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Witch and Warlock – A Short Story’s Final Installment

Photo by Peter Clayton

You can read the previous installments here, here, and here.

WITCH AND WARLOCK (CONCLUDED)

Ruffies. It had ended there. The store at the opposite end of the mall, the other-side-of-the-tracks end of the mall. The bastard child to Morechant’s prodigal son. Everything was cheaper and uglier at Ruffies. But that wasn’t why they’d preyed there; Peter was hoping as much as he was certain of it. It couldn’t have been classist he’d been raised by a single mother. It’d been maybe more depressing than that. Witch. Right, Witch had access to a janitor’s closet on Ruffies’ basement level. She’d been there before; many times, Peter feared. He couldn’t—well somehow she’d been given or had gotten a key, and that was where they’d fled after Warlock snipped some hairs from a baby in a stroller while Witch distracted its mom. Food processors. God the stupid details he’d hung onto! Not whether the baby had cried or how its stolen hairs felt in his hand. Not how the janitor’s closet smelled. Just that they’d made it there without getting caught and Witch’s dumb questions about a Cuisinart.

There’d been a ritual. That wasn’t a stupid detail, although Peter remembered fighting the almost automatic snickering teenage response to how ceremonial and mannered Witch was in laying the food tray on the floor just so, and then the laminated directory on the tray, and then the compact on top of the directory. How solemnly she’d asked Warlock to sprinkle the hairs on—an entire line popped into his head: on this unholy table set for the dark ones to feast, the seasoning, an innocent’s follicle sacrifice. He wasn’t sure if she’d said exactly that. It was something similar, though, and she’d been mad at him, that he did remember. The look on her face. Or disappointed. Right. That her warlock had come this far only to show her he was just a typical thirteen-year-old goof. But Warlock hadn’t laughed; Peter wasn’t too drunk to call this criticism unfair. God damn it he’d sprinkled the hairs on that unholy table. God damn it with the proper fervency demanded of—he reached for another roll and touched nothing but moist cloth.

Oh god damn it.

Peter was reminded he had a heart. It was in a race with his mind and they both crossed the finish line at him opening his hand in the janitor’s closet and realizing that somewhere along the way he’d lost the baby hairs. Witch was trying to keep it together, her first curse, there were bound to be hiccups, but she’d said they couldn’t go back out there, mall security was probably looking for them, and she was looking at Warlock like suddenly silver lining to his being a total failure he’ll make a nice feast for the dark forces. Peter was already clutching the spot on his head before he saw it in his mind’s eye, Witch snatching at his hair and in response to his emasculated “Hey!” telling him what did he expect she wasn’t the innocent she was a witch for antichrist’s sake. In retrospect his pinched hairs did a terrible thing: separating and falling singly, slow motion, as if he were watching individual salt granules season a piece of meat. In this ritual he’d been the flavor for an unholy meal, over which she had chanted and waved and beseeched that an eternity of misery and despair be brought down upon Flagfield Mall and its ugly, prejudiced tenants.

Peter came out of his mind and back to the restaurant again, fighting the almost automatic middle age response. What was that anymore? Resignation? Her dark forces had gorged, but the mall had thrived. Morechant’s was still in business and he’d been in Ruffies just the other day returning a humidifier for his mother. Witch had used his hair. An innocent mistake. He was grinning. Somehow she’d cursed him instead. He was the miserable one; the despairing.

“You probably thought I’d forgotten you.”

Peter nearly screamed. She was back too; she was back too. He’d never seen her coming. He forced himself to stay calm. It helped that she moved tentatively in sitting down at the table. As if she were sneaking into somebody else’s seat, he thought.

“I can’t, I can’t believe it,” he said. “After all this time.”

“I know, my bad,” she said. “Not how I wanted things to go, believe me. Thanks for not bailing I was so oh my god you ended up with all my crap.”

She laughed self-consciously and scooped up her purse and her compact, and for a moment was confused about what to do before laying it all at the foot of her chair. Warlock wondered if Witch hadn’t also cursed herself that day. He was happy she hadn’t lost her heart-shaped face.

“Gabby,” he said.

He sounded more relieved than happy. Yeah. This was his automatic response. Relief. She’d absolutely cursed him.

“It’s Allie,” she said.

