Halloween Promise

Halloween Promise

Tommy was excited because tomorrow was Halloween, and Mommy had promised him a new brother or sister on that night. He thought he would like a brother better than a sister. They could play cowboys and Indians, pirates, hide and seek and so many neat games that girls didn’t like to play. Yes, a brother would be better, but it wasn’t up to him. It was up to Mommy.

She had been making cookies and candies for a couple of days now. Tommy got to lick the spoon on a few batches. They hadn’t been here quite a year yet. This year Halloween would be much better than last year. He could hardly wait. There were about thirty kids in his class at school and he had talked up all of the goodies that Mommy was making. He hoped his new brother was going to be a boy from his class because he was already friends with all of them.

It was time for Tommy to go to bed and Mommy came to tuck him in. She kissed him on the forehead and said, “Sweet dreams.” She left a night light on and closed the door. That night Tommy’s dreams were far from sweet. He had nightmares with Mommy taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go. He tossed and turned all night. He woke up crying once but stifled it with a pillow because he didn’t want Mommy to hear him. She thought that all the bad dreams and crying were over, but she was wrong.

The next morning Tommy had remembered something from his dream and he asked Mommy about it.

“Mommy, didn’t I have a brother once?”

“You had a brother, but he died about this time last year. Just before we moved here.”

“How did he die?”

“Let’s not talk about that right now. Tonight is Halloween, are you getting excited?”

“I guess so.” Not wanting to let go of the previous thought he said, “Am I going to die?”

“Everybody dies sooner or later. Now get ready for school.”

So off to school Tommy went, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything. There was something in the back of his mind that he was trying to get to the front and not having any luck with it. Finally the bell rang that signaled the end of the day. Tommy trudged home, something weighing heavy on his mind.

Mommy wasn’t going to let him go out trick-or-treating, but just let him hand out treats at the door. She said she didn’t trust the people in this town yet. It had just gotten dark when the first of them arrived and Tommy was there to greet them. The first batch had a skeleton, a ghost, a witch, and the tin man. They came to the door and said, “Trick or Treat.” It was then that Mommy showed up dressed up like a witch, with make-up and everything. She had a wart on her nose, a pointed hat and a broom. She even scared Tommy when he first saw her.

Children came and went and Tommy was just thinking there would be no brother or sister. Just as he was about to give up hope, Mommy called to one of the children to come and get a special treat. It was a little boy, about a year younger than Tommy. All the other children left because Mommy said she would take the boy home.

Something about this seemed all too familiar to Tommy. The thought that was trying to get to the front of his head finally popped in there. He ran into the kitchen and screamed out, “Don’t eat the cookie.” It was too late. The little boy stood there glassy-eyed while the woman who called herself Mommy chanted to him in soft tones. “I’m your Mommy now. Your name will be Paul.”

She looked up from Paul and Tommy understood that it wasn’t make-up that made her look like a witch, she was a witch. There was a pentagram in a circle on the floor with candles lit on all five points.

“Come here Tommy. Meet your new little brother.”

“No, you can’t make me!”

Then she looked at Paul and said, “Go bring me your big brother.”

Suddenly it all came back to Tommy. He had been the little brother; he had dragged the older boy over to the witch. He had watched while she had eaten him. Well this wasn’t going to happen to him. He looked around the kitchen and grabbed the first thing he could find. He threw cookie sheet after cookie sheet at Paul, but he kept coming. One of the cookie sheets glanced off of his shoulder and went spinning to the floor. On its way down it knocked over two of the burning candles. One of then rolled and caught the witch’s dress on fire. She began swatting at it and stepped out of the circle. The spell was broken and Tommy grabbed Paul by the hand and dragged him outside.

She couldn’t get the flames under control and soon caught the drapes and the furniture on fire. The whole small cabin went up in flames like so much dry kindling and then she was gone.

Hum

 

Hum

There was a low hum coming from somewhere in the pantry which was extremely odd since all that was in there was dry goods. For the sake of my own sanity I took everything off of the shelves. I only encountered a couple of meal moths, but nothing that would cause a hum. I put my ear to the wall, there it was. I put my ear to the floor and it seemed to be louder. Could it be coming from the basement?

I hated the basement. The floor was bare earth and there always seemed to be a drip of water from somewhere that you could never pinpoint. It was musty and drafty, sometimes you could see the cobwebs fluttering in the breeze. When the wind kicked up outside there would be spooky moaning noises down there. I only went down there on the rare occasion when the pilot light went out and there was no fire under the boiler.

This time was different, I was trying to figure out what the mysterious hum was and where it was coming from. I got to the bottom step and reached out into the darkness and found the pull chain for the light. Once illuminated the basement wasn’t so creepy. Just as I was thinking this something whizzed by my ear, and then another. I perked up my ears and I could hear the hum, or was it more of a buzz. Either way it was coming from the corner of the house where the pantry was.

