily Simmons

Kyle strutted out of his house, knowing full well that the all the girls’ eyes were on him. His swagger was feigned; his stomach churned at the thought of talking to Talia in front of all

her friends. The girls clustered on the front porch of the house next door were gossiping and giggling the way 13-year-olds do. They ignored him so pointedly that he knew it was his name

they were whispering behind cupped hands. No one ignored him more than Talia, his next-door neighbor.

Kyle ducked into his garage and fired up the riding lawn mower his dad bought at a yard sale. The Snapper’s 12 horsepower motor was loud even without the blades engaged, but he refused to be seen wearing the protective earmuffs his dad wore. Today he was driving a lawn mower, but in only eight short months he’d have his learner’s permit and would be taking the old man’s Corolla out for a spin. Imagining that the Snapper was really a Lamborghini, he expertly maneuvered the mower out of the garage and over the shared side yard between the two houses. The giggling and ignoring stopped as he pulled the lawn mower in front of the porch where the flock of girls was roosting. Don’t say something stupid, he thought. Please, voice, don’t crack. “Hey Talia—does your dad want me to mow the side yard for him this week?”

Talia blushed. “Um, I don’t know. Do you want me to ask him?”

If she went inside to ask his dad, he’d be stuck in the front yard on a lawn mower with four teenage girls staring at him. No way, Jose. “That’s all right. I’ll just do it, it’s no big deal.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“No problem.” He drove away and engaged the blades, the roar of the mower silencing the girls’ chatter. They were probably dissecting every word he said to determine if he was coolor not. Whatever, he thought.

But as he drove back and forth through the side yard, he saw Talia watching him.

Up his side of the yard, he caught her eye.

Down her side of the yard, she smiled.

Up his side, he smiled back.

Down her side, he saw her mouth move—she was saying something to him.

Up his side, he said back, “What? I can’t hear you!” He swung the mower wide and drove up close to the porch so he could decipher her words. The smooth buzz of the blades became a grinding chunk-chunk-chunk sound and the mower bucked, nearly throwing him off. He looked at Talia’s horrified face and cut the motor.

“What was that?” he asked, panic making his voice jump an octave.

She pointed. “I was trying to say, watch out for the hydrangeas.” The bush was destroyed beyond recognition. All that remained was a rough stump poking out of the ground. Purple petals fanned on the cut grass like confetti, but this was no celebration. The Greek chorus of gigglers was mercifully silent, but he could see one girl sneaking her cell phone out to take a picture of the carnage. Not Facebook, he thought. I will never live this down if the guys see it. Kyle looked at Talia, then at the flowers.

“Tell your dad I’ll, uh, talk to him tonight.” He cranked the motor and once again the roar of the engine covered the gales of laughter coming from the porch.

Kyle turned the wheel but instead of heading back to the garage, he aimed his Snapper down the street and took off. He didn’t know how far he could get on a two-gallon tank, but he vowed to drive until the laughter in his head was as silent as a field of shredded flowers.

-----------------------

Follow Emily's blog at  parentingfrontline.blogspot.com

Read Emily's story from last year HERE. 

30 Days, 30 Stories: Foil-Wrapped Chocolates and Writing

Foil-Wrapped Chocolates and Writing

by Rebecca Rice Birkin

I am a chocolate addict. My past candy-seeking behaviors include a month-long obsession over a particular kind of chocolate. Not a brand, but anything covered in sleek, shiny foil. Whether an egg or a bunny, there’s just something soothing about the quiet crackle, the smooth feel, of unwrapping each piece.

What does chocolate have to do with writing? Not much. One is sweet, easy, and something I may later regret. The other is rarely easy. The similarity is that I crave both.

Despite my compulsion to create stories, I occasionally want to bang my head against my computer screen, questioning why I continue.

In the midst of my last writing-crisis, I attended the Writing and Illustrating for Young Reader’s Conference. There, Sharlee Glenn encouraged us to write for the joy of it, quoting Madeline L’Engle: “I had to write. I had no choice in the matter. It was not up to me to say I would stop, because I could not.” I can relate.