“Oh. Sorry.” He must have heard her wrong in Morechant’s. Or misremembered. Well, Jesus, how many details was he supposed to remember from thirty years ago?

“No, don’t,” she said. “You’re the good guy, Peter, I’m the one who messed up. I’m the jerk.”

“Oh,” he said.

It came out like a quiet moan. Something was clenching at him from the inside. A misgiving like a raptor digging for purchase, a firmer grip. Baring down to assess a threat. He’d wondered what she was really doing here.

“I have to make things right,” she said.

Peter heard his heart and he didn’t like his odds. He’d had too much wine, too much bread. He was vulnerable. It’s what she wanted. She’d been watching him the whole time again. And now she was back. Back to lift the curse. She’d set the very course of his life she couldn’t just show up and reverse its direction, take everything away from him. He wasn’t thirteen anymore. No more because she asked him to. This was a relief. His whole life since then had been a huge god damn relief. He wasn’t even out of the restaurant when his mother answered on the first ring.

Witch and Warlock – A Short Story’s Third Installment

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Photo by Famartin

To read the first and second installments, click here and here.

WITCH AND WARLOCK (CONTINUED)

It was fucking funny, he thought. She’d seen him watching her after negotiations had broken down at the Estee Lauder counter. Cornered him near the watches and that’s when they’d officially met and he’d learned she was walking the mall trying to get a job for the summer because she needed money to “pay off a loan” and that no one would hire her because she wasn’t sixteen. So she wanted to buy some blush to help her pass for older, but she couldn’t afford it and the saleswoman wouldn’t give her a break. He remembered he’d offered immediately to ask his mother for the money and would lie to her about what it was for, he was Peter of the Engorged Loins after all. The girl, Gabby, Witch, she’d said that it was too late she’d already decided to put a curse on Morechant’s, the food court, the entire fricking mall, and once a witch had declared her intentions she couldn’t go back on them lest she wanted to be cast out of her witch’s organization. Which by the way was the Wretched Order of Flagfield Witches. Of which she was the founding member, its sole member actually, so technically she could have flouted the rules without fear of expulsion, but what a terrible example to set for future members of the order, right? Its CEO incapable of following through on one of the most basic principles of witchcraft? So she was moving forward and the first step was stealing the blush—all of the ritual implements would have to be stolen for the curse to work properly. The thing was, this being her first curse, she could really use a warlock’s help. Would he be her warlock?

The specificity of the memory startled him out of it. He felt flush and a little disoriented and half-expected everyone in the restaurant to be staring at him. To his mild disappointment the restaurant was oblivious, carrying on just fine without him. Peter took another roll, disavowed the narcissism he’d inherited from his mother, and wondered where in his mind that girl had been hiding the last three decades. Maybe he’d reflected on her in the immediate days and months and even a few years afterward, but she hadn’t become his friend let alone his girlfriend, they hadn’t seen each other again. She’d been buried under by the layers of his subsequent life and like the videotapes he used thirty years ago to record soap operas on top of soap operas the resolution of the image suffered badly. He wasn’t surprised now that she was reappearing for him that she’d never completely faded. She’d made her mark, beyond the pantsuit and the physical details Peter back in his head was bringing into sharper focus: her heart-shaped face and freckles and braided bun and determined eyes—he realized she’d essentially asked him out on a date. His first ever real date. Aiding and abetting a self-proclaimed witch in putting a curse on the Flagfield Mall. Of course he’d said yes. Because she was different and serious and confident and his mother would have hated her, and, if he was being completely honest, because she was a girl and she’d asked him. Peter reflexively sipped some wine through the bemused opening in his mouth. He would have called her Witch and answered to Warlock as long as she wanted.

He’d had only a fuzzy notion of what a warlock actually was. He figured she must have been counting on that, that “hot witch’s henchman” would sound too appealing to a thirteen-year-old dork he wouldn’t question it. She was a girl and she’d asked me to. The “Pink Kiss” to represent Morechant’s Department Store. The food tray the food court. The info booth’s laminated store directory for the mall entire. Yes, the implements. For the “cursing ritual.” It was all just so ridiculous and yet Peter couldn’t help but marvel at the balls he’d had back then. He quickly caught himself. Really, he was proud of that? Had it been so hard to steal those things? He felt old suddenly, and vicarious. Another case of misplaced pride. Another trait he’d inherited from his—no, there was an implement missing; he was forgetting something big. He wasn’t so arrogant that he—

“Blood of an innocent,” he said. That was it. He almost pumped his fist in his air.

