THIRTEEN QUESTIONS I’M WILLING TO ANSWER
Current mood: breezy
Category: Life

I'm still a nobody in the business of writing and editing, but I'm lucky enough to know some successful people in the industry (they are bald eagles and I'm a gnat annoyingly circling their heads, lol).  The big names get lots of fan mail.  Being an unknown, I get a lot less attention than they do, but I'm still grateful for the "following" I have.  I'm actually surprised at the number of emails and private messages I receive.  Of course, some of them are from crazies and curious strangers who decide to ask me questions just for the hell of it.

Sometimes the questions are too personal or too weird, so I never reply.  But here are thirteen I've been asked over the last few months that I'm willing to answer:

1. Who is The Pantyhose Man? 

The Pantyhose Man is a cyberstalker I once had trouble with who claimed he had met me in Cincinnati when I was living there several years before.  He said he had taken photos of me during that time and he still had them.  He also wrote and told me that I should send him (or better yet, arrange to meet him) and turn over a pair of my used pantyhose so he could then read my "aura" and prove we were meant to be together.  Luckily, I haven't heard from this freak for a couple of years now.   

2. What turns you on?

Tequila (usually a couple of shots or three margaritas will do the trick). The taste of chocolate.  A thunderstorm on a hot night.  Looking at Johnny Depp.  Imagining Johnny Depp covered in chocolate. 

3. You're a non-fiction editor - who do you work for?

I work for Doorways Magazine.  I choose and edit the articles we publish. (Mort Castle is the fiction editor.)

4. What writing related projects are you working on now?

I'm working on a short story (The Power of Moonlight) that will appear in an upcoming anthology from Apex Publications (Harlan County Horror).  I'm working on two other horror stories called "Bar Hopping" and "Wrong-goners." I recently started a supernatural mystery (YA novel) called "Dreams About the Burning Man."  I'm working on the latest issue of my newsletter (The Nightwriter Report) as well.

5. Were you serious when you said you liked disco?

As serious as a heart attack, Jack.  I love dancing to the disco beat.  And I am not ashamed.

6. What is the first horror novel you ever read?

Dracula, by Bram Stoker.  I was ten years old at the time.

7. You travel a lot - do you speak any languages other than English?

I speak decent French and a little Tsalagi.  (My maternal grandfather was Cherokee.) 

8. Do you drink coffee out of the same mug every morning?

Usually.  My favorite coffee mug is my black Happy Bunny one that says "Cute but psycho."

9. You like to write ghost stories.  Have you ever seen a ghost?

No, but I heard one speak to me while I was touring Waverly Hills Sanatorium here in Louisville.  It happened when I was in the Death Tunnel.  I thought it was a real woman until I turned around and found no one around but me. 

10. Have you ever had sex in a hammock?

As a matter of fact I have - more than once.  It can be a bit tricky, lol.

11. Do you believe in love at first sight?

No, I believe in LUST at first sight.

12. What do you fear most in life?

Growing old.  I'm also afraid of snakes and heights.  And I'm always fearful that I will trust the wrong people, and they will betray me (which, of course, has already happened before).

13. How old are you?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

My bad.  Make that TWELVE questions I'm willing to answer.

5:30 AM - 12 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

WHEREFORE ART THOU, ROMEO?
Current mood: calm
Category: Writing and Poetry

It's Flash Fiction Friday and I almost forgot.  Still thinking about Mo*Con III and what a great time I had in Indy.  It was wonderful to see old friends again and meet some new ones.  I do have my photos posted in a new album under Pics and they pretty much tell the story (the parts I want told, anyway, lol).  If I'd decided to post a separate blog about the con, it would have been titled "The Rocky Road to Mo*Con III."  Last Friday I ran into such horrific storms I didn't think I was going to make it to Indianapolis alive.  I actually got on my cell phone at one point and called the Sinister Minister himself, Maurice Broaddus, to see if he could help me out - as water flooded the highway, wind pushed my car around and lightning bolts hit the trees on either side of me. 

"Maurice!" I screamed into the phone, "God is trying to kill me!  Please talk to Him for me, will ya?"  I mean, after all, I was essentially trying to get to church (The Dwelling Place-where the con was held). 