Like L’Engle, I long to write, to create characters whose concrete needs resonate with real people. Similar to the satisfaction found in unwrapping bright foil-covered chocolates, I suspect writing is more meaningful because it’s isn’t easy.

Another WIFYR instructor, Martine Leavitt, taught us to own writing as our divine gift. She said that since God gave her the writing talent and drive, she was going to do something with that. Her words, along with Sharlee Glenn’s, encourage me to follow my college creative writing teacher’s advice to “keep at this business.”

But how? I have a chronically messy home, a child with a developmental disability, and lots of other excuses. I dream of a beach cottage, Gifts from the Sea style, and long blocks of uninterrupted writing time. It rarely happens. Martine’s answer? “It’s hard to write, and that never changes.” She suggested, “Do it every day, even for 10 minutes. Get up earlier. Do it first thing. Put aside your other hobbies for now. Writing wants your whole life. Take your work with you everywhere.”

I try to do this. When I can, I take my notebook computer with me. Other times, I’ve been caught texting plot notes to my own phone. Most of all, I’m giving myself permission to write. Writing is the one addiction I plan to encourage.



Rebecca Rice Birkin, JD, craves not only chocolate, writing, and beach time, but also books. She’s discovered housework is almost bearable if done while listening to a book on CD. She’s written for The New Era, Segullah and Meridian Magazines, and has won several writing awards.

30 Days, 30 Stories: Castles, Oatmeal, & Strawberry Jam

Chapter One

Castles, Oatmeal, & Strawberry Jam©

by Debi St. Jeor

Katie Sue stomped into the living room. She scowled as she searched behind the couch and under her dad’s chair. She grumbled as she lifted the cushions and shook out the blanket.

“Someone stole my shoes!” she yelled at nobody in particular.

“Don’t be silly,” her mother hollered back from down the hall. “No one is going to take your shoes.”

Katie Sue didn’t wake up grumpy, but she was sure grumpy now. And all because of the jam.

Katie’s real name was Katrina but everyone called her Katie Sue. This suited her just fine because Katrina sounded too stuffy. And besides, anyone called Katrina probably wasn’t allowed to climb trees or dig in the dirt—especially when she was wearing her favorite pink dress with ruffles and lace.

But right now, Katie Sue didn’t want to wear her favorite pink dress or climb in a tree or do anything else fun. She didn’t even want to go to kindergarten. She was just plain mad. Dumb jam!

The day had started out OK. When Katie woke up, she snuggled under the covers, not wanting to climb out of bed. Then she remembered—it was picture day at school! And picture day sounded very important. Yesterday, her teacher had reminded the class several times to wear their nicest clothes. She jumped out of bed. Today was going to be great! She was sure of it.

Katie ran into the kitchen. The other kids had already had breakfast. There were half eaten bowls of oatmeal, honey dribbled across the tablecloth, some almost-empty glasses of milk, and a couple of spoons dropped on the floor.

Her younger brother, Jeff, was under the table making “vroom” noises and playing with his cars. The baby was still strapped into his highchair. He squealed with delight as he threw dry cheerios around the room from up high. Other than that, the house was pretty quiet. That meant that the twins, Chris and Shell, had already left for school. They were big— in second grade. And when they were still home, things were not quiet at all. There was running and yelling and sometimes even crying—but definitely not quiet. They always seemed to have a hard time getting out the door in the morning. Katie was glad she didn’t have to go to kindergarten until the afternoon. She had the whole morning to play before she had to start running around trying not to be late for school. Katie was going to stay in kindergarten forever.

Mom hurried down the hall balancing a big pile of laundry that she dropped on the couch. She always seemed to be in a hurry.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” mom said over her shoulder.

“Mom, it’s picture day!”

“I know. I’m washing your pink dress,” her mom said as she folded and stacked the laundry. “Can you watch your brothers? I’m going to jump in the shower as soon as I get this laundry folded.”