Witch had said that. Jesus, was he really going to call her Witch? Fuck it, he was having fun with this. Witch had said they needed the blood of an innocent to appease the dark forces or whatever, the term she’d used eluded him—they were the International Olympic Committee of Curses that needed its collective palm greased before they’d allow the curse to be cast. Peter—Warlock—he could hear his younger self asking her and sounding so cringingly wide-eyed, like you mean a baby’s blood? And like all of its blood? They hadn’t, had they? Draining a baby of its blood was not something Warlock—Peter—would have forgotten, no matter all the intervening years and bad dates and chicken salad sandwiches with his mother. No they’d had to compromise and he wanted to believe it was because of the logistical nightmare draining a baby’s blood at the Flagfield Mall presented. More likely Witch had sized him up, the limitations of his warlockian capabilities, and immediately downgraded blood-draining to plucking a few innocent hairs. The wine was getting to him again. Warlock could get very self-critical when he was drunk. Another black hole to suck a relationship into. He pushed himself to stay with the right memory. Ruffies. It had ended there. The store at the opposite end of the mall, the other-side-of-the-tracks end of the mall. The bastard child to Morechant’s prodigal son. Everything was cheaper and uglier at Ruffies. But that wasn’t why they’d preyed there; Peter was hoping as much as he was certain of it. It couldn’t have been classist he’d been raised by a single mother. It’d been maybe more depressing than that. Witch. Right, Witch had access to a janitor’s closet on Ruffies’ basement level. She’d been there before; many times, Peter feared.

Witch and Warlock – A Short Story’s Second Installment

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Photo by Bryan Hilson

To read the first installment, click here.

WITCH AND WARLOCK (CONTINUED)

A gold case, Allison Downer’s compact, he’d forgotten the maître d had left it on the table next to her purse. Peter thought he should put it away. He didn’t want Allison thinking he’d dug it out of her purse and ending the date because of that. She’d assumed for him the role of guardian, and he was this far in he might as well play it. He took the compact into his hands and was struck by how elegant the logo was: “Estee Lauder” etched in black cursive script across gold plating. It was the wine. Why he gave the logo a second look and why he was curious enough to read the label stickered on the back.

“Pink Kiss,” he said. He said it again.

He wasn’t sure it was the alcohol’s effects why “Pink Kiss” resonated with him, why it seemed to hang in suspended animation in his mind when normally, effortlessly, a million other things would have replaced the cheeky name of a color of a blush of a women’s line of makeup. But here he was, his languid brain suddenly buzzing at attention, straining for context to the exclusion of everything else, like he and the compact case were alone on a stage under a spotlight. The clarity of the object made nothing more concrete than a physical feeling; a spasm in his lower back that settled and split into dual, duller creeping presences, as if emotions were two thieves come to rob him, infiltrating his body and army-crawling around the kidneys into his stomach. He could name them. Shame. Embarrassment. Mild cases, Peter assured himself, considering the “Pink Kiss” details that emerged: cold, brilliant cosmetic counters, Morechant’s Department Store, Flagfield Mall, the risk, the girl. Of course a girl. Always a girl. More and more, he felt, his memory was being reduced to a catalogue of all the stupid shit he’d done to impress the opposite sex.

This time he couldn’t have been older than thirteen, though, and it was a universal truth there was nothing a thirteen-year-old male did that wasn’t stupid. What did it mean that thirty years later he was still—whatever, Peter wanted to stay in the past. He was thirteen, roaming Morechant’s alone. Why? His mother. God damn it. She was paranoid about public dressing rooms so her aggravating shopping habit was to buy all the clothes she thought she might like, try them on at home, and then make a massive return of everything she wasn’t keeping. Somehow Peter could never get out of it, what became an eye-gouging eternity in the Morechant’s returns department in the basement of the store. He must have finally convinced his mother to let him wander. That was right, Peter thought, he’d taken the escalator up to the first floor and that’s where the cosmetic counters were and that’s where he saw her. The girl. She’d stood out to him. Of course she had, she was girl. No, he knew there’d been something else, she hadn’t been obvious. Cute and developed and around his age, yes, all major pluses, but it was coming back to him he’d been more excited about what she was wearing. A pantsuit, like she was some kind of businesswoman, and he thought it might have been a little big on her, and that made her even sexier. She was engaged in a conversation with a saleswoman. She was talking to an adult as if they were both adults. No, it was a negotiation. The girl was driving hard for a discount, he remembered. The “Pink Kiss” blush. The saleswoman had been frowning but she’d also been bending, bending, but no she never broke and the girl’s sullen, sulky departure, although it betrayed her real age, must have set something off in young Peter’s loins, which were just starting to exert their dominance over his brain.