Maurice obliged my request and I made it to his house safe and sound.  I'm already looking forward to next year!

Now, about this flash story.  I wrote it in 2004 for a friend of mine who was grieving.  I knew exactly how she felt over the loss of her favorite feline - a Russian Blue.  So this story was, and is, for Jean and all the pet lovers out there who miss those other "family members." 

And before anyone points it out, I do realize that the actual meaning of the word "wherefore" is "why."  But I really dug the title, okay?

Here's the tale:

WHEREFORE ART THOU, ROMEO? (2004)

Tonya Martin handed the pet carrier over to Dr. Larabee and then turned to face the examining room window.  "I can't watch," she said, her voice shaky.

"No, of course not."  The lady doctor sighed.  "Tonya, you're doing the right thing.  There's no point in letting him suffer anymore."

Tonya nodded mutely.  She didn't have a choice, but it still hurt like hell.

Dr. Larabee quietly left the room to perform the dreaded task.

Tonya stared out the window.  It was a beautiful spring morning.  She turned her attention to the ladybug that was slowly zigzagging its way up the worn screen. 

Twelve and a half years.  Was that a long life for a cat?  She wished now that she had kept Romeo indoors at night.

Her vision blurred.  She wiped her eyes and focused on the ladybug again.  Out in the waiting area, a miniature canine of some sort was yapping its head off.  Romeo demanded attention in a much quieter fashion. 

He was not a complainer.  But the Russian Blue had a curiosity that could not be squelched – and it had proved to be his undoing.

Poison.  It had damaged his liver and kidneys and by the time Tonya had noticed the effects, it was too late to reverse them.  There was no telling where he had been exposed to the deadly stuff.  Romeo's territory had extended far and wide.

Just as the ladybug reached the top of the screen, Dr. Larabee re-entered the room.  She set the carrier down gently on the examining table.

Tonya walked over to it, but didn't look at the still form inside.  She met the doctor's sympathetic gaze with tear-filled eyes.

"You gave him a wonderful life, Tonya – and a merciful death."

*****

That cat had been her best friend.  He'd given her a reason to get up in the morning and an excuse to come home in the evenings during her nasty divorce.  He never gave any unwanted advice or made any judgments about her bad taste in men – and he hadn't seemed to mind the six months her messy house had resembled a war zone. 

Handsome, green-eyed Romeo had never seen her faults.

Tonya decided to bury him on her uncle's farm, an hour outside of Georgetown.  She hadn't been able to find a box to fit his long, lanky frame, so, after holding him close for a minute and stroking his plush, silvery fur, she'd wrapped him in his favorite Road Runner blanket.  (Romeo had insisted on watching cartoons.)

Uncle Ward didn't ridicule her tears, and insisted on digging the grave over by the red barn, underneath the sycamore tree.  Tonya placed Romeo's favorite toys in the deep hole with him.  Then she whispered a final goodbye and let her uncle cover him up with the dark, fertile soil.

She took that whole Friday off – much to her employer's irritation.  Why was she getting all worked up over the loss of a cat, for God's sake?

Tonya wanted to tell Attorney Hardin to go screw himself.  Instead, she reminded him of all the personal days she'd saved up over the past six years, and then abruptly hung up the phone.

She didn't return to Georgetown until the following evening.

After parking her Camry in the detached garage, Tonya reluctantly approached her Colonial-style brick townhouse.  She dropped her keys twice before realizing she'd neglected to lock the front door.  No wonder.

Tonya stepped into the open, two-story foyer and paused, listening to the silence. 

No happy feline bounded down the stairs to greet her.  She closed the door, nearly choking on the hard lump in her throat. 

"Wherefore art thou, Romeo?  Why did you have to leave?"

She was going to lose it if she didn't find something to do, and quick.  Or maybe she would take a little white pill and go to bed early – after eating a goliath amount of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.

She went upstairs around 9:30 and collapsed – fully clothed – across her brass bed, falling asleep before her yawn was even finished.

Bells woke her.  Jingling bells, soft at first and then ringing louder.  She was surprised the sound had penetrated her deep, dreamless sleep.