“OK,” Katie responded, and she headed back to the kitchen.

“And eat some breakfast!” her mom hollered after her.

But Katie didn’t really like oatmeal—especially cold. And she wasn’t very hungry anyway. So she crawled under the table with Jeff. That’s when the trouble began.

The whole problem started with the castle they made. They ran and got a couple of blankets that they draped over chairs next to one side of the table. On the other side, they pulled the tablecloth down until it touched the floor. They didn’t mean to pull the cup of milk off; that had been an accident. Katie knew Mom didn’t like milk on the floor, but she wasn’t too worried because most of it landed in the diaper bag.

While Katie was trying to mop up the little bit of milk that had missed the diaper bag, the baby got tired of throwing his dry cheerios around the room, and launched his bottle instead. It was a perfect shot. That bottle bounced off a bowl of leftover oatmeal, skipped across the tabletop and crashed into a jar of strawberry jam. The bowl did a couple of summersaults on its way down, spraying oatmeal all over the wall and curtains before it landed upside down on the floor. The jar of strawberry jam rolled off the table and landed on Jeff’s sneakers. Of course, the lid was off, and the jam made quite a mess as it glopped into Jeff’s left shoe.

Katie Sue ran down the hall and banged on the bathroom door. “Mom, the baby threw his bottle again.”

“What?” her mom yelled from the shower.

“I said the baby threw his bottle again!” Katie shouted louder.

“Then get him down! That means he’s full!” her mom hollered back.

It was too hard to yell over the shower, so Katie decided not to tell her about the oatmeal. Instead, she tried to clean the mess up by herself. She wiped most of it up with her sister’s nightgown that she found on the bedroom floor. What was left got spread out really thin so you could hardly see it. She didn’t worry about the curtains, because they were almost the same color as the oatmeal, so it blended in really nice. And the globs on the walls were too high for her to reach.

With that job accomplished, she got the baby down from his high chair before he found anything else to throw. She’d forgotten all about the jam.

“I gotcha!” Jeff yelled as he swung his green Star Wars sword right at Katie’s head. But she ducked and he missed, spun in a circle, and sat down hard.

“Hey! Not now! I’m taking care of the baby!” Katie yelled.

“And I’m taking over the castle!” Jeff yelled back as he scrambled to his feet.

“Oh not you don’t!”

And the fight was on. Katie grabbed her blue sword from under the table and swung back. She had a castle to defend from the evil Sir Jeffery! They fought each other around the table, over the baby who squealed and grabbed at their legs, through the living room and onto the couch for the final battle. Their plastic Star Wars swords crashed against each other. But Katie was bigger, so she was winning. Jeff took a step back, lost his balance, and fell right onto the pile of folded laundry that was stacked at the

end of the couch. But at least it cushioned his fall as he rolled to the floor and landed on the mound of towels and sheets that he’d just knocked off.

“I won!” Katie shouted triumphantly.

“You did not! You cheated!” Jeff yelled back. “You’re bigger!”

“So? I still won!” And she raced off to the castle.

Jeff climbed out of the laundry that was now all over the floor, and chased after her. “I’m telling Mom!” he threatened.

“Oh, all right,” Katie said reluctantly. And Jeff followed her into the castle.

They pretended they were hiding from invaders, and they shot at them from underneath the tablecloth and between the blankets. They were in the middle of a very fierce battle when they heard their mom shriek. Katie clamored out from underneath the table and ran into the living room, Jeff right behind her.

There stood their mom in a robe with her hair still dripping from the shower. She was staring at the pile of laundry that used to be folded neatly on the couch but was now all over the floor. And right in the middle of it all was the baby, covered from head to toe in strawberry jam and tangled up in the towels and sheets. He squealed and giggled as he rolled around and chewed on the end of a towel. The laundry was a mess. Strawberry jam was everywhere!