He wasn’t the only one the girl had left hot and flustered. The case holding the “Pink Kiss” was still unlocked when the saleswoman abandoned her post to help customers at a different counter. It was a blur to him now but Peter knew he’d done it; he’d reached over and grabbed the blush right out of the case. And when he turned to look for her—hadn’t she been watching him the whole time? Yeah, the girl had been watching him the whole time from the women’s accessories department. Peter smiled at the thought of that. He’d no longer needed his brain. Fuck shame and embarrassment. It was funny. He was thirteen. She motioned him over and he was on automatic. Of course she did all the talking. What had she even said to him? Peter strained again to dig something up. Maybe a thanks but no thanks you crazy idiot you better put it back, or maybe a what’s your name you dashing scoundrel, here’s my number, call me sometime. Maybe all of those things, but he also felt like it was none of those things. No, there was something else she’d said, he was pretty sure of it. And it was something odd. Gabby. Okay, she’d told him her name, but that wasn’t what was weird.

Peter realized he was gripping hard on his blind date’s compact and he relaxed and returned it to the table and bumped into a basket of bread. The muscles in his gripping hand were sore so he grabbed a roll with the other. He sunk into warm sourdough. Somebody at some point had topped off his wine glass. They were taking pity on him. Don’t call me Gabby. Yes. That was part of what she said; the girl didn’t want Peter to call her by her real name. She didn’t want to know Peter’s real name. That was weird. But what else did she say to him? He drank some wine. Call me Witch. His heart thumped hard against his chest. He remembered thinking, But you’re wearing an oversized pantsuit. Warlock, can I count on you? This made his forehead heat up. In a good way, he thought. He was enjoying the memory. She’d said to call her Witch and that she would call him Warlock. It was funny. Flirty, sort of. It was silly teenage stuff. Will you obtain the “Pink Kiss” for me, Warlock? He took another drink. Did he have it wrong? Wasn’t it his impulsive idea to steal the blush? Had she asked him to do it? Be stupid for her sake? She’d had a plan; Peter was putting together the pieces as fast as they returned to him.

Witch and Warlock – A Short Story in 4 Installments

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Photo by Clotee Pridgen Allochuku

FIRST INSTALLMENT

The maître d had misunderstood him. Peter wasn’t annoyed she’d already come and gone before he’d even made it to the restaurant; it was that she’d left and was coming back. That she’d allowed him a blissful moment where the burden of performance had been lifted, as if he’d unshouldered the weighted jogging vest his mother had bought him hoping he’d finally “get serious” about being over forty. Gone was any hope of an idyllic near future: alone in his apartment out of his pants, wallowing in buffalo wings and cowardice, rummaging the DVR backlog for his favorite extreme reality shows, the kind where the host basically has to cannibalize himself to survive the last inhospitable terrains left on the planet.

It was the maître d—Peter’s mother loved hearing there were still places with maître d’s—thinking he was doing anyone but himself a favor, who blocked Peter’s view of his own fantasy by handing him the woman’s purse and relaying her message she had to take care of some urgent business but was committed to their evening, hence the leaving behind of her purse.

Blind dates were their own form of inhospitable terrain, Peter thought.