Then it hit her – that was Romeo's catnip mouse toy – the one she'd forgotten about.  It hung from an elastic string, and was tied around the doorknob of the downstairs coat closet.

Tonya sprang off the bed, instantly awake, and rushed out of the room to the top of the carpeted steps.

The noise stopped.

"Romeo?" 

She was halfway down the moonlit stairs when a shadowy movement caught her eye.  Tonya froze as a man in black moved forward into the pale light.  He wore a ski mask.

A scream stuck in her throat as she tried to get her legs to move.  They wouldn't.

The stranger swung the catnip toy back and forth, making the bells jingle.

"You miss your little friend, don't you, Tonya?"  He sounded smug.  "Well, I'm here now, and you're gonna love me more."

Son of a bitch.

Tonya whirled around and forced her numb legs into action – but she wasn't fast enough. 

The man lunged, grabbing her ankles and making her fall forward onto the stairs.  This time she let loose a scream that should've blown off the roof.

The intruder flipped her over and stood straddling her.  His thin lips curved into a sadistic smile.  He didn't see the dark shape flying through the air towards him, coming from the top of the stairs. 

But Tonya saw it.  She watched it hit the bastard full in the face. Her ears were assaulted by the bloodcurdling shrieks of both man and beast. 

The intruder and his attacker tumbled backwards down the curving stairs.

The man hit the tile floor, unconscious.  The mysterious rescuer disappeared.

Later, when the police were ready to haul away the injured stalker, one of the officers asked Tonya where her "hero" had run off to. 

"My Romeo?" she asked, smiling.  "Oh, he's around here somewhere.  And I don't think he ever plans to leave."

9:00 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

BIRDS SINGING AFTER DARK (A Father’s Day Tribute)
Category: Life

On Father's Day 2007, I was with my dad in the hospital here in Louisville where he was being treated for prostate cancer that had spread to his bones and other organs.  Earlier that morning I had gone out for some Krispy Kreme doughnuts and dark-roast coffee (two things we were both addicted to).  On the way up to his room I stopped in the gift shop and bought him a big balloon with white daisies on it (Dad really liked flowers).  It said "Thinking of you."  I really wanted to buy one that said "Get Well Soon," but I couldn't.  The day before we had learned that there was nothing more the doctors could do for him.

It was time to stop his treatment.  A blood infection was going to win out and steal the last few months he was supposed to still have – time he would have spent at my house.  He was extremely fond of sitting in the swing on my back deck underneath the shade of the wisteria vine, listening to the birds sing and watching the squirrels chase each other around my yard.   He loved nature and had always been an avid outdoorsman. 

Later that evening, I sat by his side while my brother went downstairs to the cafeteria to have dinner.  Dad had drifted off, but he suddenly woke up and looked at me. 

"I wish we'd gone on that Alaskan cruise a few years ago," he said.  "But we've had some good times together anyway, haven't we?" 

I smiled and nodded, just as my neighbors walked in for one last visit.  I told Dad who they were.

"Honey, I remember who they are.  I have cancer – not Alzheimer's."  He went on chatting for a bit like everything was fine.  "We'll have to have a grill-out on Deb's back deck real soon." 

Hope and a sense of humor – Dad never lost either, not even when he was in terrible pain.  It was difficult, and beautiful, to observe how he never complained and how he appreciated every little thing that was done for him.

On Wednesday, his condition worsened.  The oncologist told us he would be gone in another two or three days.  No, Dad.  Why must you leave us so soon?

That afternoon he asked us to move all the medical equipment aside, away from the window, so it would not obstruct his view.  It was hot and sunny outside.  He thought it looked lovely, and he enjoyed the colorful sunset on Thursday night.  Friday morning he could not eat any breakfast, but around noon I brought him his favorite flavor of ice cream, butter pecan.  He only ate a few bites.  At five o'clock I tried to help him drink some water, but he was too weak to suck any liquid up through the straw.  The nurses kept giving him more morphine and his breathing became labored.  He needed to go, to be done with the suffering, but still he woke up once more, after dark, to listen to the two birds perched on the ledge outside his window.  They sang quite loudly and clearly. 