Check out Debi's blog about her adventures in Alaska-- 

http://ouradventuresandsuch.blogspot.com/ 

30 Days, 30 Stories: Three Deaths of Devin Ochre

"The Three Deaths of Devin Ochre" is an interpretation of the classic tale "The Three Billy Goats Gruff." It is one of the stories included in The Gruff Variations, a charity e-anthology edited by Nebula-winning author Eric James Stone. The anthology includes writing by Shannon & Dean Hale, Dan Wells, Rick Walton, Lisa Mangum, Mary Robinette Kowal and many, many others! The Gruff Variations is available from Smashwords, Barnes & Noble online, and amazon.com.

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The Three Deaths of Devin Ochre

by Juliana Montgomery

1.

Devin Ochre died exactly as he'd planned--in bed, sleeping, with no pain--as though the universe itself was afraid of disobeying his will. His secretary discovered the body, sighed, and made herself breakfast before calling anyone. Mr. Ochre, whose soul was still lingering in the corner, spat several expletives at her and told her she was fired. This was the first of many things he realized he could not control once he was dead.

As he drifted formless on the wind, he wondered idly where he was headed. Other ghostlike spirits appeared occasionally, joining him in a stream toward the unknown. As he drifted past a coffee shop, he reached out to take a doughnut from a woman who was trying unsuccessfully to keep three small children from running in every direction. She seemed to be having a rough day, but it couldn't be nearly as bad as waking up to discover you're dead. The sweet-smelling pastry slipped through his nebulous fingers and he cursed again.

Within a few hours, he joined a long stream of the dead. They came from every direction and seemed to converge on the same spot. He willed himself forward to see their destination--a large bridge that hung over a deep chasm. As the crowd slowed to form into a single-file configuration, he nimbly pushed his way past the rest of the apathetic crowd to the front of the line.

A large creature stood at the entrance to the bridge, consulting a book and smiling at a woman. It--she, apparently--was half woman, half goat, and at least a foot taller than Devin Ochre. A small chain dangled from her ankle like a leash, making it impossible for her to move more than a few feet away. She looked up from her book and scowled.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Ochre."

"You want to tell me what's going on here?"

The woman sighed and started speaking mechanically. "Welcome to the after life. You have died and are now preparing to be sorted."

"Sorted? What do you mean?"

"You know," she said, a touch of impatience coloring her words now. "Heaven? Hell? Sorted."

"Oh," said Mr. Ochre, breathing out. "Just point me upward."

"That's not exactly how it works. You've watched too many movies."

"Okay, okay. Just point me in the right direction."

"Mr. Ochre, it's not that simple. Didn't you read the signs while you waited in line? Oh, let me guess. You skipped to the front, didn't you?"

"Maybe," he said, squinting at her suspiciously.

"Okay, I'll summarize for you, Mr. Ochre. You are dead, yes?"

"Apparently."

"So you've come to be sorted. Those who are ready for heaven are sent on their way across the bridge to all sorts of lovely paradises, blah, blah, blah. Those who are irredeemably evil are burned into hell."

"No bridge to hell?"

"No, much worse than that. You don't want to know. Anyway, then there are the rest of you. The majority. The spiritual middle class, so to speak."

"I've never in my life been described as middle class, you old goat."

"I'm a faun, Mr. Ochre. I suggest you take a more polite tone if you don't want to sizzle for eternity."

Mr. Ochre rolled his eyes and stood with arms folded across his chest--or at least as close as he could come in his present condition.

"Where was I? Oh, yes, the spiritual middle class. The rest of you aren't ready for heaven yet, but we figure you aren't quite bad enough for hell. So you get to start over."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've heard of reincarnation?"

"Uhh…"

"You don't often get second chances in life, Mr. Ochre. However, you do get a second chance in death. We'll see you again in a few years and see if you're ready then."

"Now hold on, goat, don't I get a second opinion? I've given millions to charity. Doesn't that get me some kind of first class ticket to paradise?"

"Hardly, Mr. Ochre. If you'll excuse me, I have a few thousand other souls waiting to be sorted."

"So now what?"