There was one more light with a pull chain and then the entire basement was lit up. It was then I saw it. It was an oozing, mass of life in the corner with constant motion and something dripping from it. As I stood transfixed something whizzed by my ear again, and then I realized what I was looking at. It was not some alien creature. It was a swarm of bees on a hive and what was dripping was honey.

I went back up stairs and called my neighbor who I knew kept bees. He said he’d come right over and get them because he had a couple of empty boxes that needed new hives.

It was a matter of a few hours work for him, I was no help at all. I offered to pay him for his time but he told me that getting a new hive was well worth the time he had invested. He also told me he’d left a little something on my kitchen table.

When I went back in after seeing him off, I found two large jars of honey with a note that read, “This is as local as you can get, Enjoy.”

It’s pretty quiet around here now.

It was then I heard a low hum coming from the kitchen. I rushed in there, in all the peace and quiet I’d forgotten how loud the compressor on the refrigerator was.

FEAR

 FEAR

 

 

If Vicki hadn’t been running low on cash that month, she would have never given the bulletin board a second glance, but sometimes there was an opportunity for some quick cash as an artist model, typing term papers, who knew what all. The index card that grabbed her attention was: $50.00 for an hour of your time to take a survey for the psychology department, see Pete in room 103 of the Chambers building.

She slung her back pack on both shoulders and bicycled over to the Chambers building and found room 103. To her surprise the room was empty except for a guy behind a table with an eager expression.

“Are you Pete?” asked the girl.

“The one and only.” said Pete. “Are you here about the survey?”

“Yes”, she said. “I could really use money to get me to the end of the month; you do pay in cash don’t you?”

“No problem”, said Pete waving a 50 in the air. Then he grabbed up a folder and led her to another room.

“Here is the survey, take your time, read all of the directions and make sure all of the information is correct.”

“What is this for?”,she asked.

“Some PhD candidate is going to write up all the data collected from the surveys and use it in his dissertation.

With that said Pete left the room. Vicki began to look over the survey and the room that she was in. At least they had given her a comfortable chair, not those usual institutional aluminum or molded plastic things. Other than the chair and the table, the room was bare, about ten by twelve with a mix of light and dark gray well worn linoleum tiles on the floor, bluish gray concrete walls and a water stained drop ceiling with a florescent fixture that buzzed occasionally, there was also the faint odor of pine, bleach and mustiness.

The wall across from where she sat had a large mirror on it that she could only assume was a window on the other side and that she was being observed. Over the mirror was a large wall clock. To the left in the corner was the only door in or out. She took all of this in as Pete ushered her in to fill out the form. It was one of those bubble forms that you fill in with a number 2 pencil. So she had at her disposal a comfy chair that was too heavy to lift, a table that was bolted to the floor, a couple of sheets of paper and a number 2 pencil. All in all the number 2 pencil was the best bet for a weapon.

Wait a minute, what was she thinking, she had volunteered to take this survey for the psych department, plus they were paying her fifty dollars for a completed survey. They said it would take about an hour, but looking it over, it was only two pages, more like fifteen minutes.

She might as well get this survey filled out and be done with it. The sooner she finished, the sooner she got her $50.00 and got out of here. This room was giving her the creeps.

The instructions were short and to the point: Fill in each bubble completely for each answer, check as many as apply, there is a penalty for incorrect answers.

What do they mean there is a penalty for wrong answers. How the hell would they know if I gave them wrong answers. This was somebody’s idea of a joke, let’s see if we can rattle the students who come in to do the survey. Well it wasn’t going to work.

Question 1: What time is it?

She looked up at the clock, it was 1:15 P.M. She dutifully filled in the appropriate bubbles.

Question 2: What are you most afraid of?

There was a long list of choices here, so Vicki began to read over the choices

1. darkness

2. noise

3. spiders

4. blood

5. confined spaces

6. suffocation

7. pain

8. black cats

9. fire

10. failure

11. bats

12. clowns

13. bicycles

14. insanity

15. dentists

16. injections

17. nudity

18. punishment

19. insanity

20. snakes

21. birds

22. the number 13

23. rape

As she began to fill in the bubbles, the overhead light began to buzz and flicker in earnest. and then with a small pop, a hiss and the smell of ozone it died entirely.

It was pitch dark in the room, but she pulled out her cell phone , turned on the flash light and soldiered on . Then from her island of light she heard something in the room, some noise in the corner. Vicki shone her flashlight around the room, there was nothing there.

She went back to the bubble sheet, and as she did a large wolf spider fell on the desk right beside her paper. Vicki let out an involuntary yelp of surprise and then flicked the spider int the floor with her pencil.

With her mind firmly fixed on the fifty dollars she went back to work. Vicki heard a plop and then noticed a small red spatter on her test form. So that’s why the table was bolted to the floor, so they could bombard you with spiders and fake blood. She wondered what was next.