"Isn't that pretty?" he whispered.  They kept up their singing for another hour and then disappeared.  Just before midnight, my father's breathing became shallow.  My brother and I stayed by his side in the quiet room with the soft light.  I kept staring at the cheerful daisy balloon that still bobbed against the ceiling. Part of me wanted to leave before he could, but I knew I had to stay.

Dad stopped breathing at 12:30 a.m. on June 23.  I was devastated and relieved.  He was at peace. 

I told my father that I loved him, and then I went home and wrote down details for his funeral arrangements.  Six singers and four eulogists would attend, along with 400 other relatives, co-workers and friends.  He was a valuable member of his community.  I used to think he was working hard for nothing – that no one appreciated his efforts.  I was wrong.  Watching my father die only showed me how strong and special he truly was – and after his death I came to realize how much he believed in me and my dreams. 

Dad left me a precious gift.  Because of his careful planning and hard work, I was able to quit my day career this past May to pursue my writing projects full-time and concentrate on my work as the non-fiction editor for Doorways Magazine.  If I fail, it will not be because I never had the chance to follow my dreams.  My father always came through for me when I needed him, during his life and even after his passing.  I hope I can make him proud.

Of course, I will always miss him.  Whenever I need to slow down for a moment, I go out on my back deck and I sit in the swing the way he used to and I listen to the birds sing.  And when I hear the musical tinkling of the wind chimes that a good friend gave to me last summer, I think of the comforting words she had engraved on them:  "To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die."

4:30 PM - 9 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

THE FORTUNE COOKIE DUDE
Current mood: cheerful
Category: Writing and Poetry

Well, since I'll be out of town next Friday through Sunday attending Mo-Con III in Indianapolis, I decided I'd post another flash piece today.  It's the shortest story I've ever written, and it's the only one I've ever penned on a large paper napkin in a Chinese restaurant, lol.  I was waiting on a friend to show up and he was late and I was bored and irritated. 

Little did I know that I'd be contacted a couple of years later by the main character himself:  Jack Morelli.  It seems I'd channeled his life story - and the friend of his who read this tale in an ezine was convinced that I was one of Jack's many pissed off ex-lovers, hence my fictional revenge.  The real Jack Morelli is actually a pretty cool guy from New York who used to own an ad agency, and then he went on to work for both Marvel and DC Comics.  Currently he works for Archie Comics, and he's also a sportwriter.  Anyway, Jack was relieved to find out that we'd never met.  Ha. 

Here's the tale:

FORTUNE COOKIE (2005)

Jack Morelli strolled into The Golden Dragon with a big, fat grin on his face and an obscenely thick roll of cash in his back pocket. 

"Same table, sir?"  Young, luscious Li-Li greeted him in the entranceway with a sunny smile.

"You betcha, sweet pea."

The joint had just opened for dinner.  None of the other regulars had shown up yet.

Jack settled into his favorite place in the back corner and opened his menu with a sigh of satisfaction.  Things were going great.  He'd had a record day at the races, landed a lucrative new account for his ad agency, and had finally received a "yes" from Audrey, his sexy secretary.  This time tomorrow night, he'd be wining and dining her over at Vincenzo's.

Li-Li stood by, waiting to take his order.

"Something different this time, sweet pea.  How about Mu-Shu Pork?"

"Mmm, it is very good, sir.  You will like."

Jack slapped the waitress on the rear when she turned to walk away, and enjoyed her little gasp of surprise.

"Don't forget my pot of tea."

Yeah, for the first time in a long time, Jack didn't have anything to complain about.

He took his time eating dinner – the Mu-Shu Pork was a little messy anyway. 

Then he poured himself a cup of jasmine tea.

Jack was sipping it and reading the sport's section of an abandoned newspaper when Li-Li brought him the check, weighed down with a fortune cookie.

As always, the waitress hung around, expecting him to break it open and read the contents to her. 

"Okay, sweet pea."

Jack laid the paper aside and picked up the cookie.  He broke it in half – and was surprised to find it empty.  There was no fortune inside.

He chuckled.  "What?  Does this mean I have no future?"

Li-Li's smile froze, and then quickly faded away.  She scurried off into the kitchen without a word.

Jack shook his head.  Superstitious Chinese.