But he took the purse. He surprised himself. This guy who just a minute ago was the picture of a pantless coward making love to barbecue sauce accepting responsibility for a stranger’s personal property. A stranger who was either a very trusting person or, more likely, too crazy to care. Really, what did he know about this woman? Her name, what she did for a living, a fleeting impression of what she looked like. And her taste in handbags—not the “cargo ships” his mother went for, but a sleeker, red leather square with a flap that clasped in the front like an envelope. That was supposed to clasp. That couldn’t clasp, because the purse was overstuffed and something at the top of the pile inside fell out when he tried to figure out how to hold the thing and still hold on to his masculinity. The maître d smiled dumbly at him, maybe seeing in this situation the makings of something romantic. Probably, Peter thought, vaguely aware he might be projecting, the guy was just happy to have released himself of his obligation to the woman. The maître d did pick up what had fallen, a compact case, and carried it with him as he led Peter to a secluded table in the back corner of the restaurant. An intimately lit, lean enough to lean across to kiss kind of table. Not at all close to the nearest exit. Okay, so the guy was a romantic and she wasn’t a complete stranger, red leather purse owning Allison Dawner, marketing consultant, a strawberry blond? with blue eyes? a friend of a friend of his co-worker. Still, he couldn’t vouch for her sanity.

Like it mattered. He almost laughed out loud. They all went to shit in the end anyway. The blind dates, the Internet dates, the meet-up groups that spun out into dates. Even the dates that turned into longer term relationships. How long had any of those shit storms lasted? He guessed six months was his personal record. At the very least this date was beginning unlike any of the others. The maître d wished him good luck and instructed a busboy to bring out a glass of the house red, compliments of the house. Peter discovered he wasn’t immediately envious of the other couples in the restaurant, the ones who didn’t have to perform for each other. Maybe it was the wine, but tonight felt different. So what, he thought, let it be the wine. He was going to enjoy a fresh beginning before it all went to shit.

His mother used to say relationships were a numbers game. He had to keep trying, every failure brought him that much closer to a success. She’d been saying that since he was in high school and she repeated it every Thursday when they got together for chicken salad sandwiches and a few hands of gin rummy. When he’d turned forty she took a harder line. Like she’d set an alarm when he was born and now it was finally going off. Maybe he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself, or maybe he didn’t understand how to treat a woman. Or god something had happened to alter his brain chemistry. She’d read somewhere that it sometimes happened to men in middle age. Should he be on medication? Should he try some of her medication? Peter did his best to explain to her that it took two people to unravel a relationship and each of his doomed unions had been its own particular mess. The only constant was that they never worked out. He guessed he was just unlucky. And maybe stupid, because he kept at it, kept playing the game, hoping the odds would eventually land in his favor. His mother wasn’t convinced. He’d found a baggie with four of her Lexapro secreted inside a pocket of his jogging vest.

The wine tasted like a dessert topping; what Peter’s brain was turning into. Bad idea drinking on an empty stomach. How many of those dates had ended prematurely? He flagged down a waiter and asked for a basket of bread. He had to stop thinking about his mother. If she was on his mind he’d bring her up and how many of those—what was that?—how many of those—something was catching light, irritating his eye.

Flash Fiction Contest: We Have A Winner!

Flash Fiction Contest – Last Call For Entries

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Photo by Jorge Hernandez Valinani

I don’t want to set off widespread panic across the blogosphere, but the Flash Fiction contest for June ends at the close of business on Sunday June 30. Yep–take a deep breath–that’s less than a week away, and yep–now exhale–here at bryanhilson.com we’re open on Sundays until midnight. Don’t worry about us, however, we get to wear sweatpants and eat Skittles out of a giant fishbowl.

And at the moment, with only two entries, our competition workload is not so taxing. It’s true, the Flash Fiction contest hasn’t quite caught fire just yet, but hey, Alfred Nobel didn’t invent dynamite in a day; i.e., your chances of winning are still pretty darn good. But only if you enter this week.

To reiterate the rules: Write a short short story in three sentences based on a theme, and the winner of all eligible entries receives a dedicated blog post from yours truly with a glowing three sentence celebration of his or her all-around awesomeness.

June’s theme is “Happy Returns” and this is the example I gave:

“The father returned home a year after going out to buy some liquid plumber for the kitchen drain. He started in about a bright light, a ditch, amnesia, but his story was beat out by all the hugs and kisses and laughter. That night while his family slept soundly, the father was in the bathroom having been awakened by a terrible itch along his hairline, and scratching it he peeled off the latex mask disguising a different face.”