She heard a noise again, but this time she didn’t know where it was coming from, it was a scraping noise like a concrete block being dragged across the floor. Once again she shone her light around, there was nothing there, except the room seemed to be shrinking. The walls were getting closer. She had never been claustrophobic, but she was having a hard time breathing none the less.

Vicki looked down the list again. It was then it occurred to her that she was experiencing the list of fears in the order they were on the page. This was not what she signed up for and she was not hanging around to see how the last fear played out. She was here for a survey not to be somebody’s test subject. She shone her light up at the clock. It was 1:29. She’d only been there for fourteen minutes but that was enough. 

She got up and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and turned, to her surprise it was open. Just then the lights came on and a voice came over a speaker.

It said, “If you leave now, you forfeit the fifty dollars.”

Vicki looked over at the mirrored wall and flipped it the bird then she said, “Fuck you and your fifty dollars.”

She opened the door and let out a scream. Pete was standing there with a serene look on his face.

Pete said, “You lasted longer than any of the others. Here is your fifty dollars.”

Vicki snatched the fifty out of Pete’s hand and then said, “The next fear on the list was pain.”

She stabbed him in the shoulder with the number 2 pencil and left.

The Story of the Stone

 The Story of the Stone

The Story of the Stone

My father was a Go enthusiast. He taught me the game when I was about ten years old. I guess my ten year old mind grasped the concept and the rules, but not all of the nuances. In other words I never won and so soon lost interest.

Whenever he played, and that was a lot, he would put a black stone off beside the board. He said it was his lucky piece. When I was thirteen I asked him about his lucky piece that looked a lot like a Go piece. He said he would tell me the whole story when I was older. I shrugged and forgot about, that was until today.

Today I am much older, probably the age my father was when he told me he’d tell me the whole story. I was clearing out my father’s house since he passed away last spring. In an old jewelry box I found the stone. I picked it up and turned it around and wondered once again what the story was, thinking I’d never know now. In the bottom of the box was an envelope with Dad’s handwriting on it. It just said, to my son.

I opened the envelope and inside were just a couple of sheets of paper written in my father’s meticulous handwriting. It was dated at the top Sept. 1, 1973

Dear Dan,

If you are reading this I can only assume I am no longer with you. First let me tell you I love you because I may not have said that enough while I was alive. Second, I promised to tell you the story of my lucky piece when you were older. Well here it is.

During WWII I was the navigator on a B-24 and my best friend Rick was the bombadeer. We’d gone through basic training together and been assigned to the same squadron. It was our time during basic I taught him how to play Go. Once we were shipped abroad we had a lot of down time between missions. So we’d play Go and he got good. I still won most of the time, but he’d beat me often enough to keep it interesting.

We were headed back from a bombing run when when had engine failure and had to ditch in the Sea of Japan. The plane broke up on contact, but Rick and I somehow made it to a life raft. We were picked up three days later by the Japanese and taken back to an internment camp. We were both officers and we were put in different barracks. We’d have about an hour outside together and Our minds were turning to mush. Rick said he wished we could play some Go. It was then the idea hit me, if we used the starter grid of 9x9 we could remember the moves and I looked down and saw a stone that looked like a Go piece. It was black and smooth and I picked it up. This will keep track of whose turn it is. Rick usually took white and went first. We had some very intense imaginary games of go, especially when one of us remembered something differently that the other. We were in there together for nine months and neither of us was in good shape by then. One day I was looking for him in the exercise yard to hand him the stone and tell him my move but he never showed up. I never saw him again. We were liberated about a week later, if he could have just held out. Anyway, I was sent to a hospital on Manila and was there for ten weeks before they discharged me and sent me home.

So I kept the stone to remind me of Rick, and that there is nothing that can’t be endured. I hope you understand why I didn’t tell you when you first asked. Thirteen year old boys tend to romanticize war and I didn’t want to have to tell you a bunch of war stories. Mostly I wanted to forget the war but remember Rick.

It’s yours now along with everything else. Do with it what you will, but it might be something to keep around to remember your old man by.

It was just signed Dad

I stood there for a moment with the letter in one hand and the stone in the palm of the other, when the stone flipped over. I looked around, it was just me in the room. I said, “OK Dad” and stuck the stone in my pocket.

Greetings

 Hello loyal readers,

I hope you have enjoyed the blog so far. I'm working on some other projects at the moment and may be away from the blog posts for a while. So please don't expect something on a weekly basis for a while.

Thank you all for your continued interest and encouragement.

The Muse

The Muse

Definition: Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyn and Zeus, each of whom

presided over a different art or science.

So, there he sat once more, staring at a blank screen and wondering what to write.

As the cursor pulsed hypnotically he thought he caught a whiff of cigar smoke.