He paid with cash, and left the girl an extravagant tip.  On his way out he grabbed a toothpick off the takeout counter.

A steady rain had turned the summer night cool, but Jack whistled a cheerful tune as he hurried over to the crosswalk – reaching it just as the light at the intersection turned red. 

He stepped into the dark street – never seeing the truck that swept away all his tomorrows. 

10:00 AM - 13 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY-MR SANDMAN, BRING ME NO DREAMS
Current mood: restless
Category: Writing and Poetry

Flash Fiction Friday is here again (and it's always every other week, by the way).  This story dates back to 2004.  I chose to post it today because I've been having a recurring nightmare.  For seven nights in a row, I've dreamt about my first Necon (Northeastern Writers Conference/Camp Necon), which I will be attending in mid-July.  In the dream, it's nighttime and I'm feeling nice and tipsy. I decide to wander off in the dark by myself for a walk and I end up tripping and falling into a body of water that's over my head.  I can't swim (for real).  No one can see me struggling and no one is close enough to hear me screaming for help.  I drown. 

Of course, I'm not going to cancel my plans for Necon.  However, I have had dreams come true in the past.  Luckily, I told people about them beforehand so they would believe me if the events actually unfolded.  As for my Necon nightmare, just in case, I will be extra careful that weekend.  But I'm not going to let a silly dream ruin my fun.

The following tale is about a college girl who considers her accidental gift a curse.

MR SANDMAN, BRING ME NO DREAMS (2004)

So, you wonder why I'm such a caffeine junkie, why I hate to fall asleep.  Well, it's very simple:  I'm afraid to dream.  I'm terrified of the responsibility, the painful memories, and the torturous uncertainty.

Few people know the truth about me.  It hurts too much to talk about it.  But I've always liked you, and since you never seem to mind my tired grumpiness and you have nowhere else to go right now, I'll tell you my story.

The only time I laugh nowadays is when someone says my name:  "Joy."  It just cracks me up to hear it, since I've been miserable for most of my life.

All the trouble started in 1977, when I was eighteen.  Over Memorial Day Weekend, I tripped in the backyard and fell into our pool, hit my head and sank to the bottom.  My father pulled me out in time, obviously, and I was revived – but not before I'd had an out-of-body experience.

Most people see their deceased loved ones when this happens – or a beautiful, bright light that welcomes them to the other side.

Not me.  No, not Joy. 

I found myself standing on a path littered with piles of burning debris, surrounded by a dark, spinning tunnel that roared like an F5 tornado.  Shadowy, faceless entities leapt out of the writhing walls, shrieking at me to go back – to return and fulfill my destiny. 

I ran, trying to find the end of the tunnel, but I soon lost my balance and was swept into the vortex.

The next thing I know, I'm in a speeding ambulance with sirens wailing. 

A few weeks later, I began having dreams – premonitions, actually.  It was little things at first – and I remembered them as déjà vu experiences that people routinely shrug off. 

But then the dreams became more vivid – and real. 

My best friend wrecked her mother's car, and I saw it all in a dream the night before.  I dreamt that our neighbor backed over her new puppy with the family station wagon – and it happened the next day.

I knew the northeast coast would suffer a blackout on July 13 – and on the morning of August 16, I informed my parents that the King of Rock'n'Roll was lying unconscious on his bathroom floor – and he wouldn't recover.

You can trust me when I say that Elvis really has left the building – forever.

My older sister, Hope, was on tour that summer with her country-blues band, The Katydids.  They were pretty famous by then.  Hope told her drummer boyfriend, Luke, and the other members, Cass and Cindy, about my special "gift."  

Around 5:00 A.M. on September 15, I had the worst premonition I would ever experience:  I saw my sister and her band perish in a fiery plane crash.

I was there with them in the nightmare – strapped into a narrow seat, coughing and choking as the cabin filled with acrid, black smoke – my face wet with tears.

I could hear the girls crying.

"This can't be happening," my sister gasped out. 

The small plane took a nosedive and began spiraling towards the earth.  All I could hear now was a ferocious roaring in my ears.  An unseen object bashed me in the head – and then I awoke. 