You can interpret “Happy Returns” in any way you’d like. Have a good time, go nutty, go sad, go funny, whatever sparks your imagination. As always, thanks for reading, thanks for playing.

Build A Story With Bryan 2013 – Story in Verse

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Photo by Green Lane

Build A Story continues this week and what do you know, our story in verse has grown by four lines. Give us a read and add your own line or two or three or maybe even four. Begin your rhyming legacy today!

As always thanks for reading and thanks for playing. Here’s what we have so far.

The old man who smelled of memory loss leaned in

He said “Pull my finger” then grinned

It felt cold and omniscient as a skeleton key

And once tugged a door did fall open before me.

The past lay before me, all musty and grim.

My hope for some cheer grew depressingly slim.

I first saw my teacher, from elementary school,

Who said I was foolish, as well as a fool.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – The Final Story

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Here it is, in all its Circus Maximus glory, the full and final story for this Circus Maximus of a Build A Story Round 5. This one’s a doozy, in process for about four months and clocking in at over 3,000 words. Thanks to everyone who contributed and to everyone who’s been following along. And a very special thanks to Scott Ritchie once again for his enthusiastic creativity.

Have a read and let me know what you think!

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Mr. Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

“I want you all to know,” she began. “That even though I was flattered you thought of me for our barbecue, I never said cooking was my strong suit. Now, the three pounds of laxatives I left carelessly above the stove must have accidentally fallen into the maplewood baked beans when I had my back turned. ”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort. And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so bears don’t just shit in the woods. Satisfied?” Daisy showed her teeth to Mrs. Blendinson. “You got to the count of ten to cough up dem photos. Or I turn your insides into maplewood baked beans.”

The fat man again leered in her face. The short bursts of rancid air he flushed from his nostrils were mind-altering enough for Mrs. Blendinson to wonder if she might be back outside rooting through Ruffy’s garbage.

“I got it, Stanley, please,” she said, trying to close her own nostrils without using her hands and triggering Daisy’s gun. “One…two…three…four…” And then, just to keep things interesting, she started counting again. This time, backwards.

The Sword Swallower advanced, head tipped skyward, voice full of silver menace. “Marjorie, we of the center ring request the photos so impudently snapped in our moment of disrepose…if you please.”

Mrs. Blendinson’s eye twitched. Her foot rolled the bear treat two revolutions. She steeled herself. “Disrepose…is not a word.”

Harry’s eyes flamed and his Adam’s apple convulsed, as a monkey on a stick. His jaw distended and his hand disappeared inside, only to emerge clutching the coiled handle of a saber, drawing its spit streaked length continuously out of his throat until clear. He sliced the air and brought the blade to rest at Marjorie’s cheek.

“Are you feeling us, madam? Your act is drawing to a close.”

“Under the stove,” she stammered. “On microfilm inside the clown nose under the stove.”

Daisy’s massive paw sent the table sliding across the room in one move.

Meanwhile, a “Timeless Travel” taxi pulled to a stop in front of the small trailer bungalow. The passenger door creaked open, rusty from disuse.

Inside, Daisy fell to his knees and laid the pistol on the linoleum. His paw wouldn’t fit beneath, and his head was too massive for either eye to see. He swung his snout in irritation.

“You, hors d’oeuvres, get over here,” he commanded.

The midget stomped over angrily, and raised his fist, the one wearing the watch. “You want the time, Gentle Ben?”

Daisy cuffed the midget under the stove with a CLANG! It came back with lint in its little hair and a jujube stuck to its cheek. But it was holding the clown nose.

Daisy’s eye caught something rolling toward him. Could it be?

Marjorie bet it all on this moment.

Harry was distracted, the Fat Man, too labored to react. Mrs. Blendinson swung her pink and white leather bag off the chair behind her and draped it over the sword-swallower’s saber. With all of the act’s momentum, she charged him past the Fat Man and into the laundry room, into shelving that collapsed boxes of detergent onto his head. The midget grabbed up Daisy’s pistol but Daisy didn’t care until after he’d swallowed the treat and, of course, by then it was too late.

The midget smiled at Mrs. Blendinson, signaling their new partnership in crime until she kicked him into the wall at thirty miles an hour with her shoe.
She snatched up the pistol and the clown nose and spun.