Sniffing the air again he said "that smells like those cheap King Edward cigars my

Dad used to smoke."

"These ain't cheap! This is a Macanudo and cost about four bucks.” came the voice

from behind him.

He spun around in his desk chair. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in

my office?" as he reached for the phone to dial 911.

The scruffy man spoke again, "I wouldn't call 911 if I were you, besides Al, you don't

mind if I call you Al do you? You are the only one who can see me. I am your muse!"

he said with a bit of a flourish.

Allen's hand wavered, then his eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger's words. He

hated to be called Al, ever since that Paul Simon song. The stranger sat, kicked

back in the leather recliner, smoking a cigar and looking for all the world like he

owned the place. He had a three day growth of stubble and tufts of gray hair over

his ears but none on the top. He wore faded denim jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless

tee shirt that did nothing to hide his beer belly. From every hole in the tee shirt

there were more tufts of gray hair poking out. What made Allen hang up the phone

was not the mischievous smile that danced in those clear blue eyes, it was the wings

that were peeking out from behind him.

Just then Allen heard his wife’s muffled voice through the door.

"Allen? Is everything o.k. in there? I thought I heard you shouting."

He called back to her, "Everything is fine, I was just trying a piece of dialog out loud

to see how it would sound." Allen never lied to his wife, but he decided to make an

exception in this case.

As Allen looked more closely he saw that this muse was indeed making himself at

home. He was sitting in Allen's favorite chair, the overstuffed recliner. Next to the

chair sat a stack of magazines, a small cube refrigerator plugged into the wall and

humming away with a large ashtray on top of it.

He looked at the muse and said, "It looks like you are taking up residence." The

muse just grunted and picked up a magazine from the stack and began to read.

"Hey, muse", Allen thought this is pretty lame but what else should he call him. "You

got a name or do I have to call you muse?"

The muse slowly lowered his magazine and said, "Look Al, I‘m here to inspire you

not to make small talk. If you have to call me something make it Joe. That ain't my

real name but it will do."

Allen thought the only thing you are inspiring me to do is have my chair fumigated.

"Well Joe, I like Allen and not Al. How did I end up with you anyway? I thought that

all of the muses were women. "

"Well Al, thousands of years ago there were a lot less writers, poets, and artists. You

get the picture. Nowadays everybody and his brother thinks he can write just

because he has a freaking computer. So for quite a few years now they have been

recruiting some of the lesser magical folk to fill in. We have all been through

extensive training, I've got a certificate somewhere. Anyways, as luck would have it

you got me. I think I will call you Al, it's part of my charm! I call Stephen King,

Stevo, just cause I know it irritates the shit out of him."

Allen just stared at Joe.

"What! Is my fly down or something?" Joe asked.

"You’re Stephen King's muse?”

"Yeah, it ain't a big deal. He puts on his pants one leg at a time just like you and me.

Now I‘ve got a lot of work to do, you see this stack of magazines, I got to read all

these stories and fill out a report on anyone who might have potential."

"I thought you were supposed to inspire me to great creativity!"

"You have been sadly misinformed Al. I am here to make sure you write. Good, bad

or ugly, it's all the same to me. Although I might suggest trying that vampire thing

you were thinking about in the shower this morning, it seemed like it had potential.

You should really write these ideas down when they come to you.”

"Wait a minute, you can read my thoughts?"

"You bet your sweet bippie I can, but most of it is pretty boring stuff. Every once in

a while you'll get a flash of inspiration, and it’s like a sky rocket. You know, a lot of

noise and flash but they don’t last long. You need to learn to listen more to your

intuition and me, when I tell you to write this shit down! Now start writing

something and don't bother me anymore." Joe said that and no more for the rest of

the evening.

Allen did manage to knock out about two hundred and fifty words that evening. At

five cents a word that would be twelve fifty, or five dollars an hour. Great thought

Allen, I'm working for less than minimum wage and putting up with Joe to boot.

The next night Allen went into his office. Looking around he saw no signs of Joe. He

heaved a sigh of relief. He then went to check his email. Waiting in his mailbox was

something from Joe. Reading it just made him aggravated, but he wasn't sure if it

was at Joe or himself. All the mail had said was "Stop wasting time reading email

and get to work!" Joe showed up about an hour later, much neater than before.

Allen said, "You got a date tonight?"

"What makes you think that?" asked Joe as he bit off the end of a cigar and spit it on

the floor.

"I mean look at you, khakis, a polo shirt and penny loafers. Socks would just about

round out this ensemble," Allen said. Then sniffing the air, "You even splashed on

some eau de fried onions."

"I was at a staff meeting before I came here and we ordered out some cheese steak

subs, O.K.? Why don't you save some of those witty remarks for your story. By the

way how far along are you anyway?"

Allen just shrugged and said, "Far enough, I was just getting to it when you showed

up."