"I'm glad you asked. Into the river." She pointed down the ragged cliffs toward churning, black waters below. "It will carry you back to the world of living. The river is unpredictable--you can land anywhere in time or space. Wherever you land on the banks of the river is where you will find your reincarnation. You won't remember this conversation or anything about your past life, so I hope you listen to your conscience--that's your past self trying to tell you something important."

"My 'conscience' tells me I'm not jumping off a cliff," protested Devin Ochre.

"Yes, I'm afraid you are." The faun's impatient face softened for a moment before a wicked smile spread across her face. "I hope your next life brings you everything you so richly deserve."

"You've got to be kidding me. You want me to jump off a cliff so that I'll, uh, not be dead anymore?"

"I don't have time for this, Mr. Ochre. Goodbye."

The faun bent down to the ground, placing her hands on the dirt and thrusting her muscular legs into Mr. Ochre's chest. Although he wasn't solid, he felt the impact soundly throughout him as he flew over the edge of the cliff into the raging river below. As it tumbled over him, he felt a thousand voiceless souls reaching out to the banks of the river, trying to escape. He pushed them to the side as a large castle came into view, reaching out and grasping to pull himself out of the current.

He felt strange pressure coursing through him as his soul was sucked into a tiny body. The impact knocked him out for a moment and then his memory went completely blank.

Outside the castle, in a small muddy hut, the town woodworker blanched at the sound of his wife's labor pains. A few minutes later, his son slipped into the world and began to scream.

2.

"Gavin!" bellowed the town woodworker. "Where are you?"

His heavy footsteps pounded through the hallway until they stopped right outside the door to Gavin's bedroom. Gavin cursed quietly, tucked away a pouch of coins he'd stolen earlier that day, crossed his arms, and grimaced as his father entered the room.

"What is this?" asked his father, brandishing another bag of coins--ones he had hidden inside a rusted pot months earlier during a similar moment of alarm. He had apparently forgotten to take them out again when the coast was clear.

"Uh, a bag?" asked Gavin, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It's a bag of gold coins."

"Good day at work?"

"No." His father scowled at him. "This is more coin than I earn in a year. Where did you get it?"

"I--"

"Don't lie again, son. We both know the truth and I can always tell when you're lying."

"Fine. Then what do you want me to say?"

"I want to know where you got this money." The woodworker paused, his face softening as he looked down at his son. He sat down on the bed next to him, precariously close to the coins hidden beneath the blanket. "No, I don't want to know where the money is from. It would make me sick to know of it. I'll take it to the church tomorrow and let them give it to the poor."

Gavin grunted, but knew there was no point in arguing. Anything he said would just make the matter worse.

"Son…" began his father, scratching his head. "I've done everything I could to make you see reason. The only thing I haven't done is say this: you're old enough to make your own choices but you won't be cheating people under my roof. So I think it's time you find yourself a job somewhere else and … maybe you can straighten your life out."

"You're kicking me out?" Gavin gasped.

"You're a man now. Start looking around now, and when you find something that suits you--"

"No, if you want me out, I'm leaving. Now." Gavin stood up quickly, ready to leave the room until he remembered the small pouch of gold that was hidden. He needed that money now. He paused awkwardly, then said, "If you just give me a few minutes to pack my things, I'll go. I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you." He hung his head, sniffing slightly, and glancing at his dad out of the corner of his eye.

"No, son, don't say these things. I just worry about you. If you aren't careful, you'll end up with a knife stuck in your back one of these days. You're making enemies." The woodworker shifted slightly to the side, and the coin bag jiggled loose. It fell onto the floor loudly. Gavin and his father stared at the bag, then at each other.

"I guess I'll be going now," said Gavin, grabbing the coin bag quickly and saluting his father before ducking out the door and into the cold night. He headed toward the shack of his friend and partner, Olick. He didn't trust him, exactly, but knew that Olick would give him a place to sleep. Before he got there, someone stepped out of the shadows behind him and stuck a knife between his shoulder blades before he could react. Gavin gasped and fell sideways to the ground, staring up into the face of his friend, Olick.