“Allllllllllllllllllllllllriiiiiiiiiiiiight,” she hissed.

The moment breathed, short and thin with tension. Marjorie’s focus flit face to face. Every eye glistened with a scheme. Even the midget, splayed oddly in the corner, waited to right himself until the moment played out.

Daisy’s eyes darted to the fat man’s. A conspiracy? Marjorie thought so, so cocked the hammer and swept her aim from man to midget

The second hand on the wall silently bled their diminishing choices, reaching out to grasp fate’s hand when, rooms away, the front screen door springed its coil and then banged its thin metal clap.

Harry’s eyes slid toward the hall. Detergent sifted from his top hat.

And all at once they knew. Everyone knew. It was the squeak of shoe leather, faint at first, but most rhythmic. Squeak…squeak. Squeak…squeak. Coming closer.

It was unmistakable. Those shoes were big.

They wore a hat of their own, a bowler. Following it down the kitchen hall, you couldn’t help but notice the flower, short of stalk, jutting from the band. Beneath, big red wings of hair, a foot in both directions, sculpted to a point like cotton candy. When they all reached the kitchen, the tableau hadn’t changed.

Mr. Freddie had returned.

His jacket was bright yellow, crossed with a blue and red plaid. It draped his pear shape oddly. His gloves were immaculate, white and pleated. His bow tie was huge and blue, matching the eyes in a face that was wide and a little dumpy. The tip of the nose remained unpainted and bare, missing its signature ornament. But it was all offset by a big painted smile that he garnished with a fat, unlit cigar.

“What’s the rumpus?”

And still nobody moved. As if they could not.

Marjorie’s eyes trembled, liquid amber in the morning sunlight. “Issey?”

“The very same.” He produced a big bike horn and squeezed its bulb loudly. Twice.

The pistol tumbled from Marjorie’s hands, which had left for her mouth.

“All right now,” Mr. Freddie looked around shyly. “None of that.” He reached down and removed Harry’s hat, shook the detergent from it and handed it back.

“Stand up, Harry. Everyone, up.”

And each in their own fashion straightened. Mr. Freddie moved the table back to its original position as if it had never been moved.

Daisy seemed worried and moved to explain.

But Mr. Freddie held up his hand. “Uh-uh-uh, shhhhh.” His massive shoes planted either side of the pistol, which he lifted and placed on the table. “It would appear my presence here is sorely needed. I’m guessing all this is about the photos?”

Everyone suddenly found interest in their own feet.

“Well, I’ve seen all three of them and although they leave an indelible mark on the nutter, none of them embarrass you and they certainly don’t call for all this.”

He held out his spotless white palm to Marjorie. Into it she placed three Polaroids. Mr. Freddie frowned. “Hmmm, no microfiche?” he asked.

She shook her head with downcast eyes.

“There never was, was there?”

Another shake. He gently took her head and kissed it.

He spun the cards like an expert dealer, which he was, and held one up to the fat man. “Bert, I dare say this colonic misadventure is less remarkable than your size. Don’t you agree?”

The fat man squinted and, having seen too much, agreed. Mr. Freddie shuffled the pics once more and thrust a photo at Daisy. “This is you in the woods is it not?”

Daisy growled.

“Doing what comes naturally, despite…” he spun the photo for a glance and grimaced. “…the pose.”

He set the photos on the table next to the gun. He pointed at the midget. “Tyler, gimme.” The midget slid off the wall and handed over the watch. Mr. Freddie reached behind him and Harry put the leather bag in his hands. Everything went on the kitchen table, even the sword. Then everyone stepped back.

“Alright now, you know what’s what…” Mr. Freddie intoned. “What has to happen.” And when no one moved he squeezed his horn.

“C’mon. You’ve had your fun and said your piece. Fall in line.”

And slowly they did, each taking their place in a line behind Mr. Freddie who regarded Marjorie tenderly. A kindness shone from his eyes as he moved close and took her by the shoulders.

“Marjorie, are you still blaming me?” he asked skeptically.

“Well, who brought those laxatives to the BBQ in the first place?”

“Yes, but did I spill them in the beans?”

Marjorie wouldn’t meet his eye, trying instead to hide a small, devilish smile.

“Did I?”

She shook her head quickly, twice.