"That's funny Al, I could have sworn you read my email about an hour ago. Enough

of this chit-chat, get to work."

Allen when to work, partly to show this muse he could knock out the word count and

partly because he knew he had been goofing off. By the end of the evening he had

nearly one thousand words total. Not bad for two days he thought.

Just then Joe's cell phone rang, waking him from a well deserved snooze and making

Allen jump in his chair.

"Hello. What? No I can't, I have this Allen guy to take care of," said Joe looking over

at Allen. "O.K. if Wheeler says I have to, then I have to. O.K. I'll be there tomorrow,"

and he hung up.

"Hey Al, I won't be here for a few days, you think you can get some work done while

I'm away? I shouldn't be gone more than three days."

Allen was curious about what had called Joe away but would not let himself ask. He

was just glad to be rid of Joe for three days. Being glad that your muse was leaving.

Was that a good thing? Allen wasn’t sure. He turned toward Joe and said, "I think I

should have this nearly finished in three days." You may not need to come back at all

Allen thought because he didn’t dare say it out loud.

"Oh, I’ll be back alright. Don’t you worry about that."

Allen had forgotten that Joe could read his thoughts if he wanted to.

"I’ve done enough for tonight. I’m going to bed. Night Joe."

"Night Al."

The next evening Al sat down at the computer to resume his tale. He had only been

staring at the screen for about five minutes when the lure of solitaire beckoned him.

He was in the middle of the game when he received an instant message. This was

extremely odd because he had no instant messenger client. A small window popped

up in the middle of his screen with the following message: "From Joe, Al stop with

the cards already and get to work. The red three goes on the black four."

Allen closed the message and saw the play that Joe had meant. Then he just put his

head in his hands and almost began to cry. He could not get rid of this muse. He

decided the only way to be rid of him was to finish the story.

That evening he hardly got one hundred and fifty words strung together in some

sense of coherence before he gave up for the night. It was well after midnight and

he had been struggling with his story for more than three hours. "Way less than

minimum wage," Allen said to nobody in particular.

The following day was a crummy day at work for Allen. He was tired and didn’t want

to write that evening. It had been two days since he had seen Joe, he kind of missed

him. At the appointed hour he went to his office to write, but his heart was not in it.

Instead of sitting down at the computer, he slumped down in the recliner and

promptly fell asleep. It was nearly midnight when his wife tapped on the door.

"Allen? Are you o.k. in there? Allen?" Just as she was opening the door Allen woke

up enough to respond.

"I’m o.k. dear, guess I just dozed off here in the chair."

"Well it’s time you were getting to bed, you have to go to work tomorrow."

"I’ll be right there." A big fat zero for word count today he thought, guess he’d have

to double up tomorrow night.

On the third evening without a muse present Allen was beginning to think he had

dreamed him up while napping in the recliner. He’d had some inspiration in the

shower that morning and written it down. It was the best idea to come his way for

some time. Like a man grasping for a life line, Allen had held on to this idea all day

just waiting for the chance to expand it. He wrote non-stop for nearly an hour and

when he was done, he checked his word count. Close to twenty four hundred words

total. Not too shabby, he thought. That spurt of furious creative energy had worn

him out though. He saved his file and went to bed early that evening, pretty well

satisfied with his work.

At the office the next day, Allen’s mind was not on his work. He was writing and rewriting

the ending of his story in his head. When he got home from work, his wife

was out running errands so he went straight to his office. As soon as he walked in

there was a cloud of smoke, and Joe.

"Hey Al, did you miss me?"

Allen went right to the computer and began to type. "I don’t have time for any of

your chit-chat tonight Joe!"

Joe grunted, blew a smoke ring and went back to his magazine.

Allen typed away, oblivious to the presence of the muse. After about three quarters

of an hour he said, "done!" Saved his file, clicked on print and watched the pages

chug out of the printer.

He handed the copy to Joe, who looked at it briefly and flipped to the last page and

then handed it back to Allen. Joe nodded his head and said, "I like it, but what do I

know?"

Allen just looked at him, trying to figure him out. "Why couldn’t you have left it at "I

like it"? I just don’t get it, I write my ass off and get a critique from "Mr. Wishywashy."

"Look Al, I think you've done good work here, but it ain’t for me to judge. Think of

yourself as an oyster, and me as the bit of grit. This story is your pearl. Just like the

oyster, you had no choice but to make it, it is what you do. Now whether this pearl is

big enough or round enough or shiny enough to end up around the neck of some

wealthy widow, I can’t say. It may only become a stick pin or cuff link. It may not be

worth mounting. I don’t know. What I do know is there is something inside of you

that makes you write, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten me. Anyway, you have

passed your test. You can work with me or without me, but always know if you get

really stuck I will be here for you. While I was gone you could have just quit, but you

didn’t. You’ve got pluck, as we used to say. I got to get going, Stevo is still having a

few problems. Yeah, that’s where I’ve been for the past three days, helping him out.