I jumped out of bed, shaking and sweating and sobbing.  The band was in Nashville, over four hours away from Atlanta – and I was counting on a phone call to save their lives.

"Calm down, sis."  Hope sounded sleepy.  "I believe you.  I'll make the others listen, okay?"

"Promise me, please." 

"We won't take our plane up today.  We'll have it checked out – is that what you want to hear?"

"Yes," I said, sniffling. 

"I love ya, kiddo."

"You'd better."

I went back to bed, still trembling, and lay awake until my alarm clock went off.

Around noon that day, I was having a snack in one of the cafés on college campus when the news broke.  A national radio show was being broadcast over the loudspeakers.

A cold paralysis gripped my body when I heard the words "plane crash." 

The rented craft, carrying a popular country music band, went down a few miles away from the Tulsa airport, its final destination.  The musicians were scheduled to give a concert that evening, an event the governor of Oklahoma had planned on attending. 

There were no survivors.

I bit my lip until it bled.  I couldn't feel the pain.  I couldn't feel anything.

They trusted me, and I never told them not to fly.  I assumed it was their private plane that caught fire in the dream.  If not for my warning, they would still be alive.

And that's why I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.      

10:45 AM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

IT AIN’T EASY BEING A NATURAL REDHEAD
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

I was doomed to be a redhead.  There was no escape.  My father had light red hair and my mother has dark red hair.  My shade is something in between.  I recently read somewhere that Adolph Hitler once banned the marriage of two redheads, fearing they would have "deviant offspring."  Hmmm.  Maybe he was right.  

In the United States, only around two percent of the population has red hair.  Egyptians regarded this color as so unlucky that they would burn young redheaded maidens alive.  In Greek mythology, redheads are supposed to turn into vampires when they die.  (Yippee!)  Quite often in the distant past, redheads were routinely accused of practicing witchcraft.

When I was a kid I hated being called carrot-top and ginger snap.  My classmates would tease me.  "I'd rather be dead than red on the head!"

I admit I had a bad temper.  I still do, of course.  I suppose that's one perk – whenever I lose control I can just blame it on my red hair.  In fact, I have a T-shirt that says, "Consider the hair a warning label."

By the time I got into high school, I was being blamed for other things – random break ups between my girlfriends and their boyfriends.  "What happened?  Did you leave him alone with that redhead?"  I've noticed that a lot of "bad girls" and "vampy bitches" on TV shows are portrayed by redheaded actresses. 

At the very start of my senior prom, a girl I didn't even know threw a glass of water in my lap because she thought I was staring at her date.  I wasn't, and I got pissed off.  I decided to ask her guy out to dinner, right in front of her.  He said yes.  The girl left in a huff.  I refused to leave, despite having a wet dress.  I had one of the chaperones run to her apartment close by and get a blow dryer.  I ended up having a lot of fun that night.  (And so did MY date – believe it or not.  He was just a good friend.)

When I first meet people, a lot of them expect me to be loud, shrewish and untrustworthy around their men.  They learn that yes, I do have a bad temper when provoked, but I don't talk a lot.  I am not out to break up their relationships and/or marriages.  (They usually end up doing that on their own.)

And I am sorry to disappoint the men out there who think every redhead they encounter is a nymphomaniac.  We enjoy sex as much as the next person – okay, maybe a little more – but not all of us are promiscuous. 

There are definite downsides to having red hair.  A 2002 study proved that redheads are harder to sedate than other people.  When I was about to have surgery last year, I was worried about this, but luckily things went smoothly.  Also, we are far more likely to end up with skin cancer than the rest of the population.  I happen to be a melanoma survivor. 

So why haven't I ever dyed my hair?  Blondes have more fun, right?  Brunettes are supposed to be smart.  When I was in high school I came to the realization that being different than my friends wasn't such a bad thing.  Without the red hair, there would be nothing unique or special about me at all.  I decided to stay natural. 

I've learned to laugh at the myths and jokes.  As for proverbs, this Russian one is my favorite:  "There was never a saint with red hair."

Amen.