“No. That would be a foolish thought to have, wouldn’t it?”

She nodded and began to giggle. He hugged her and she saw that they were now alone in the kitchen. And when he set her back, tears filled her eyes, tears of love and gratitude.

“But there was another, wasn’t there?” Mr. Freddie began to glow.

Marjorie nodded, faster and faster, the pain pulling the muscles of her face to its center, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

“I thought…” she tried. “I thought…”

“You can say it.”

“I thought if you saw me rooting though the trash…” Her chest heaved, her shoulders hunched and she let it out. She threw her face into his big blue bowtie. “I thought you’d feel sorry and come back for me. Ohhh, Issey, I’ve missed you so much!”

She sobbed and sobbed. He stroked her hair. “There, there. There, now. I’m here.”

Mr. Freddie’s glow intensified. He set her back and looked between them. “I think you have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Her hand unfolded. She brought his clown nose up and placed it where it belonged. Mr. Freddie wiggled it into comfort.

“Thank you. Are you ready, my love?”

Marjorie looked around her kitchen of so many years, wiped her nose and nodded. She took Mr. Freddie’s hand. “Ruffy is still sad, in case you were wondering.”

“Well that’s always been his downfall. Why don’t you leave him his credit card.”

Marjorie relented with a grumble and slid it onto the table. The light was almost blinding now, making the kitchen hard to see. Mr. Freddie kissed her smile.

Mrs. Blendinson was found one week later, dead in her bed with the smile still on her face and the all too big shoes of her love on her feet.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – One Week Left!

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That’s right, story-builders, unlike a box of jujubes, Round 5 has itself an expiration date. Only one week left before we pull the stakes on this little circus and clear out of town. Be the first to start shaping this tale’s conclusion by leaving our next sentence or two in the comment box. As always thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

And a HUGE shout-out to friend and fellow writer Scott Ritchie for helping to keep this story alive over the last few months. Thanks, man.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

“Well?” he snapped.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Empty.

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort. And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.

Mrs. Blendinson’s eye twitched. Her foot rolled the bear treat two revolutions. She steeled herself. “Disrepose…is not a word.”

“Are you feeling us, madam? Your act is drawing to a close.”

“Under the stove,” she stammered. “On microfilm inside the clown nose under the stove.”

Daisy’s massive paw sent the table sliding across the room in one move.

Meanwhile, a “Timeless Travel” taxi pulled to a stop in front of the small trailer bungalow. The passenger door creaked open, rusty from disuse.

Inside, Daisy fell to his knees and laid the pistol on the linoleum. His hand wouldn’t fit beneath, and his head was too massive for either eye to see. He swung his snout in irritation.

“You, hors d’oeuvres, get over here,” he commanded.

The midget stomped over angrily, and raised his fist, the one wearing the watch. “You want the time, Gentle Ben?”

Daisy cuffed the midget under the stove with a CLANG! It came back with lint in its little hair and a jujube stuck to its cheek. But it was holding the clown nose.

Daisy’s eye caught something rolling toward him. Could it be?

Marjorie bet it all on this moment.

What’s happening next? And who’s in that taxi? Only you and your sentence know how this story’s going to wrap up…

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Stay of Execution

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Good Wednesday, fellow story-builders! Thanks to your efforts our tale has been granted a stay of execution. Even so, the pulse is certainly quickening as our dear conniving Mrs. Blendinson attempts to cooperate with her circus-performing nemeses. Whether you’re picking this up where we last left off, or reading it for the first time, we invite you to continue our story by leaving a sentence of your own in the comment box. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

“Well?” he snapped.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Empty.

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort. And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.

“I got it, Stanley, please,” she said, trying to close her own nostrils without using her hands and triggering Daisy’s gun. “One…two…three…four…” And then, just to keep things interesting, she started counting again. This time, backwards.

Mrs. Blendinson’s eye twitched. Her foot rolled the bear treat two revolutions. She steeled herself. “Disrepose…is not a word.”

“Are you feeling us, madam? Your act is drawing to a close.”

“Under the stove,” she stammered. “On microfilm inside the clown nose under the stove.”

Daisy’s massive paw sent the table sliding across the room in one move.

Are you feeling this story-builders? What happens next is up to you and your next sentence…