"Sorry, Gavin," said Olick, taking out the knife and plunging it in again lower down. "Times are tough for all of us, aren't they? You shouldn't walk about with coins like that. Like a trumpet in this silence."

Gavin only had a few moments to reflect on the irony of his father's too-late warning before he passed out.

#

This time, a meaty satyr stood at the head of the line. Black hair and fur covered nearly every inch of his body from the top of his head down to his hooves.

"Next!" he yelled as Gavin pushed his way to the front of the line.

"Ah, Gavin, I've been looking forward to this," he said. "Or should I call you Devin?"

"Why would you call me Devin, beast?"

"Ah, let me refresh your memory." The satyr blinked and a lifetime of memories rushed into Gavin's mind. He was suddenly Devin Ochre and Gavin the woodworker's son, two people twined into one mind.

"Whoa," he said, taking on the accent of his previous life. "So that's it, huh? Ready to point me upward and onward then?"

"Hardly," replied the satyr.

Gavin started to twitch nervously. "Then, what? It's not like I've done anything that bad. You can't possibly send me the other direction."

The satyr leaned forward, speaking right into Gavin's face. His breath smelled like mustard and decomposed flesh. "I can do whatever I want. That's my job." Thunder boomed overhead, and the satyr leaned back slightly. "Er, okay, maybe we'll give you a second chance."

"That was my second chance," said Gavin, cursing himself as he realized this was not the time to argue with goat man.

"Are you familiar with baseball?" asked the satyr.

"A little," said Gavin slowly.

"Three strikes and …"

"Three strikes, you're out."

"Exactly. You have one more chance to redeem yourself, Ochre. Use it wisely. And may the river bring you to somewhere in time and space that gives you exactly what you deserve." Before Gavin had a chance to reply, he found himself falling toward the river.

"Ouch," he said as he splashed into the murky depths.

3.

Settlement 3V97 floated over the red planet lazily, gathering data and sending out probes. Simulated to look like a suburban neighborhood back home, the two square miles of 3V97 were just starting to show signs of Spring. Small simulated crocuses popped through the dirt outside each home. Nobody was admiring the crocuses, though. The entire city was gathered at the medic center, waiting to hear the news.

Mayor Nived gasped raggedly, each breath painfully drawn in and then out. He knew his time was up. Even 24th century medicine couldn't fix his heart this time. Maybe if he'd been back on Earth, but the medic center on 3V97 wasn't equipped for this kind of thing.

"What did you say, Mayor?" asked one of his assistants, a petite blonde woman with tears running down her cheeks.

"I said … I've lived an … evil life, Rana." Every word was painful as the heart tried unsuccessfully to pump enough oxygen to his head.

"No, don't say that," said Rana. "You've saved this settlement dozens of times. You're a hero, sir. You inspire all of us."

Nived grunted, then began coughing. If only she knew. Every action he'd taken had been calculated to make him look like the "hero" he was today: always fair in his duties as mayor, always ready with the right answer in the terralab, always the one to stay two steps ahead of everyone. Of course, he'd stepped over everyone who got in his way. He'd been careful, too. Nobody had even suspected the truth behind Asher's "accidental" death two months ago. Asher had stumbled on Nived in the lab one day at an inopportune time, discovering what a charlatan Nived really was. He didn't live long enough to expose him, though.

"We found him!" said a voice outside Nived's medic station, pulling him out of his reflections.

"Quiet!" hissed Rana. "Don't you know--"

"No, this is important," said a chubby young man, coming into the room and bowing to Mayor Nived. "Sir, your honored friend Asher will be avenged."

The others in the room gasped. "Avenged of what, Jimi?" said Rana. "He was careless, he fell…"

"No," said Jimi. "He was murdered. And we have found the killer. I knew the mayor would want to know this good news immediately. Asher was your dear friend and colleague, was he not?"

"Yes…" gasped Nived, head swirling. "Who…?"

"One of the newbies from 9D4, sir. He looks like an innocent kid on the outside, but he's a cold-blooded murderer. We have the proof."