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

May 30 - Flash Fiction Friday - "Mr. Sandman, Bring Me No Dreams"

Another great review of the Apex Digest horror antho, "Gratia Placenti," and my story "Crasher":  HorrorScope

7:00 PM - 17 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY-HIGH PRIORITIES
Current mood: tired
Category: Writing and Poetry

Okay, as promised, here's a tale about two knights, a dragon and a damsel in distress.  Are YOUR priorities in the right place? 

HIGH PRIORITIES

It was on the road to Glastonbury that things went awry for the two knights.  When they crested a steep hill and gazed out across the sun-splashed meadow below, the scene before them caused both men to rein in their horses and stare in astonishment.

Sir Reginald lifted a bushy eyebrow.  "Aren't dragons scarce in this kingdom?"

"I heard they'd all been killed."  Sir Simeon shook his head.  "Rotten luck.  I suppose we'll have to DO something about this before we continue on?"

"It is our duty, I'm afraid."

They sighed in unison, watching as the dragon tramped across the field of daisies towards a golden-haired maiden.  The young lady struggled in vain to free herself from the ropes that bound her to a tall post, situated right at the edge of a forest.

She screamed, and the knights drew their swords, urging their impatient steeds forward.  At the bottom of the hill, they jumped a crumbling stone wall into the sweet-smelling meadow and then pulled up to assess the situation more thoroughly.

The dragon lumbered into the center of the field.  

Sir Reginald spoke up.  "The beast does not seem fierce at all.  I daresay that one of us could dispatch it without much effort."

"It does seem rather ponderous.  However, it could still fly.  There's no sense in us both risking the loss of our finest swords and armor just to rescue a maiden that, from this distance, does not even appear to be beautiful."

"Agreed.  I shall wait here for you, then."

"Beg pardon?"  Sir Simeon looked offended.  "Surely you realize that I have the superior weapon, therefore, you should be the one to take this risk."

Sir Reginald brandished his sword in the air.  "I think not.  This blade was tempered with the blood of twelve royal virgins."

"Weak, simpering females, more like."  Sir Simeon held up his own sword for inspection.  "A weapon forged with sweat and urine from the ten bravest dragonslayers who ever lived."

The maiden's screams intensified.

"Dash it all, we've no time to argue."  Sir Reginald pointed to the ruined wall that surrounded the meadow.  "I say we stone the creature and frighten it away.  It seems almost timid."

"Yes, it hasn't even breathed fire at us yet."

The dragon paced back and forth in front of the frantic maiden, making odd sounds in the back of its throat.

The knights charged across the meadow.  Sir Reginald dismounted near the wall while Sir Simeon freed the struggling prisoner with one expert slash of his sword.  The maiden picked up her green velvet skirts and sprinted into the dark woods without uttering a word of thanks.

"Ungrateful wench."  Sir Simeon dismounted and joined his friend, who was now lugging stones at the beast from behind a heavy shield.  The rocks bounced harmlessly off the dragon's bluish-green scales.

"Shoooo!  Go away, you annoying, incompetent creature!"

The dragon had ceased its pacing.  It just stood there quietly, batting its long eyelashes and looking confused. 

"Buttercup!  Come along now, Buttercup, there's a good girl."

The gruff, male voice emanated from the forest.  The dragon perked up and obediently trotted off towards the sound, disappearing behind some dense foliage.

The knights soon found themselves surrounded by scores of men, women and children, all carrying weapons.  Some possessed crudely made spears, others held pitchforks or hatchets, and many carried hunting knives. 

Sir Reginald addressed the motley gathering.  "Good citizens, we have just rescued a fair maiden in distress.  Please explain your hostility."

Hearty laughter filled the air and then died down as the crowd parted to make way for a finely dressed, blue-eyed youth with golden hair.

"The maiden was in no danger, kind sirs."  The young man smiled.  "And neither was the dragon, it seems."

The knights were assaulted with riotous laughter. 

"My name is Prince Thaddeus," the youth said, stepping aside to reveal the golden-haired maiden.  "And this is my sister, Princess Honoria."

"Sweet, harmless Buttercup," said the princess.  "She thinks she's a cow."

Sir Reginald flushed crimson.  "We demand an explanation for this duplicitous act."

"It is very simple," Princess Honoria stated.  "We used the dragon to lure you into our midst."