I told him most of your vampire story, but I didn’t know how it ended till tonight. He

said he liked it so far, but wanted to know how it ended before he pronounced

judgment. So I’ll let him know how it ends and I’ll see you later."

With that he was gone, only the faint smell of cigar smoke lingered. Allen stood

there with the story in his hand. He couldn’t believe he had finished his first story,

that Stephen King had liked it (so far), or that Joe could talk that much. With more

bounce in his step than he’d had in a while, Allen took is first story to the person

who counted the most, his wife. If she liked it, that was all that mattered.

Nectar of the gods

 Nectar of the gods

 

 This was my story for a Flash Fiction contest in June.

These were the story criteria:

Each story had to include (word for word) the following SEVEN descriptions at any point in the story body and be 500 word or fewer:

1. THICK AS HONEY
2. SILENT AND STILL
3. GOLDEN GLOW
4. HEART-SHAPED
5. DELICATE PERFUME
6. SOFT AND DOUGHY
7. RAZOR-SHARP 

Nectar of the gods

Alice Gray was seventy-three and had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had given her less than a year to live. She did not take this news well, having been an explorer all her life and beaten death several times over. She’d kept an ace up her sleeve just for this.

This is how she came to be in the heart of the forest, the foliage was so thick that the golden glow from the noonday sun only let through dappled patches of sunlight. Her quest was to find the elusive giant honeysuckle. Deep in this ancient forest was where it was supposed to grow. She was roughly in the center of the woods if she could rely on her GPS, it was having problems connecting to the satellites. She’d made it past the bogs that were soft and doughy and would suck you down without warning, never to be seen again. If she didn’t find it soon, she would have to make camp and this idea did not appeal to her in the least.

Up ahead she noticed a lightening in the perpetual gloom of the forest. It was a small clearing that hadn’t shown up during her aerial reconnaissance. There in the middle of the clearing was a towering oak tree. About half way up the tree was a heart-shaped knot hole. As she stepped into the clearing everything went silent and still. She felt like she had crossed the border into another time and place. Almost at the same instant she smelled the delicate perfume of the honeysuckle. There were vines of it as thick as your arm winding around the oak tree and disappearing into the heights. She could see the flowers dripping their nectar as thick as honey. That was what she was here for. The nectar was purported to cure all know diseases, return youth and even imbue immortality upon who ever tasted it.

What stood between her and her goal was a wall of brambles with razor-sharp thorns. She’d not come all this way to be thwarted by a thorn bush. Using the climbing gear she’d brought with her, she went about thirty feet up in a tree closest to the oak. She shot a barbed spike with a steel cable attached to it into the trunk of the oak. Then she ratcheted down here end until it was taut. With her zip line in place she made her way to the oak keeping her speed down so as not to crash into it. She reached up an pulled one of the honeysuckle flowers toward her. As the nectar dripped into her mouth the only word she could think of to describe it was ambrosia. Looking at her hands she saw the age spots disappearing and felt a vigor that she didn’t remember having for years. She took samples of the nectar, set a way point in her GPS and headed home for her next adventure.

No More Vampires

 No More Vampires

Jessica hadn’t had any problems with her first two husbands. George’s death was a fluke and had left her sitting pretty until that real estate deal collapsed. Harrison, she had liked Harrison except that he kept her on a short leash with a shorter allowance. It took a while, but the combination of switching his coffee to decaf and spiking it with Benedril had a wonderful effect. The fact that he had untreated sleep apnea also contributed to the accident. He fell asleep at the wheel on the way to the office and ran into the overpass. "

Here's that ad again Phil, this must be the fifth time I've seen it this month," she said reading from the paper. "Tired of watching your loved ones grow old and die? Tired of having to move from place to place? Want to feel the sun on your face again? Looking for volunteers to test potential cure for vampirism. Call for an appointment. It gives a phone number."

“What are you reading Jess?” He knew perfectly well what it was.

“It’s the Dark Times, I know you don’t like me to read it but there are some good articles in here sometimes.”

"It must be some one's idea of a joke. Everyone knows that there is no cure for being a vampire, other than a wooden stake through the heart, sun light, or being decapitated. I don't want to volunteer for any of those options," said Phil.”

She just looked at him over her newspaper and said, "I guess you don't love me

enough to want to grow old and die with me."

"I love you enough to not turn you into a vampire, so you wouldn't have to grow old and die," he said.

"Well, there is that," she replied.

"If I thought there was the slightest chance of getting rid of this curse, I would call right now. I need to go out for a while. I probably won't see you till tomorrow." He kissed her on the cheek and said "Good night."

"Good night Phil, I love you!" she said and then he was gone.