Nived frowned, digesting this information clumsily. How could they have proof that this newbie from 9D4 was guilty, when Nived himself had committed the crime? His heart thumped quickly three times in his chest and then stopped for a few seconds altogether. His breath failed him and he felt as though his body was being sucked away from him before the pulse resumed. He was going to die. He knew he was going to die, and so was the newb from 9D4… unless Nived confessed. Why not? He'd spent a lifetime building up a mountain of sins to create his facade of virtue. Maybe if there was some kind of life after this one, which he doubted, he'd get a little redemption for saving the newb's life and reputation.

All it would cost him was his own reputation. And who needed that after they were dead? Nived breathed in deeply, holding up his hand to silence the others. He looked into their red-rimmed eyes, adoration pouring down on him. They loved him--or the person they thought he was. And like a drug addict, he sucked it in, savoring one last high.

"I…" He could barely speak. "I'm … glad you found the … truth. I can die in peace."

#

"Seriously?" said a thin faun with pink-dyed hair and several nose rings. "You seriously said, and I quote, 'I'm glad you found the truth' before kicking the bucket? That's super classy."

"Those people revered me," said Nived calmly. "How could I take that away from them?"

"Super classy," she said again, blowing a large bubble from a wad of bright blue gum. "You realize that guy three yards back is the guy you totally didn't save? Yeah, got the death sentence for supposedly bumping old Asher off into oblivion." She beckoned toward someone in the line. A young man with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes came forward, looking to each side nervously.

"Yes, uh, ma'am?" he said before noticing Mayor Nived. "Oh! Sir!"

"Yeah, don't get all excited about Nived here," said the satyr. "He's the reason you're dead."

"But, I… I'm sorry?"

"Don't stress yourself too much trying to figure it out. Just cross the bridge there. Welcome to heaven, blah, blah, blah…"

"Uhh…"

"Go-o-o-o!" bleated the faun. The newbie from 9D4 blushed, nodded at Nived and hurried across the bridge.

"Okay, nice chatting with you," said Nived. "I'll just go catch up with him while we--"

"Oh, yeah, you don't remember yet, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"Devin Ochre? Gavin? Three strikes, you're out? You are a real piece of work, you know."

"Huh?"

In a flash, Nived became Devin Ochre and Gavin again. Three lives. Three chances to prove he wasn't the ogre this young faun was making him out to be.

"Well, crap," said Nived. "No pass into never-ending paradise?"

"Nope." The faun grinned.

"You shouldn't look so happy about someone going to hell."

"Oh, yes, I should. Welcome to hell."

"What?"

"Welcome to hell. This is it, Mr. Ochre. You get the dream job of giving each of these slobs their fate. But don't worry, the pay is great. Well, okay, there is no pay, but the perks are fabulous. No, wait, there are no perks. At least the hours are 24/7 and the line never ends. Ever. You'll love it."

"What?"

"Simple, Ochre. You had three chances. You failed. So you're the new sucker that gets to have this dream job, and I'm off for a vacation in Kabul before I get reassigned to some other torture. Enjoy yourself, Mr. Ochre. And thanks for relieving me."

"Wait, what?"

The faun was gone and the line of people looked expectantly at him. A large book appeared in his arms, weighing them down. A small, crystalline chain attached itself to his ankles, just above his newly-formed hooves. He sighed.

"Next!"

Juliana Montgomery was a Trustees Scholar at Brigham Young University, where she majored in Communications Theory. After years of boring herself to tears with factual writing (and a very brief stint as a Computer Science teacher), she has recently returned to her life-long love of creative writing. She recently finished her first novel, a science fiction adventure for young boys, and has started research for a fairy tale retelling and a YA urban fantasy novel. She was the organizer of the 2012 Writing for Charity event (with the fabulous Kristyn Crow) and loves to make new friends. You can find her online athttp://blog.geekuniverse.org,  https://www.facebook.com/witandwhimsy, and on Google+.