"For what purpose?" Sir Simeon asked indignantly.  "To rob us?"

"To insist on a charitable donation," Prince Thaddeus replied.  He pointed past the knights to a hill in the distance.  "See yonder castle?  It belonged to our father, King Cedric, before the invaders destroyed it.  Honoria and I must repay these loyal villagers for their efforts in rebuilding it.  Our home will soon be completely restored."

The princess smiled.  "We've collected many fine donations this week, thanks to the festivities in Glastonbury.  But we are not greedy."

The crowd murmured its agreement.

"Quite so," Prince Thaddeus said, nodding.   "We require that both of you give up only one of your prized possessions for our cause."

Sir Reginald and Sir Simeon exchanged incredulous glances.

"Our horses or our swords?" Sir Reginald asked.  "Ridiculous."

"We can't possibly give you either," Sir Simeon added.  "My friend and I are on our way to take part in King Adrian's weeklong celebration."

Sir Reginald brightened.  "Perhaps we could come to another arrangement.  I'd be willing to delay my journey and help these kind villagers by laboring beside them for a day."

"Well, I suppose that would be acceptable."  Prince Thaddeus turned to the other knight.  "What say you?"

Sir Simeon squirmed.  "I'm afraid I cannot be delayed.  My part in the ceremony is too important.  We'll have to think of a different solution."

*****

"I say," said Sir Finnegan, reining in his white steed, "I didn't think any dragons still existed in this country."

"Just our luck, isn't it?"  Sir Harry muttered.  "I suppose we'll have to rescue the lady before we travel on?"

"It IS our duty."

The damsel in distress let out an unladylike screech.

Sir Harry shook his head.  "I must say that is the UGLIEST maiden I have ever laid eyes on."

1:15 PM - 6 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

AN APPOINTMENT WITH PAIN AND TERROR
Current mood: blah
Category: Life

The appointment was at four o'clock on Tuesday.   It was the last one scheduled for the day.  Dr. G and his assistants were used to my phobia.  Yeah, I was a "special needs" patient – even when I was just having my teeth cleaned.  

As soon as I woke up Tuesday morning I began dreading the ordeal.  I needed a filling replaced, and if I didn't get it done soon, I'd have to have another root canal.

The root canal I'd had elsewhere three years earlier had caused my phobia to worsen considerably.  To this day, when I think about the pain I experienced, I break out in a cold sweat.  An infection set in right afterwards.  Half my face swelled to twice its normal size and I had to go back to the dentist's office on a Sunday to have my face "drained."  Then the root canal had to be redone.  Climbing back into that cold, hard chair again was the bravest thing I've ever done.

*shudder*

And now it was time for more pain.  I headed out early for the appointment.  I did not down a shot of Maker's Mark before leaving because I never drink and drive.  I did, however, hook my iPod into the car's stereo system.  I needed a disco fix. 

I rolled down my windows and blasted the BeeGees all the way to the dentist's office.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive, stayin alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin aliiiiiiiii-iiiii-iiiive...

Yeah, that's what I wanted to do.  I pulled into the parking lot and my stomach lurched.  It felt like I had a dozen baby snakes inside me, all writhing and biting and trying to crawl up into my throat. 

"I'm not going to throw up this time."  Nope. 

I always leave for the dentist earlier than necessary because I know that after I arrive, it will take me at least fifteen minutes to gather enough courage to haul my scared rebel ass into the office. 

I hate drills and needles, and I hate that chair you have to lie in nearly upside down – always helpless.  And I hate the smell and taste….

So while I'm in the parking lot I go over all the excuses I could use for canceling the appointment at the last minute.  A sudden attack of the flu.  A sinus headache.  An alien invasion.  The second coming. 

Whatever.  I know I have to do it, unless I'd rather let my teeth rot out.  But hey, false teeth aren't that bad – they look real these days.  God, and I'd never have to go back to the dentist ever again!

The receptionist is staring at me through the front window. 

I get out of the car and walk up to the door.  Damn, if I smoked, I could have stopped along the way and had a cigarette.

The young, blonde receptionist is back behind her desk.  She smiles at me sympathetically.  "It will just be a minute."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."