All night the thought that there might be a cure fluttered around the back of his

mind. He wasn't a very good vampire anyway, not at least to the tabloid standards. He had never killed anyone; he would just drink enough, heal the wound and make them forget. He never hung out with other vampires; they tended to scare him. It was about fifty years ago that he had become a vampire, and not because he wanted to, but being immortal did have its perks. He had amassed a tidy fortune, mostly by reading his victims thoughts and using the information to his advantage. Phil was a New Yorker through and through. He loved the city and could never see himself living any where else. He tended to go for stockbrokers and do a little insider trading without the risk. Of course he had signed most of this over to his wife because as she had said "Phil, we can't get insurance on you; you would never pass the physical. A will is no good either, because if you ever were killed, there would be no body and I would have to wait seven years to have you declared legally dead." Jessica was not good at wait for things.

The next evening Jessica once again pointed out the ad. Phil grabbed it from

her and went to the phone. He dialed the number, and on the forth ring a woman

answered.

"Hello.”

"Hello, I am calling about the ad in the Times, the one where you are looking

for volunteers."

"Oh," said the woman at the other end. Then Phil heard some muffled

conversation on the other end as if she had covered the receiver. Then she said, "If you are calling about the cure for vampirism I will have to ask you a few questions first."

"O.K."

"First, how long have you been a vampire?"

Phil thought for a moment just to make sure, "about fifty years."

"Can you trace your vampiric line?"

He thought for a second and then said, "Do you mean do I know who made me a vampire, and who made them a vampire and so on?"

"Exactly."

"I have no idea; I never wanted to be a vampire to begin with.”

"Well, then I guess we won’t get any history to work from. Would you like to schedule an appointment? I have an opening tomorrow night at eleven, if that will do."

Phil was not sure he wanted to go through with this, but he said "Sure eleven is fine," and he wrote down the address on the edge of the newspaper then tore it off and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What name should I put down for the appointment?"

"Phil Stevenson.”

"Oh just one other thing," she said "Please eat before you come, it makes the orderlies less nervous, goodbye," and she hung up.

Phil stared at the phone for a couple of seconds before he hung up, as if he had not heard her correctly. Then he looked up at Jessica.

"Well, I have made an appointment, but I don't think there is a cure."

"You never know, medical science moves forward by leaps and bounds. Just

think, if you do get cured we could move to Miami and start a new life."

Phil had never liked Miami, but he wouldn't tell Jessica that, besides it would never come to that. Phil said "If they can cure me, you can take me to Miami and let me bake in the sun."

"Oh, it would be great Phil!" she said. "I could have friends again, I mean we could. I could stop making up all of these stories about what you do for a living and everything." Phil apologized once more for taking her away from her friends; he had lost track of how many times he had said sorry. What fool said, "Love is never having to say you're sorry?" Phil couldn't remember.

The next evening about ten thirty, Phil pulled the paper out of his pocket and headed for the address. It was in the warehouse district, but that didn't bother him. He assumed the rent was cheaper and it also made the clients less conspicuous. As he approached the door he saw a small sign with the name VIRUS, LLC and just above the door was a surveillance camera. To the right of the door was an intercom that had a sign reading "Please press the button and state your name." He pressed the button and said "Phil Stevenson, I have an eleven o'clock appointment."

He heard the door buzz and a voice say "Please follow the hall to the first door on your left."

Phil went in and looked around. It was nothing special just cheap paneled walls and a drop ceiling. He walked into the office and to his surprise it was a pretty regulation doctor's office waiting room. Several padded chairs, a magazine rack with the requisite two-year-old magazines and a receptionist behind a sliding glass window.

He was the only one there and he went over to the window. He said "Phil Stevenson, I have an appointment."

The girl behind the counter didn't even look up as she said, "Please sign in and someone will be with you as soon as they can. Is this your first time here?"

"Yes."

She handed him a clipboard and a pen.

"Fill out the front page and sign it, read and sign pages two, three, and four."

Then she closed the window and went back to the paper back book she was reading.

Phil sat down and began filling in the form, all the usual stuff, but no mention of insurance or payment. The next of kin box worried him for an instant but he got over it, after all what could happen. The next three pages were all in legalese and talked about not holding anyone liable for anything that might happen. Phil skimmed over these pages and signed them all then he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist and sat down to wait.

He didn't have to wait long before a woman dressed in a crisp white lab coat

came in and greeted him. She had his clipboard and glanced down at it as she said, "Welcome, Mr. Stevenson. We are glad you have come to help us with our research. My name is Dr. Seward."

Phil shook her hand and said, "I am really here just to please my wife. I really don't think there is a cure."

"Ah, most people don't really think there are vampires. Please come with me to the examining room. Have a seat on the table and extend both of your hands palms up." Phil hopped up on the table and stuck out both hands.

"We give this test to all of our prospective volunteers," she said and produced two eyedroppers filled with clear fluid and put one drop on each of Phil's palms. Phil immediately grasped his right hand in pain and shot the doctor a withering look. She explained, "I am so sorry, but we have to do this. We get so many cranks that think they are vampires. We use this test to separate the wheat from the chaff so to speak."

"What was in the eye droppers?" Phil asked still holding his hand.

One dropper has tap water and the other has Holy water. The one I dripped in your right hand had the Holy water, so you passed. You are a vampire."

Phil could see the logic in this but it still hurt like hell, but that was the general idea. Dr. Seward took Phil's right hand and dripped something in his palm and the pain went away instantaneously. Phil was amazed and it showed on his face.

"It's a remedy we have been able to synthesize from vampire blood. It heals the wound and deadens the pain." said Dr. Seward smiling. "Now that we have the formalities out of the way, let me give you a tour of the facility so that you know what you are getting yourself into."

Phil was led through a labyrinth of laboratories, walk-in refrigeration units, X-ray machines and more equipment than he had ever seen. They even had their own MRI unit.

"First we want to get a base line MRI and take some blood samples. Do you have a problem with any of that Mr. Stevenson?"

Phil said, "he didn't have a problem, but had a question or two."

"What would you like to know Mr. Stevenson?"

"Well," said Phil "has anyone been cured and if so can I get some references?"

Dr. Seward cleared her throat before answering Phil, "Yes we have cured several individuals but I am sorry that due to patient confidentiality we can't give out their names. It is kind of like being in the witness protection plan." Phil could understand that and had a glimmer of hope that a cure was possible.

"What does the name VIRUS stand for?"

"Oh that," she said, "It just worked out that way. The VIR is Vampires In Recovery and since we have chapters world wide, we get the US on the end. I suppose that the Brits get VIRUK which is almost as bad."

First he had a MRI done, the after that they were going to draw some blood. Phil thought that was ironic, humans sucking blood out of vampires and he chuckled to himself. The room that he was to give blood in had a long stainless steel table with four straps on it. Phil didn't like the looks of this and told the orderly. The orderly explained that due to the great physical strength of vampires it was necessary to strap them down while taking blood from them, there had been several mishaps due to reflex actions.

Phil was not entirely convinced, but got on the table and allowed himself to be strapped down. The orderly extracted four vials of blood and the released the straps.

"I am all done with you," said the orderly "but the doctor might want to see you before you leave."

He found his way back to the waiting room just as Dr. Seward came in.

"Mr. Stevenson, we need a day to evaluate your MRI and process your blood

work. Can you come back the day after tomorrow at the same time?"

"I can be here. What will you know by then?"

"Let's just wait and see."

So Phil left. It was too late to go home and too early to go to his coffin. That was one thing Phil wouldn't miss, sleeping in a coffin. It still gave him the creeps even after nearly fifty years.

The next evening Phil told Jessica all about VIRUS, the MRI and the blood work. When he was done he looked for her reaction. She had a tear forming in the corner of one eye and looked happier than he had seen her in a long while. She deserved some happiness and friends; she was nearly forty and was married to an old man in a young vampire's body. Maybe soon that would all change. Phil was about to leave for the evening when Jessica said, "Phil, I need to tell

you something."

"What? This sounds serious."

"Oh ... I just wanted to say thanks for doing this for me."

"I'm doing this for us. Remember, I get my life back too." He kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her and left.

When he arrived at VIRUS for his second appointment Dr. Seward greeted him. "Good evening Mr. Stevenson, your MRI looks promising but the lab broke one of your vials of blood and we will need to draw one more." She ushered him back to the examining room to the table with the straps. This time he didn't fear being strapped down. After the orderly had inserted the IV, the doctor came in to take his blood. She attached a vial but injected something instead of drawing blood.

"Mr. Stevenson, I know you can hear me even though you can't respond. You

have been injected with a neuromuscular inhibitor that has essentially paralyzed you.

You were correct when you said there is no cure except sunlight, decapitation or a wooden stake through the heart.”

Phil's mind was racing, he hadn't told her that, only Jessica. What were they doing to him? What were they going to do to him?

"We are a research facility and depend on government grants and donations."

Phil wondered why she was telling him all of this.

"We normally carry out extended experiments with our subjects, and it can become, well, let's just say quite painful. Due to the generosity of one of our patrons, you will not be put through any of those ordeals.”

Phil's mind was working at top speed. Who would want him dead but not to suffer? Then it came to him and he could not believe it.

The doctor went on, "I see in your eyes you have worked it out. Your wife is a very charming lady and very generous. All she asked was when it was all over could she have your dust. She said she wanted to put it in an urn and set it in a sunny window when she moves to Miami."

Phil didn't even feel the stake being driven into his heart . . . and then he felt nothing.

At a bar in Miami Jessica was chatting with a handsome young man. Jessica said, “Hold out both of your hands palms up.”